"THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO\n\nA Romance\n\nInterspersed With Some Pieces of Poetry\n\n\nBy Ann Radcliffe\n\n\n\n      Fate sits on these dark battlements, and frowns,\n      And, as the portals open to receive me,\n      Her voice, in sullen echoes through the courts,\n      Tells of a nameless deed.\n\n\n\n\nVOLUME 1\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\n      home is the resort\n Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where,\n Supporting and supported, polish'd friends\n And dear relations mingle into bliss.*\n      *Thomson\n\n\nOn the pleasant banks of the Garonne, in the province of Gascony, stood,\nin the year 1584, the chateau of Monsieur St. Aubert. From its windows\nwere seen the pastoral landscapes of Guienne and Gascony stretching\nalong the river, gay with luxuriant woods and vine, and plantations of\nolives. To the south, the view was bounded by the majestic Pyrenees,\nwhose summits, veiled in clouds, or exhibiting awful forms, seen, and\nlost again, as the partial vapours rolled along, were sometimes barren,\nand gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and sometimes frowned\nwith forests of gloomy pine, that swept downward to their base. These\ntremendous precipices were contrasted by the soft green of the pastures\nand woods that hung upon their skirts; among whose flocks, and herds,\nand simple cottages, the eye, after having scaled the cliffs above,\ndelighted to repose. To the north, and to the east, the plains of\nGuienne and Languedoc were lost in the mist of distance; on the west,\nGascony was bounded by the waters of Biscay.\n\nM. St. Aubert loved to wander, with his wife and daughter, on the margin\nof the Garonne, and to listen to the music that floated on its waves. He\nhad known life in other forms than those of pastoral simplicity,\nhaving mingled in the gay and in the busy scenes of the world; but the\nflattering portrait of mankind, which his heart had delineated in early\nyouth, his experience had too sorrowfully corrected. Yet, amidst\nthe changing visions of life, his principles remained unshaken, his\nbenevolence unchilled; and he retired from the multitude 'more in PITY\nthan in anger,' to scenes of simple nature, to the pure delights of\nliterature, and to the exercise of domestic virtues.\n\nHe was a descendant from the younger branch of an illustrious family,\nand it was designed, that the deficiency of his patrimonial wealth\nshould be supplied either by a splendid alliance in marriage, or by\nsuccess in the intrigues of public affairs. But St. Aubert had too nice\na sense of honour to fulfil the latter hope, and too small a portion\nof ambition to sacrifice what he called happiness, to the attainment of\nwealth. After the death of his father he married a very amiable woman,\nhis equal in birth, and not his superior in fortune. The late Monsieur\nSt. Aubert's liberality, or extravagance, had so much involved his\naffairs, that his son found it necessary to dispose of a part of\nthe family domain, and, some years after his marriage, he sold it to\nMonsieur Quesnel, the brother of his wife, and retired to a small estate\nin Gascony, where conjugal felicity, and parental duties, divided his\nattention with the treasures of knowledge and the illuminations of\ngenius.\n\nTo this spot he had been attached from his infancy. He had often made\nexcursions to it when a boy, and the impressions of delight given to his\nmind by the homely kindness of the grey-headed peasant, to whom it\nwas intrusted, and whose fruit and cream never failed, had not been\nobliterated by succeeding circumstances. The green pastures along\nwhich he had so often bounded in the exultation of health, and youthful\nfreedom--the woods, under whose refreshing shade he had first indulged\nthat pensive melancholy, which afterwards made a strong feature of his\ncharacter--the wild walks of the mountains, the river, on whose waves he\nhad floated, and the distant plains, which seemed boundless as his early\nhopes--were never after remembered by St. Aubert but with enthusiasm\nand regret. At length he disengaged himself from the world, and retired\nhither, to realize the wishes of many years.\n\nThe building, as it then stood, was merely a summer cottage, rendered\ninteresting to a stranger by its neat simplicity, or the beauty of the\nsurrounding scene; and considerable additions were necessary to make it\na comfortable family residence. St. Aubert felt a kind of affection for\nevery part of the fabric, which he remembered in his youth, and would\nnot suffer a stone of it to be removed, so that the new building,\nadapted to the style of the old one, formed with it only a simple and\nelegant residence. The taste of Madame St. Aubert was conspicuous in its\ninternal finishing, where the same chaste simplicity was observable\nin the furniture, and in the few ornaments of the apartments, that\ncharacterized the manners of its inhabitants.\n\nThe library occupied the west side of the chateau, and was enriched by\na collection of the best books in the ancient and modern languages. This\nroom opened upon a grove, which stood on the brow of a gentle declivity,\nthat fell towards the river, and the tall trees gave it a melancholy\nand pleasing shade; while from the windows the eye caught, beneath the\nspreading branches, the gay and luxuriant landscape stretching to the\nwest, and overlooked on the left by the bold precipices of the Pyrenees.\nAdjoining the library was a green-house, stored with scarce and\nbeautiful plants; for one of the amusements of St. Aubert was the\nstudy of botany, and among the neighbouring mountains, which afforded a\nluxurious feast to the mind of the naturalist, he often passed the day\nin the pursuit of his favourite science. He was sometimes accompanied\nin these little excursions by Madame St. Aubert, and frequently by his\ndaughter; when, with a small osier basket to receive plants, and another\nfilled with cold refreshments, such as the cabin of the shepherd did\nnot afford, they wandered away among the most romantic and magnificent\nscenes, nor suffered the charms of Nature's lowly children to abstract\nthem from the observance of her stupendous works. When weary of\nsauntering among cliffs that seemed scarcely accessible but to the steps\nof the enthusiast, and where no track appeared on the vegetation, but\nwhat the foot of the izard had left; they would seek one of those green\nrecesses, which so beautifully adorn the bosom of these mountains,\nwhere, under the shade of the lofty larch, or cedar, they enjoyed their\nsimple repast, made sweeter by the waters of the cool stream, that crept\nalong the turf, and by the breath of wild flowers and aromatic plants,\nthat fringed the rocks, and inlaid the grass.\n\nAdjoining the eastern side of the green-house, looking towards the\nplains of Languedoc, was a room, which Emily called hers, and which\ncontained her books, her drawings, her musical instruments, with some\nfavourite birds and plants. Here she usually exercised herself in\nelegant arts, cultivated only because they were congenial to her taste,\nand in which native genius, assisted by the instructions of Monsieur\nand Madame St. Aubert, made her an early proficient. The windows of\nthis room were particularly pleasant; they descended to the floor, and,\nopening upon the little lawn that surrounded the house, the eye was led\nbetween groves of almond, palm-trees, flowering-ash, and myrtle, to the\ndistant landscape, where the Garonne wandered.\n\nThe peasants of this gay climate were often seen on an evening, when\nthe day's labour was done, dancing in groups on the margin of the river.\nTheir sprightly melodies, debonnaire steps, the fanciful figure of\ntheir dances, with the tasteful and capricious manner in which the girls\nadjusted their simple dress, gave a character to the scene entirely\nFrench.\n\nThe front of the chateau, which, having a southern aspect, opened upon\nthe grandeur of the mountains, was occupied on the ground floor by a\nrustic hall, and two excellent sitting rooms. The first floor, for the\ncottage had no second story, was laid out in bed-chambers, except one\napartment that opened to a balcony, and which was generally used for a\nbreakfast-room.\n\nIn the surrounding ground, St. Aubert had made very tasteful\nimprovements; yet, such was his attachment to objects he had remembered\nfrom his boyish days, that he had in some instances sacrificed taste\nto sentiment. There were two old larches that shaded the building, and\ninterrupted the prospect; St. Aubert had sometimes declared that he\nbelieved he should have been weak enough to have wept at their fall. In\naddition to these larches he planted a little grove of beech, pine, and\nmountain-ash. On a lofty terrace, formed by the swelling bank of the\nriver, rose a plantation of orange, lemon, and palm-trees, whose fruit,\nin the coolness of evening, breathed delicious fragrance. With these\nwere mingled a few trees of other species. Here, under the ample shade\nof a plane-tree, that spread its majestic canopy towards the river, St.\nAubert loved to sit in the fine evenings of summer, with his wife and\nchildren, watching, beneath its foliage, the setting sun, the mild\nsplendour of its light fading from the distant landscape, till the\nshadows of twilight melted its various features into one tint of sober\ngrey. Here, too, he loved to read, and to converse with Madame St.\nAubert; or to play with his children, resigning himself to the influence\nof those sweet affections, which are ever attendant on simplicity and\nnature. He has often said, while tears of pleasure trembled in his eyes,\nthat these were moments infinitely more delightful than any passed amid\nthe brilliant and tumultuous scenes that are courted by the world. His\nheart was occupied; it had, what can be so rarely said, no wish for a\nhappiness beyond what it experienced. The consciousness of acting right\ndiffused a serenity over his manners, which nothing else could impart\nto a man of moral perceptions like his, and which refined his sense of\nevery surrounding blessing.\n\nThe deepest shade of twilight did not send him from his favourite\nplane-tree. He loved the soothing hour, when the last tints of light\ndie away; when the stars, one by one, tremble through aether, and are\nreflected on the dark mirror of the waters; that hour, which, of all\nothers, inspires the mind with pensive tenderness, and often elevates\nit to sublime contemplation. When the moon shed her soft rays among the\nfoliage, he still lingered, and his pastoral supper of cream and fruits\nwas often spread beneath it. Then, on the stillness of night, came the\nsong of the nightingale, breathing sweetness, and awakening melancholy.\n\nThe first interruptions to the happiness he had known since his\nretirement, were occasioned by the death of his two sons. He lost them\nat that age when infantine simplicity is so fascinating; and though,\nin consideration of Madame St. Aubert's distress, he restrained the\nexpression of his own, and endeavoured to bear it, as he meant, with\nphilosophy, he had, in truth, no philosophy that could render him calm\nto such losses. One daughter was now his only surviving child; and,\nwhile he watched the unfolding of her infant character, with anxious\nfondness, he endeavoured, with unremitting effort, to counteract\nthose traits in her disposition, which might hereafter lead her from\nhappiness. She had discovered in her early years uncommon delicacy\nof mind, warm affections, and ready benevolence; but with these was\nobservable a degree of susceptibility too exquisite to admit of lasting\npeace. As she advanced in youth, this sensibility gave a pensive tone to\nher spirits, and a softness to her manner, which added grace to beauty,\nand rendered her a very interesting object to persons of a congenial\ndisposition. But St. Aubert had too much good sense to prefer a charm\nto a virtue; and had penetration enough to see, that this charm was too\ndangerous to its possessor to be allowed the character of a blessing. He\nendeavoured, therefore, to strengthen her mind; to enure her to habits\nof self-command; to teach her to reject the first impulse of her\nfeelings, and to look, with cool examination, upon the disappointments\nhe sometimes threw in her way. While he instructed her to resist first\nimpressions, and to acquire that steady dignity of mind, that can alone\ncounterbalance the passions, and bear us, as far as is compatible with\nour nature, above the reach of circumstances, he taught himself a\nlesson of fortitude; for he was often obliged to witness, with seeming\nindifference, the tears and struggles which his caution occasioned her.\n\nIn person, Emily resembled her mother; having the same elegant symmetry\nof form, the same delicacy of features, and the same blue eyes, full\nof tender sweetness. But, lovely as was her person, it was the varied\nexpression of her countenance, as conversation awakened the nicer\nemotions of her mind, that threw such a captivating grace around her:\n\n Those tend'rer tints, that shun the careless eye,\n And, in the world's contagious circle, die.\n\nSt. Aubert cultivated her understanding with the most scrupulous care.\nHe gave her a general view of the sciences, and an exact acquaintance\nwith every part of elegant literature. He taught her Latin and English,\nchiefly that she might understand the sublimity of their best poets. She\ndiscovered in her early years a taste for works of genius; and it was\nSt. Aubert's principle, as well as his inclination, to promote every\ninnocent means of happiness. 'A well-informed mind,' he would say, 'is\nthe best security against the contagion of folly and of vice. The vacant\nmind is ever on the watch for relief, and ready to plunge into error, to\nescape from the languor of idleness. Store it with ideas, teach it the\npleasure of thinking; and the temptations of the world without, will\nbe counteracted by the gratifications derived from the world within.\nThought, and cultivation, are necessary equally to the happiness of a\ncountry and a city life; in the first they prevent the uneasy sensations\nof indolence, and afford a sublime pleasure in the taste they create for\nthe beautiful, and the grand; in the latter, they make dissipation less\nan object of necessity, and consequently of interest.'\n\nIt was one of Emily's earliest pleasures to ramble among the scenes\nof nature; nor was it in the soft and glowing landscape that she\nmost delighted; she loved more the wild wood-walks, that skirted the\nmountain; and still more the mountain's stupendous recesses, where the\nsilence and grandeur of solitude impressed a sacred awe upon her heart,\nand lifted her thoughts to the GOD OF HEAVEN AND EARTH. In scenes like\nthese she would often linger along, wrapt in a melancholy charm, till\nthe last gleam of day faded from the west; till the lonely sound of a\nsheep-bell, or the distant bark of a watch-dog, were all that broke\non the stillness of the evening. Then, the gloom of the woods; the\ntrembling of their leaves, at intervals, in the breeze; the bat,\nflitting on the twilight; the cottage-lights, now seen, and now\nlost--were circumstances that awakened her mind into effort, and led to\nenthusiasm and poetry.\n\nHer favourite walk was to a little fishing-house, belonging to St.\nAubert, in a woody glen, on the margin of a rivulet that descended from\nthe Pyrenees, and, after foaming among their rocks, wound its silent\nway beneath the shades it reflected. Above the woods, that screened this\nglen, rose the lofty summits of the Pyrenees, which often burst boldly\non the eye through the glades below. Sometimes the shattered face of\na rock only was seen, crowned with wild shrubs; or a shepherd's cabin\nseated on a cliff, overshadowed by dark cypress, or waving ash. Emerging\nfrom the deep recesses of the woods, the glade opened to the distant\nlandscape, where the rich pastures and vine-covered slopes of Gascony\ngradually declined to the plains; and there, on the winding shores of\nthe Garonne, groves, and hamlets, and villas--their outlines softened by\ndistance, melted from the eye into one rich harmonious tint.\n\nThis, too, was the favourite retreat of St. Aubert, to which he\nfrequently withdrew from the fervour of noon, with his wife, his\ndaughter, and his books; or came at the sweet evening hour to welcome\nthe silent dusk, or to listen for the music of the nightingale.\nSometimes, too, he brought music of his own, and awakened every fairy\necho with the tender accents of his oboe; and often have the tones of\nEmily's voice drawn sweetness from the waves, over which they trembled.\n\nIt was in one of these excursions to this spot, that she observed the\nfollowing lines written with a pencil on a part of the wainscot:\n\n SONNET\n\n Go, pencil! faithful to thy master's sighs!\n Go--tell the Goddess of the fairy scene,\n When next her light steps wind these wood-walks green,\n Whence all his tears, his tender sorrows, rise;\n Ah! paint her form, her soul-illumin'd eyes,\n The sweet expression of her pensive face,\n The light'ning smile, the animated grace--\n The portrait well the lover's voice supplies;\n Speaks all his heart must feel, his tongue would say:\n Yet ah! not all his heart must sadly feel!\n How oft the flow'ret's silken leaves conceal\n The drug that steals the vital spark away!\n And who that gazes on that angel-smile,\n Would fear its charm, or think it could beguile!\n\nThese lines were not inscribed to any person; Emily therefore could not\napply them to herself, though she was undoubtedly the nymph of these\nshades. Having glanced round the little circle of her acquaintance\nwithout being detained by a suspicion as to whom they could be\naddressed, she was compelled to rest in uncertainty; an uncertainty\nwhich would have been more painful to an idle mind than it was to hers.\nShe had no leisure to suffer this circumstance, trifling at first, to\nswell into importance by frequent remembrance. The little vanity it had\nexcited (for the incertitude which forbade her to presume upon having\ninspired the sonnet, forbade her also to disbelieve it) passed away,\nand the incident was dismissed from her thoughts amid her books, her\nstudies, and the exercise of social charities.\n\nSoon after this period, her anxiety was awakened by the indisposition of\nher father, who was attacked with a fever; which, though not thought to\nbe of a dangerous kind, gave a severe shock to his constitution.\nMadame St. Aubert and Emily attended him with unremitting care; but\nhis recovery was very slow, and, as he advanced towards health, Madame\nseemed to decline.\n\nThe first scene he visited, after he was well enough to take the\nair, was his favourite fishing-house. A basket of provisions was sent\nthither, with books, and Emily's lute; for fishing-tackle he had no use,\nfor he never could find amusement in torturing or destroying.\n\nAfter employing himself, for about an hour, in botanizing, dinner was\nserved. It was a repast, to which gratitude, for being again permitted\nto visit this spot, gave sweetness; and family happiness once more\nsmiled beneath these shades. Monsieur St. Aubert conversed with unusual\ncheerfulness; every object delighted his senses. The refreshing pleasure\nfrom the first view of nature, after the pain of illness, and the\nconfinement of a sick-chamber, is above the conceptions, as well as\nthe descriptions, of those in health. The green woods and pastures; the\nflowery turf; the blue concave of the heavens; the balmy air; the murmur\nof the limpid stream; and even the hum of every little insect of the\nshade, seem to revivify the soul, and make mere existence bliss.\n\nMadame St. Aubert, reanimated by the cheerfulness and recovery of her\nhusband, was no longer sensible of the indisposition which had lately\noppressed her; and, as she sauntered along the wood-walks of this\nromantic glen, and conversed with him, and with her daughter, she often\nlooked at them alternately with a degree of tenderness, that filled her\neyes with tears. St. Aubert observed this more than once, and gently\nreproved her for the emotion; but she could only smile, clasp his hand,\nand that of Emily, and weep the more. He felt the tender enthusiasm\nstealing upon himself in a degree that became almost painful; his\nfeatures assumed a serious air, and he could not forbear secretly\nsighing--'Perhaps I shall some time look back to these moments, as to\nthe summit of my happiness, with hopeless regret. But let me not misuse\nthem by useless anticipation; let me hope I shall not live to mourn the\nloss of those who are dearer to me than life.'\n\nTo relieve, or perhaps to indulge, the pensive temper of his mind, he\nbade Emily fetch the lute she knew how to touch with such sweet pathos.\nAs she drew near the fishing-house, she was surprised to hear the tones\nof the instrument, which were awakened by the hand of taste, and uttered\na plaintive air, whose exquisite melody engaged all her attention. She\nlistened in profound silence, afraid to move from the spot, lest the\nsound of her steps should occasion her to lose a note of the music, or\nshould disturb the musician. Every thing without the building was still,\nand no person appeared. She continued to listen, till timidity succeeded\nto surprise and delight; a timidity, increased by a remembrance of the\npencilled lines she had formerly seen, and she hesitated whether to\nproceed, or to return.\n\nWhile she paused, the music ceased; and, after a momentary hesitation,\nshe re-collected courage to advance to the fishing-house, which she\nentered with faltering steps, and found unoccupied! Her lute lay on the\ntable; every thing seemed undisturbed, and she began to believe it was\nanother instrument she had heard, till she remembered, that, when she\nfollowed M. and Madame St. Aubert from this spot, her lute was left on\na window seat. She felt alarmed, yet knew not wherefore; the melancholy\ngloom of evening, and the profound stillness of the place, interrupted\nonly by the light trembling of leaves, heightened her fanciful\napprehensions, and she was desirous of quitting the building, but\nperceived herself grow faint, and sat down. As she tried to recover\nherself, the pencilled lines on the wainscot met her eye; she started,\nas if she had seen a stranger; but, endeavouring to conquer the tremor\nof her spirits, rose, and went to the window. To the lines before\nnoticed she now perceived that others were added, in which her name\nappeared.\n\nThough no longer suffered to doubt that they were addressed to herself,\nshe was as ignorant, as before, by whom they could be written. While she\nmused, she thought she heard the sound of a step without the building,\nand again alarmed, she caught up her lute, and hurried away. Monsieur\nand Madame St. Aubert she found in a little path that wound along the\nsides of the glen.\n\nHaving reached a green summit, shadowed by palm-trees, and overlooking\nthe vallies and plains of Gascony, they seated themselves on the turf;\nand while their eyes wandered over the glorious scene, and they inhaled\nthe sweet breath of flowers and herbs that enriched the grass, Emily\nplayed and sung several of their favourite airs, with the delicacy of\nexpression in which she so much excelled.\n\nMusic and conversation detained them in this enchanting spot, till the\nsun's last light slept upon the plains; till the white sails that glided\nbeneath the mountains, where the Garonne wandered, became dim, and the\ngloom of evening stole over the landscape. It was a melancholy but not\nunpleasing gloom. St. Aubert and his family rose, and left the place\nwith regret; alas! Madame St. Aubert knew not that she left it for ever.\n\nWhen they reached the fishing-house she missed her bracelet, and\nrecollected that she had taken it from her arm after dinner, and had\nleft it on the table when she went to walk. After a long search, in\nwhich Emily was very active, she was compelled to resign herself to the\nloss of it. What made this bracelet valuable to her was a miniature of\nher daughter to which it was attached, esteemed a striking resemblance,\nand which had been painted only a few months before. When Emily was\nconvinced that the bracelet was really gone, she blushed, and became\nthoughtful. That some stranger had been in the fishing-house, during\nher absence, her lute, and the additional lines of a pencil, had already\ninformed her: from the purport of these lines it was not unreasonable\nto believe, that the poet, the musician, and the thief were the same\nperson. But though the music she had heard, the written lines she had\nseen, and the disappearance of the picture, formed a combination of\ncircumstances very remarkable, she was irresistibly restrained from\nmentioning them; secretly determining, however, never again to visit the\nfishing-house without Monsieur or Madame St. Aubert.\n\nThey returned pensively to the chateau, Emily musing on the incident\nwhich had just occurred; St. Aubert reflecting, with placid gratitude,\non the blessings he possessed; and Madame St. Aubert somewhat disturbed,\nand perplexed, by the loss of her daughter's picture. As they drew near\nthe house, they observed an unusual bustle about it; the sound of voices\nwas distinctly heard, servants and horses were seen passing between the\ntrees, and, at length, the wheels of a carriage rolled along. Having\ncome within view of the front of the chateau, a landau, with smoking\nhorses, appeared on the little lawn before it. St. Aubert perceived the\nliveries of his brother-in-law, and in the parlour he found Monsieur and\nMadame Quesnel already entered. They had left Paris some days before,\nand were on the way to their estate, only ten leagues distant from La\nVallee, and which Monsieur Quesnel had purchased several years before\nof St. Aubert. This gentleman was the only brother of Madame St.\nAubert; but the ties of relationship having never been strengthened by\ncongeniality of character, the intercourse between them had not been\nfrequent. M. Quesnel had lived altogether in the world; his aim had been\nconsequence; splendour was the object of his taste; and his address\nand knowledge of character had carried him forward to the attainment of\nalmost all that he had courted. By a man of such a disposition, it is\nnot surprising that the virtues of St. Aubert should be overlooked; or\nthat his pure taste, simplicity, and moderated wishes, were considered\nas marks of a weak intellect, and of confined views. The marriage of his\nsister with St. Aubert had been mortifying to his ambition, for he had\ndesigned that the matrimonial connection she formed should assist him\nto attain the consequence which he so much desired; and some offers were\nmade her by persons whose rank and fortune flattered his warmest hope.\nBut his sister, who was then addressed also by St. Aubert, perceived, or\nthought she perceived, that happiness and splendour were not the same,\nand she did not hesitate to forego the last for the attainment of the\nformer. Whether Monsieur Quesnel thought them the same, or not, he would\nreadily have sacrificed his sister's peace to the gratification of his\nown ambition; and, on her marriage with St. Aubert, expressed in private\nhis contempt of her spiritless conduct, and of the connection which it\npermitted. Madame St. Aubert, though she concealed this insult from her\nhusband, felt, perhaps, for the first time, resentment lighted in\nher heart; and, though a regard for her own dignity, united with\nconsiderations of prudence, restrained her expression of this\nresentment, there was ever after a mild reserve in her manner towards M.\nQuesnel, which he both understood and felt.\n\nIn his own marriage he did not follow his sister's example. His lady was\nan Italian, and an heiress by birth; and, by nature and education, was a\nvain and frivolous woman.\n\nThey now determined to pass the night with St. Aubert; and as the\nchateau was not large enough to accommodate their servants, the latter\nwere dismissed to the neighbouring village. When the first compliments\nwere over, and the arrangements for the night made M. Quesnel began the\ndisplay of his intelligence and his connections; while St. Aubert, who\nhad been long enough in retirement to find these topics recommended by\ntheir novelty, listened, with a degree of patience and attention,\nwhich his guest mistook for the humility of wonder. The latter, indeed,\ndescribed the few festivities which the turbulence of that period\npermitted to the court of Henry the Third, with a minuteness, that\nsomewhat recompensed for his ostentation; but, when he came to speak of\nthe character of the Duke de Joyeuse, of a secret treaty, which he knew\nto be negotiating with the Porte, and of the light in which Henry of\nNavarre was received, M. St. Aubert recollected enough of his former\nexperience to be assured, that his guest could be only of an inferior\nclass of politicians; and that, from the importance of the subjects\nupon which he committed himself, he could not be of the rank to which he\npretended to belong. The opinions delivered by M. Quesnel, were such as\nSt. Aubert forebore to reply to, for he knew that his guest had neither\nhumanity to feel, nor discernment to perceive, what is just.\n\nMadame Quesnel, meanwhile, was expressing to Madame St. Aubert her\nastonishment, that she could bear to pass her life in this remote corner\nof the world, as she called it, and describing, from a wish, probably,\nof exciting envy, the splendour of the balls, banquets, and processions\nwhich had just been given by the court, in honour of the nuptials of the\nDuke de Joyeuse with Margaretta of Lorrain, the sister of the Queen. She\ndescribed with equal minuteness the magnificence she had seen, and that\nfrom which she had been excluded; while Emily's vivid fancy, as she\nlistened with the ardent curiosity of youth, heightened the scenes she\nheard of; and Madame St. Aubert, looking on her family, felt, as a tear\nstole to her eye, that though splendour may grace happiness, virtue only\ncan bestow it.\n\n'It is now twelve years, St. Aubert,' said M. Quesnel, 'since I\npurchased your family estate.'--'Somewhere thereabout,' replied St.\nAubert, suppressing a sigh. 'It is near five years since I have been\nthere,' resumed Quesnel; 'for Paris and its neighbourhood is the only\nplace in the world to live in, and I am so immersed in politics, and\nhave so many affairs of moment on my hands, that I find it difficult\nto steal away even for a month or two.' St. Aubert remaining silent, M.\nQuesnel proceeded: 'I have sometimes wondered how you, who have lived\nin the capital, and have been accustomed to company, can exist\nelsewhere;--especially in so remote a country as this, where you can\nneither hear nor see any thing, and can in short be scarcely conscious\nof life.'\n\n'I live for my family and myself,' said St. Aubert; 'I am now contented\nto know only happiness;--formerly I knew life.'\n\n'I mean to expend thirty or forty thousand livres on improvements,' said\nM. Quesnel, without seeming to notice the words of St. Aubert; 'for I\ndesign, next summer, to bring here my friends, the Duke de Durefort and\nthe Marquis Ramont, to pass a month or two with me.' To St. Aubert's\nenquiry, as to these intended improvements, he replied, that he should\ntake down the whole east wing of the chateau, and raise upon the site\na set of stables. 'Then I shall build,' said he, 'a SALLE A MANGER, a\nSALON, a SALLE AU COMMUNE, and a number of rooms for servants; for at\npresent there is not accommodation for a third part of my own people.'\n\n'It accommodated our father's household,' said St. Aubert, grieved that\nthe old mansion was to be thus improved, 'and that was not a small one.'\n\n'Our notions are somewhat enlarged since those days,' said M.\nQuesnel;--'what was then thought a decent style of living would not now\nbe endured.' Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words, but\nhis anger soon yielded to contempt. 'The ground about the chateau is\nencumbered with trees; I mean to cut some of them down.'\n\n'Cut down the trees too!' said St. Aubert.\n\n'Certainly. Why should I not? they interrupt my prospects. There is a\nchesnut which spreads its branches before the whole south side of the\nchateau, and which is so ancient that they tell me the hollow of its\ntrunk will hold a dozen men. Your enthusiasm will scarcely contend that\nthere can be either use, or beauty, in such a sapless old tree as this.'\n\n'Good God!' exclaimed St. Aubert, 'you surely will not destroy that\nnoble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of the\nestate! It was in its maturity when the present mansion was built. How\noften, in my youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and sat\nembowered amidst a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has pattered\nabove, and not a rain drop reached me! How often I have sat with a book\nin my hand, sometimes reading, and sometimes looking out between the\nbranches upon the wide landscape, and the setting sun, till twilight\ncame, and brought the birds home to their little nests among the leaves!\nHow often--but pardon me,' added St. Aubert, recollecting that he was\nspeaking to a man who could neither comprehend, nor allow his feelings,\n'I am talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned as the taste that\nwould spare that venerable tree.'\n\n'It will certainly come down,' said M. Quesnel; 'I believe I shall plant\nsome Lombardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that I shall leave\nof the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and tells me how\nmuch it adorns a villa of her uncle, not far from Venice.'\n\n'On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,' continued St. Aubert, 'where its\nspiry form is intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and where\nit plays over light and elegant porticos and colonnades, it,\nunquestionably, adorns the scene; but among the giants of the forest,\nand near a heavy gothic mansion--'\n\n'Well, my good sir,' said M. Quesnel, 'I will not dispute with you. You\nmust return to Paris before our ideas can at all agree. But A-PROPOS of\nVenice, I have some thoughts of going thither, next summer; events may\ncall me to take possession of that same villa, too, which they tell me\nis the most charming that can be imagined. In that case I shall leave\nthe improvements I mention to another year, and I may, perhaps, be\ntempted to stay some time in Italy.'\n\nEmily was somewhat surprised to hear him talk of being tempted to remain\nabroad, after he had mentioned his presence to be so necessary at Paris,\nthat it was with difficulty he could steal away for a month or two; but\nSt. Aubert understood the self-importance of the man too well to wonder\nat this trait; and the possibility, that these projected improvements\nmight be deferred, gave him a hope, that they might never take place.\n\nBefore they separated for the night, M. Quesnel desired to speak with\nSt. Aubert alone, and they retired to another room, where they remained\na considerable time. The subject of this conversation was not known;\nbut, whatever it might be, St. Aubert, when he returned to the\nsupper-room, seemed much disturbed, and a shade of sorrow sometimes fell\nupon his features that alarmed Madame St. Aubert. When they were alone\nshe was tempted to enquire the occasion of it, but the delicacy of mind,\nwhich had ever appeared in his conduct, restrained her: she considered\nthat, if St. Aubert wished her to be acquainted with the subject of his\nconcern, he would not wait on her enquiries.\n\nOn the following day, before M. Quesnel departed, he had a second\nconference with St. Aubert.\n\nThe guests, after dining at the chateau, set out in the cool of the day\nfor Epourville, whither they gave him and Madame St. Aubert a pressing\ninvitation, prompted rather by the vanity of displaying their splendour,\nthan by a wish to make their friends happy.\n\nEmily returned, with delight, to the liberty which their presence had\nrestrained, to her books, her walks, and the rational conversation of\nM. and Madame St. Aubert, who seemed to rejoice, no less, that they were\ndelivered from the shackles, which arrogance and frivolity had imposed.\n\nMadame St. Aubert excused herself from sharing their usual evening walk,\ncomplaining that she was not quite well, and St. Aubert and Emily went\nout together.\n\nThey chose a walk towards the mountains, intending to visit some old\npensioners of St. Aubert, which, from his very moderate income, he\ncontrived to support, though it is probable M. Quesnel, with his very\nlarge one, could not have afforded this.\n\nAfter distributing to his pensioners their weekly stipends, listening\npatiently to the complaints of some, redressing the grievances of\nothers, and softening the discontents of all, by the look of sympathy,\nand the smile of benevolence, St. Aubert returned home through the\nwoods,\n\n     where\n At fall of eve the fairy-people throng,\n In various games and revelry to pass\n The summer night, as village stories tell.*\n     *Thomson\n\n\n'The evening gloom of woods was always delightful to me,' said St.\nAubert, whose mind now experienced the sweet calm, which results from\nthe consciousness of having done a beneficent action, and which disposes\nit to receive pleasure from every surrounding object. 'I remember that\nin my youth this gloom used to call forth to my fancy a thousand fairy\nvisions, and romantic images; and, I own, I am not yet wholly insensible\nof that high enthusiasm, which wakes the poet's dream: I can linger,\nwith solemn steps, under the deep shades, send forward a transforming\neye into the distant obscurity, and listen with thrilling delight to the\nmystic murmuring of the woods.'\n\n'O my dear father,' said Emily, while a sudden tear started to her eye,\n'how exactly you describe what I have felt so often, and which I thought\nnobody had ever felt but myself! But hark! here comes the sweeping sound\nover the wood-tops;--now it dies away;--how solemn the stillness that\nsucceeds! Now the breeze swells again. It is like the voice of some\nsupernatural being--the voice of the spirit of the woods, that watches\nover them by night. Ah! what light is yonder? But it is gone. And now it\ngleams again, near the root of that large chestnut: look, sir!'\n\n'Are you such an admirer of nature,' said St. Aubert, 'and so little\nacquainted with her appearances as not to know that for the glow-worm?\nBut come,' added he gaily, 'step a little further, and we shall see\nfairies, perhaps; they are often companions. The glow-worm lends his\nlight, and they in return charm him with music, and the dance. Do you\nsee nothing tripping yonder?'\n\nEmily laughed. 'Well, my dear sir,' said she, 'since you allow of this\nalliance, I may venture to own I have anticipated you; and almost dare\nventure to repeat some verses I made one evening in these very woods.'\n\n'Nay,' replied St. Aubert, 'dismiss the ALMOST, and venture quite; let\nus hear what vagaries fancy has been playing in your mind. If she has\ngiven you one of her spells, you need not envy those of the fairies.'\n\n'If it is strong enough to enchant your judgment, sir,' said Emily,\n'while I disclose her images, I need NOT envy them. The lines go in a\nsort of tripping measure, which I thought might suit the subject well\nenough, but I fear they are too irregular.'\n\n  THE GLOW-WORM\n\n How pleasant is the green-wood's deep-matted shade\n  On a mid-summer's eve, when the fresh rain is o'er;\n When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle thro' the glade,\n  And swiftly in the thin air the light swallows soar!\n\n But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest,\n  And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay\n Tripping through the forest-walk, where flow'rs, unprest,\n  Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.\n\n To music's softest sounds they dance away the hour,\n  Till moon-light steals down among the trembling leaves,\n And checquers all the ground, and guides them to the bow'r,\n  The long haunted bow'r, where the nightingale grieves.\n\n Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done,\n  But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend;\n And often as her dying notes their pity have won,\n  They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend.\n\n When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev'ning star,\n  And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere,\n How cheerless would they be, tho' they fairies are,\n  If I, with my pale light, came not near!\n\n Yet cheerless tho' they'd be, they're ungrateful to my love!\n  For, often when the traveller's benighted on his way,\n And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him thro' the grove,\n  They bind me in their magic spells to lead him far astray;\n\n And in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out,\n  While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground,\n And, afar in the woods, they raise a dismal shout,\n  Till I shrink into my cell again for terror of the sound!\n\n But, see where all the tiny elves come dancing in a ring,\n  With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the horn,\n And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet string;\n  Then round about the oak they go till peeping of the morn.\n\n Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun the fairy-queen,\n  Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous is of me,\n That yester-eve I lighted them, along the dewy green,\n  To seek the purple flow'r, whose juice from all her spells can\nfree.\n\n And now, to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund band,\n  With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the lute;\n If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her fairy wand,\n  And to me the dance will cease, and the music all be mute.\n\n O! had I but that purple flow'r whose leaves her charms can foil,\n  And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it on the wind,\n I'd be her slave no longer, nor the traveller beguile,\n  And help all faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind!\n\n But soon the VAPOUR OF THE WOODS will wander afar,\n  And the fickle moon will fade, and the stars disappear,\n Then, cheerless will they be, tho' they fairies are,\n  If I, with my pale light, come not near!\n\nWhatever St. Aubert might think of the stanzas, he would not deny his\ndaughter the pleasure of believing that he approved them; and, having\ngiven his commendation, he sunk into a reverie, and they walked on in\nsilence.\n\n     A faint erroneous ray\n Glanc'd from th' imperfect surfaces of things,\n Flung half an image on the straining eye;\n While waving woods, and villages, and streams,\n And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long retain\n The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene,\n Uncertain if beheld.*\n     *Thomson.\n\n\nSt. Aubert continued silent till he reached the chateau, where his wife\nhad retired to her chamber. The languor and dejection, that had lately\noppressed her, and which the exertion called forth by the arrival of\nher guests had suspended, now returned with increased effect. On the\nfollowing day, symptoms of fever appeared, and St. Aubert, having sent\nfor medical advice, learned, that her disorder was a fever of the same\nnature as that, from which he had lately recovered. She had, indeed,\ntaken the infection, during her attendance upon him, and, her\nconstitution being too weak to throw out the disease immediately, it had\nlurked in her veins, and occasioned the heavy languor of which she had\ncomplained. St. Aubert, whose anxiety for his wife overcame every other\nconsideration, detained the physician in his house. He remembered the\nfeelings and the reflections that had called a momentary gloom upon his\nmind, on the day when he had last visited the fishing-house, in company\nwith Madame St. Aubert, and he now admitted a presentiment, that this\nillness would be a fatal one. But he effectually concealed this from\nher, and from his daughter, whom he endeavoured to re-animate with hopes\nthat her constant assiduities would not be unavailing. The physician,\nwhen asked by St. Aubert for his opinion of the disorder, replied,\nthat the event of it depended upon circumstances which he could not\nascertain. Madame St. Aubert seemed to have formed a more decided one;\nbut her eyes only gave hints of this. She frequently fixed them upon her\nanxious friends with an expression of pity, and of tenderness, as if she\nanticipated the sorrow that awaited them, and that seemed to say, it was\nfor their sakes only, for their sufferings, that she regretted life. On\nthe seventh day, the disorder was at its crisis. The physician assumed\na graver manner, which she observed, and took occasion, when her family\nhad once quitted the chamber, to tell him, that she perceived her death\nwas approaching. 'Do not attempt to deceive me,' said she, 'I feel that\nI cannot long survive. I am prepared for the event, I have long, I hope,\nbeen preparing for it. Since I have not long to live, do not suffer a\nmistaken compassion to induce you to flatter my family with false hopes.\nIf you do, their affliction will only be the heavier when it arrives: I\nwill endeavour to teach them resignation by my example.'\n\nThe physician was affected; he promised to obey her, and told St.\nAubert, somewhat abruptly, that there was nothing to expect. The latter\nwas not philosopher enough to restrain his feelings when he received\nthis information; but a consideration of the increased affliction which\nthe observance of his grief would occasion his wife, enabled him,\nafter some time, to command himself in her presence. Emily was at first\noverwhelmed with the intelligence; then, deluded by the strength of her\nwishes, a hope sprung up in her mind that her mother would yet recover,\nand to this she pertinaciously adhered almost to the last hour.\n\nThe progress of this disorder was marked, on the side of Madame St.\nAubert, by patient suffering, and subjected wishes. The composure, with\nwhich she awaited her death, could be derived only from the retrospect\nof a life governed, as far as human frailty permits, by a consciousness\nof being always in the presence of the Deity, and by the hope of a\nhigher world. But her piety could not entirely subdue the grief of\nparting from those whom she so dearly loved. During these her last\nhours, she conversed much with St. Aubert and Emily, on the prospect of\nfuturity, and on other religious topics. The resignation she expressed,\nwith the firm hope of meeting in a future world the friends she left in\nthis, and the effort which sometimes appeared to conceal her sorrow at\nthis temporary separation, frequently affected St. Aubert so much as to\noblige him to leave the room. Having indulged his tears awhile, he would\ndry them and return to the chamber with a countenance composed by an\nendeavour which did but increase his grief.\n\nNever had Emily felt the importance of the lessons, which had taught her\nto restrain her sensibility, so much as in these moments, and never had\nshe practised them with a triumph so complete. But when the last was\nover, she sunk at once under the pressure of her sorrow, and then\nperceived that it was hope, as well as fortitude, which had hitherto\nsupported her. St. Aubert was for a time too devoid of comfort himself\nto bestow any on his daughter.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\n I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word\n Would harrow up thy soul.\n     SHAKESPEARE\n\n\nMadame St. Aubert was interred in the neighbouring village church; her\nhusband and daughter attended her to the grave, followed by a long train\nof the peasantry, who were sincere mourners of this excellent woman.\n\nOn his return from the funeral, St. Aubert shut himself in his chamber.\nWhen he came forth, it was with a serene countenance, though pale in\nsorrow. He gave orders that his family should attend him. Emily only was\nabsent; who, overcome with the scene she had just witnessed, had retired\nto her closet to weep alone. St. Aubert followed her thither: he took\nher hand in silence, while she continued to weep; and it was some\nmoments before he could so far command his voice as to speak. It\ntrembled while he said, 'My Emily, I am going to prayers with my family;\nyou will join us. We must ask support from above. Where else ought we to\nseek it--where else can we find it?'\n\nEmily checked her tears, and followed her father to the parlour, where,\nthe servants being assembled, St. Aubert read, in a low and solemn\nvoice, the evening service, and added a prayer for the soul of the\ndeparted. During this, his voice often faltered, his tears fell upon the\nbook, and at length he paused. But the sublime emotions of pure devotion\ngradually elevated his views above this world, and finally brought\ncomfort to his heart.\n\nWhen the service was ended, and the servants were withdrawn, he tenderly\nkissed Emily, and said, 'I have endeavoured to teach you, from your\nearliest youth, the duty of self-command; I have pointed out to you the\ngreat importance of it through life, not only as it preserves us in\nthe various and dangerous temptations that call us from rectitude and\nvirtue, but as it limits the indulgences which are termed virtuous,\nyet which, extended beyond a certain boundary, are vicious, for their\nconsequence is evil. All excess is vicious; even that sorrow, which is\namiable in its origin, becomes a selfish and unjust passion, if indulged\nat the expence of our duties--by our duties I mean what we owe to\nourselves, as well as to others. The indulgence of excessive grief\nenervates the mind, and almost incapacitates it for again partaking of\nthose various innocent enjoyments which a benevolent God designed to be\nthe sun-shine of our lives. My dear Emily, recollect and practise the\nprecepts I have so often given you, and which your own experience has so\noften shewn you to be wise.\n\n'Your sorrow is useless. Do not receive this as merely a commonplace\nremark, but let reason THEREFORE restrain sorrow. I would not annihilate\nyour feelings, my child, I would only teach you to command them; for\nwhatever may be the evils resulting from a too susceptible heart,\nnothing can be hoped from an insensible one; that, on the other hand,\nis all vice--vice, of which the deformity is not softened, or the effect\nconsoled for, by any semblance or possibility of good. You know my\nsufferings, and are, therefore, convinced that mine are not the light\nwords which, on these occasions, are so often repeated to destroy even\nthe sources of honest emotion, or which merely display the selfish\nostentation of a false philosophy. I will shew my Emily, that I can\npractise what I advise. I have said thus much, because I cannot bear to\nsee you wasting in useless sorrow, for want of that resistance which\nis due from mind; and I have not said it till now, because there is\na period when all reasoning must yield to nature; that is past: and\nanother, when excessive indulgence, having sunk into habit, weighs\ndown the elasticity of the spirits so as to render conquest nearly\nimpossible; this is to come. You, my Emily, will shew that you are\nwilling to avoid it.'\n\nEmily smiled through her tears upon her father: 'Dear sir,' said she,\nand her voice trembled; she would have added, 'I will shew myself worthy\nof being your daughter;' but a mingled emotion of gratitude, affection,\nand grief overcame her. St. Aubert suffered her to weep without\ninterruption, and then began to talk on common topics.\n\nThe first person who came to condole with St. Aubert was a M. Barreaux,\nan austere and seemingly unfeeling man. A taste for botany had\nintroduced them to each other, for they had frequently met in their\nwanderings among the mountains. M. Barreaux had retired from the world,\nand almost from society, to live in a pleasant chateau, on the skirts of\nthe woods, near La Vallee. He also had been disappointed in his opinion\nof mankind; but he did not, like St. Aubert, pity and mourn for them;\nhe felt more indignation at their vices, than compassion for their\nweaknesses.\n\nSt. Aubert was somewhat surprised to see him; for, though he had often\npressed him to come to the chateau, he had never till now accepted the\ninvitation; and now he came without ceremony or reserve, entering the\nparlour as an old friend. The claims of misfortune appeared to have\nsoftened down all the ruggedness and prejudices of his heart. St. Aubert\nunhappy, seemed to be the sole idea that occupied his mind. It was in\nmanners, more than in words, that he appeared to sympathize with his\nfriends: he spoke little on the subject of their grief; but the minute\nattention he gave them, and the modulated voice, and softened look that\naccompanied it, came from his heart, and spoke to theirs.\n\nAt this melancholy period St. Aubert was likewise visited by Madame\nCheron, his only surviving sister, who had been some years a widow, and\nnow resided on her own estate near Tholouse. The intercourse between\nthem had not been very frequent. In her condolements, words were not\nwanting; she understood not the magic of the look that speaks at once\nto the soul, or the voice that sinks like balm to the heart: but she\nassured St. Aubert that she sincerely sympathized with him, praised the\nvirtues of his late wife, and then offered what she considered to be\nconsolation. Emily wept unceasingly while she spoke; St. Aubert was\ntranquil, listened to what she said in silence, and then turned the\ndiscourse upon another subject.\n\nAt parting she pressed him and her niece to make her an early visit.\n'Change of place will amuse you,' said she, 'and it is wrong to give way\nto grief.' St. Aubert acknowledged the truth of these words of course;\nbut, at the same time, felt more reluctant than ever to quit the spot\nwhich his past happiness had consecrated. The presence of his wife\nhad sanctified every surrounding scene, and, each day, as it gradually\nsoftened the acuteness of his suffering, assisted the tender enchantment\nthat bound him to home.\n\nBut there were calls which must be complied with, and of this kind was\nthe visit he paid to his brother-in-law M. Quesnel. An affair of an\ninteresting nature made it necessary that he should delay this visit no\nlonger, and, wishing to rouse Emily from her dejection, he took her with\nhim to Epourville.\n\nAs the carriage entered upon the forest that adjoined his paternal\ndomain, his eyes once more caught, between the chesnut avenue, the\nturreted corners of the chateau. He sighed to think of what had passed\nsince he was last there, and that it was now the property of a man who\nneither revered nor valued it. At length he entered the avenue, whose\nlofty trees had so often delighted him when a boy, and whose melancholy\nshade was now so congenial with the tone of his spirits. Every feature\nof the edifice, distinguished by an air of heavy grandeur, appeared\nsuccessively between the branches of the trees--the broad turret, the\narched gate-way that led into the courts, the drawbridge, and the dry\nfosse which surrounded the whole.\n\nThe sound of carriage wheels brought a troop of servants to the great\ngate, where St. Aubert alighted, and from which he led Emily into the\ngothic hall, now no longer hung with the arms and ancient banners of the\nfamily. These were displaced, and the oak wainscotting, and beams that\ncrossed the roof, were painted white. The large table, too, that used to\nstretch along the upper end of the hall, where the master of the mansion\nloved to display his hospitality, and whence the peal of laughter, and\nthe song of conviviality, had so often resounded, was now removed; even\nthe benches that had surrounded the hall were no longer there. The heavy\nwalls were hung with frivolous ornaments, and every thing that appeared\ndenoted the false taste and corrupted sentiments of the present owner.\n\nSt. Aubert followed a gay Parisian servant to a parlour, where sat Mons.\nand Madame Quesnel, who received him with a stately politeness, and,\nafter a few formal words of condolement, seemed to have forgotten that\nthey ever had a sister.\n\nEmily felt tears swell into her eyes, and then resentment checked them.\nSt. Aubert, calm and deliberate, preserved his dignity without assuming\nimportance, and Quesnel was depressed by his presence without exactly\nknowing wherefore.\n\nAfter some general conversation, St. Aubert requested to speak with him\nalone; and Emily, being left with Madame Quesnel, soon learned that a\nlarge party was invited to dine at the chateau, and was compelled to\nhear that nothing which was past and irremediable ought to prevent the\nfestivity of the present hour.\n\nSt. Aubert, when he was told that company were expected, felt a mixed\nemotion of disgust and indignation against the insensibility of Quesnel,\nwhich prompted him to return home immediately. But he was informed, that\nMadame Cheron had been asked to meet him; and, when he looked at Emily,\nand considered that a time might come when the enmity of her uncle would\nbe prejudicial to her, he determined not to incur it himself, by conduct\nwhich would be resented as indecorous, by the very persons who now\nshowed so little sense of decorum.\n\nAmong the visitors assembled at dinner were two Italian gentlemen, of\nwhom one was named Montoni, a distant relation of Madame Quesnel, a man\nabout forty, of an uncommonly handsome person, with features manly and\nexpressive, but whose countenance exhibited, upon the whole, more of the\nhaughtiness of command, and the quickness of discernment, than of any\nother character.\n\nSignor Cavigni, his friend, appeared to be about thirty--inferior in\ndignity, but equal to him in penetration of countenance, and superior in\ninsinuation of manner.\n\nEmily was shocked by the salutation with which Madame Cheron met her\nfather--'Dear brother,' said she, 'I am concerned to see you look so\nvery ill; do, pray, have advice!' St. Aubert answered, with a melancholy\nsmile, that he felt himself much as usual; but Emily's fears made her\nnow fancy that her father looked worse than he really did.\n\nEmily would have been amused by the new characters she saw, and the\nvaried conversation that passed during dinner, which was served in a\nstyle of splendour she had seldom seen before, had her spirits been less\noppressed. Of the guests, Signor Montoni was lately come from Italy, and\nhe spoke of the commotions which at that period agitated the country;\ntalked of party differences with warmth, and then lamented the probable\nconsequences of the tumults. His friend spoke with equal ardour, of\nthe politics of his country; praised the government and prosperity\nof Venice, and boasted of its decided superiority over all the other\nItalian states. He then turned to the ladies, and talked with the same\neloquence, of Parisian fashions, the French opera, and French manners;\nand on the latter subject he did not fail to mingle what is so\nparticularly agreeable to French taste. The flattery was not detected\nby those to whom it was addressed, though its effect, in producing\nsubmissive attention, did not escape his observation. When he could\ndisengage himself from the assiduities of the other ladies, he sometimes\naddressed Emily: but she knew nothing of Parisian fashions, or Parisian\noperas; and her modesty, simplicity, and correct manners formed a\ndecided contrast to those of her female companions.\n\nAfter dinner, St. Aubert stole from the room to view once more the old\nchesnut which Quesnel talked of cutting down. As he stood under its\nshade, and looked up among its branches, still luxuriant, and saw here\nand there the blue sky trembling between them; the pursuits and events\nof his early days crowded fast to his mind, with the figures and\ncharacters of friends--long since gone from the earth; and he now felt\nhimself to be almost an insulated being, with nobody but his Emily for\nhis heart to turn to.\n\nHe stood lost amid the scenes of years which fancy called up, till the\nsuccession closed with the picture of his dying wife, and he started\naway, to forget it, if possible, at the social board.\n\nSt. Aubert ordered his carriage at an early hour, and Emily observed,\nthat he was more than usually silent and dejected on the way home; but\nshe considered this to be the effect of his visit to a place which spoke\nso eloquently of former times, nor suspected that he had a cause of\ngrief which he concealed from her.\n\nOn entering the chateau she felt more depressed than ever, for she more\nthan ever missed the presence of that dear parent, who, whenever she\nhad been from home, used to welcome her return with smiles and fondness;\nnow, all was silent and forsaken.\n\nBut what reason and effort may fail to do, time effects. Week after week\npassed away, and each, as it passed, stole something from the harshness\nof her affliction, till it was mellowed to that tenderness which the\nfeeling heart cherishes as sacred. St. Aubert, on the contrary, visibly\ndeclined in health; though Emily, who had been so constantly with him,\nwas almost the last person who observed it. His constitution had never\nrecovered from the late attack of the fever, and the succeeding shock\nit received from Madame St. Aubert's death had produced its present\ninfirmity. His physician now ordered him to travel; for it was\nperceptible that sorrow had seized upon his nerves, weakened as they had\nbeen by the preceding illness; and variety of scene, it was probable,\nwould, by amusing his mind, restore them to their proper tone.\n\nFor some days Emily was occupied in preparations to attend him; and he,\nby endeavours to diminish his expences at home during the journey--a\npurpose which determined him at length to dismiss his domestics. Emily\nseldom opposed her father's wishes by questions or remonstrances, or she\nwould now have asked why he did not take a servant, and have represented\nthat his infirm health made one almost necessary. But when, on the eve\nof their departure, she found that he had dismissed Jacques, Francis,\nand Mary, and detained only Theresa the old housekeeper, she was\nextremely surprised, and ventured to ask his reason for having done so.\n'To save expences, my dear,' he replied--'we are going on an expensive\nexcursion.'\n\nThe physician had prescribed the air of Languedoc and Provence; and St.\nAubert determined, therefore, to travel leisurely along the shores of\nthe Mediterranean, towards Provence.\n\nThey retired early to their chamber on the night before their departure;\nbut Emily had a few books and other things to collect, and the clock had\nstruck twelve before she had finished, or had remembered that some of\nher drawing instruments, which she meant to take with her, were in the\nparlour below. As she went to fetch these, she passed her father's\nroom, and, perceiving the door half open, concluded that he was in his\nstudy--for, since the death of Madame St. Aubert, it had been frequently\nhis custom to rise from his restless bed, and go thither to compose his\nmind. When she was below stairs she looked into this room, but without\nfinding him; and as she returned to her chamber, she tapped at his door,\nand receiving no answer, stepped softly in, to be certain whether he was\nthere.\n\nThe room was dark, but a light glimmered through some panes of glass\nthat were placed in the upper part of a closet-door. Emily believed her\nfather to be in the closet, and, surprised that he was up at so late\nan hour, apprehended he was unwell, and was going to enquire; but,\nconsidering that her sudden appearance at this hour might alarm him,\nshe removed her light to the stair-case, and then stepped softly to the\ncloset. On looking through the panes of glass, she saw him seated at a\nsmall table, with papers before him, some of which he was reading with\ndeep attention and interest, during which he often wept and sobbed\naloud. Emily, who had come to the door to learn whether her father was\nill, was now detained there by a mixture of curiosity and tenderness.\nShe could not witness his sorrow, without being anxious to know the\nsubject of; and she therefore continued to observe him in silence,\nconcluding that those papers were letters of her late mother. Presently\nhe knelt down, and with a look so solemn as she had seldom seen him\nassume, and which was mingled with a certain wild expression, that\npartook more of horror than of any other character, he prayed silently\nfor a considerable time.\n\nWhen he rose, a ghastly paleness was on his countenance. Emily was\nhastily retiring; but she saw him turn again to the papers, and she\nstopped. He took from among them a small case, and from thence a\nminiature picture. The rays of light fell strongly upon it, and she\nperceived it to be that of a lady, but not of her mother.\n\nSt. Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly upon his portrait, put it to his\nlips, and then to his heart, and sighed with a convulsive force. Emily\ncould scarcely believe what she saw to be real. She never knew till now\nthat he had a picture of any other lady than her mother, much less\nthat he had one which he evidently valued so highly; but having looked\nrepeatedly, to be certain that it was not the resemblance of Madame St.\nAubert, she became entirely convinced that it was designed for that of\nsome other person.\n\nAt length St. Aubert returned the picture to its case; and Emily,\nrecollecting that she was intruding upon his private sorrows, softly\nwithdrew from the chamber.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\n O how canst thou renounce the boundless store\n Of charms which nature to her vot'ry yields!\n The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,\n The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;\n All that the genial ray of morning gilds,\n And all that echoes to the song of even;\n All that the mountain's shelt'ring bosom shields,\n And all the dread magnificence of heaven;\n O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!\n..... These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health,\n And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart.\n     THE MINSTREL\n\nSt. Aubert, instead of taking the more direct road, that ran along the\nfeet of the Pyrenees to Languedoc, chose one that, winding over the\nheights, afforded more extensive views and greater variety of romantic\nscenery. He turned a little out of his way to take leave of M. Barreaux,\nwhom he found botanizing in the wood near his chateau, and who, when\nhe was told the purpose of St. Aubert's visit, expressed a degree of\nconcern, such as his friend had thought it was scarcely possible for him\nto feel on any similar occasion. They parted with mutual regret.\n\n'If any thing could have tempted me from my retirement,' said M.\nBarreaux, 'it would have been the pleasure of accompanying you on this\nlittle tour. I do not often offer compliments; you may, therefore,\nbelieve me, when I say, that I shall look for your return with\nimpatience.'\n\nThe travellers proceeded on their journey. As they ascended the heights,\nSt. Aubert often looked back upon the chateau, in the plain below;\ntender images crowded to his mind; his melancholy imagination suggested\nthat he should return no more; and though he checked this wandering\nthought, still he continued to look, till the haziness of distance\nblended his home with the general landscape, and St. Aubert seemed to\n\n Drag at each remove a lengthening chain.\n\nHe and Emily continued sunk in musing silence for some leagues, from\nwhich melancholy reverie Emily first awoke, and her young fancy, struck\nwith the grandeur of the objects around, gradually yielded to delightful\nimpressions. The road now descended into glens, confined by stupendous\nwalls of rock, grey and barren, except where shrubs fringed their\nsummits, or patches of meagre vegetation tinted their recesses, in which\nthe wild goat was frequently browsing. And now, the way led to the\nlofty cliffs, from whence the landscape was seen extending in all its\nmagnificence.\n\nEmily could not restrain her transport as she looked over the pine\nforests of the mountains upon the vast plains, that, enriched with\nwoods, towns, blushing vines, and plantations of almonds, palms, and\nolives, stretched along, till their various colours melted in distance\ninto one harmonious hue, that seemed to unite earth with heaven.\nThrough the whole of this glorious scene the majestic Garonne wandered;\ndescending from its source among the Pyrenees, and winding its blue\nwaves towards the Bay of Biscay.\n\nThe ruggedness of the unfrequented road often obliged the wanderers to\nalight from their little carriage, but they thought themselves amply\nrepaid for this inconvenience by the grandeur of the scenes; and,\nwhile the muleteer led his animals slowly over the broken ground, the\ntravellers had leisure to linger amid these solitudes, and to indulge\nthe sublime reflections, which soften, while they elevate, the heart,\nand fill it with the certainty of a present God! Still the enjoyment\nof St. Aubert was touched with that pensive melancholy, which gives\nto every object a mellower tint, and breathes a sacred charm over all\naround.\n\nThey had provided against part of the evil to be encountered from a want\nof convenient inns, by carrying a stock of provisions in the carriage,\nso that they might take refreshment on any pleasant spot, in the open\nair, and pass the nights wherever they should happen to meet with a\ncomfortable cottage. For the mind, also, they had provided, by a work on\nbotany, written by M. Barreaux, and by several of the Latin and Italian\npoets; while Emily's pencil enabled her to preserve some of those\ncombinations of forms, which charmed her at every step.\n\nThe loneliness of the road, where, only now and then, a peasant was seen\ndriving his mule, or some mountaineer-children at play among the rocks,\nheightened the effect of the scenery. St. Aubert was so much struck with\nit, that he determined, if he could hear of a road, to penetrate further\namong the mountains, and, bending his way rather more to the south, to\nemerge into Rousillon, and coast the Mediterranean along part of that\ncountry to Languedoc.\n\nSoon after mid-day, they reached the summit of one of those cliffs,\nwhich, bright with the verdure of palm-trees, adorn, like gems, the\ntremendous walls of the rocks, and which overlooked the greater part of\nGascony, and part of Languedoc. Here was shade, and the fresh water of\na spring, that, gliding among the turf, under the trees, thence\nprecipitated itself from rock to rock, till its dashing murmurs were\nlost in the abyss, though its white foam was long seen amid the darkness\nof the pines below.\n\nThis was a spot well suited for rest, and the travellers alighted to\ndine, while the mules were unharnessed to browse on the savoury herbs\nthat enriched this summit.\n\nIt was some time before St. Aubert or Emily could withdraw their\nattention from the surrounding objects, so as to partake of their little\nrepast. Seated in the shade of the palms, St. Aubert pointed out to her\nobservation the course of the rivers, the situation of great towns, and\nthe boundaries of provinces, which science, rather than the eye, enabled\nhim to describe. Notwithstanding this occupation, when he had talked\nawhile he suddenly became silent, thoughtful, and tears often swelled to\nhis eyes, which Emily observed, and the sympathy of her own heart told\nher their cause. The scene before them bore some resemblance, though it\nwas on a much grander scale, to a favourite one of the late Madame St.\nAubert, within view of the fishing-house. They both observed this, and\nthought how delighted she would have been with the present landscape,\nwhile they knew that her eyes must never, never more open upon this\nworld. St. Aubert remembered the last time of his visiting that spot in\ncompany with her, and also the mournfully presaging thoughts which had\nthen arisen in his mind, and were now, even thus soon, realized! The\nrecollections subdued him, and he abruptly rose from his seat, and\nwalked away to where no eye could observe his grief.\n\nWhen he returned, his countenance had recovered its usual serenity; he\ntook Emily's hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking, and soon\nafter called to the muleteer, who sat at a little distance, concerning\na road among the mountains towards Rousillon. Michael said, there were\nseveral that way, but he did not know how far they extended, or even\nwhether they were passable; and St. Aubert, who did not intend to travel\nafter sun-set, asked what village they could reach about that time. The\nmuleteer calculated that they could easily reach Mateau, which was in\ntheir present road; but that, if they took a road that sloped more to\nthe south, towards Rousillon, there was a hamlet, which he thought they\ncould gain before the evening shut in.\n\nSt. Aubert, after some hesitation, determined to take the latter course,\nand Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his mules, again\nset forward, but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him doing homage to a\ncross, that stood on a rock impending over their way. Having concluded\nhis devotions, he smacked his whip in the air, and, in spite of the\nrough road, and the pain of his poor mules, which he had been lately\nlamenting, rattled, in a full gallop, along the edge of a precipice,\nwhich it made the eye dizzy to look down. Emily was terrified almost\nto fainting; and St. Aubert, apprehending still greater danger from\nsuddenly stopping the driver, was compelled to sit quietly, and trust\nhis fate to the strength and discretion of the mules, who seemed to\npossess a greater portion of the latter quality than their master; for\nthey carried the travellers safely into the valley, and there stopped\nupon the brink of the rivulet that watered it.\n\nLeaving the splendour of extensive prospects, they now entered this\nnarrow valley screened by\n\n Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell,\n Here scorch'd by lightnings, there with ivy green.\n\nThe scene of barrenness was here and there interrupted by the spreading\nbranches of the larch and cedar, which threw their gloom over the cliff,\nor athwart the torrent that rolled in the vale. No living creature\nappeared, except the izard, scrambling among the rocks, and often\nhanging upon points so dangerous, that fancy shrunk from the view of\nthem. This was such a scene as SALVATOR would have chosen, had he then\nexisted, for his canvas; St. Aubert, impressed by the romantic character\nof the place, almost expected to see banditti start from behind some\nprojecting rock, and he kept his hand upon the arms with which he always\ntravelled.\n\nAs they advanced, the valley opened; its savage features gradually\nsoftened, and, towards evening, they were among heathy mountains,\nstretched in far perspective, along which the solitary sheep-bell was\nheard, and the voice of the shepherd calling his wandering flocks to the\nnightly fold. His cabin, partly shadowed by the cork-tree and the ilex,\nwhich St. Aubert observed to flourish in higher regions of the air than\nany other trees, except the fir, was all the human habitation that yet\nappeared. Along the bottom of this valley the most vivid verdure was\nspread; and, in the little hollow recesses of the mountains, under the\nshade of the oak and chestnut, herds of cattle were grazing. Groups\nof them, too, were often seen reposing on the banks of the rivulet, or\nlaving their sides in the cool stream, and sipping its wave.\n\nThe sun was now setting upon the valley; its last light gleamed upon the\nwater, and heightened the rich yellow and purple tints of the heath and\nbroom, that overspread the mountains. St. Aubert enquired of Michael\nthe distance to the hamlet he had mentioned, but the man could not with\ncertainty tell; and Emily began to fear that he had mistaken the road.\nHere was no human being to assist, or direct them; they had left the\nshepherd and his cabin far behind, and the scene became so obscured in\ntwilight, that the eye could not follow the distant perspective of the\nvalley in search of a cottage, or a hamlet. A glow of the horizon still\nmarked the west, and this was of some little use to the travellers.\nMichael seemed endeavouring to keep up his courage by singing; his\nmusic, however, was not of a kind to disperse melancholy; he sung, in a\nsort of chant, one of the most dismal ditties his present auditors had\never heard, and St. Aubert at length discovered it to be a vesper-hymn\nto his favourite saint.\n\nThey travelled on, sunk in that thoughtful melancholy, with which\ntwilight and solitude impress the mind. Michael had now ended his ditty,\nand nothing was heard but the drowsy murmur of the breeze among the\nwoods, and its light flutter, as it blew freshly into the carriage. They\nwere at length roused by the sound of fire-arms. St. Aubert called to\nthe muleteer to stop, and they listened. The noise was not repeated; but\npresently they heard a rustling among the brakes. St. Aubert drew forth\na pistol, and ordered Michael to proceed as fast as possible; who had\nnot long obeyed, before a horn sounded, that made the mountains ring. He\nlooked again from the window, and then saw a young man spring from the\nbushes into the road, followed by a couple of dogs. The stranger was in\na hunter's dress. His gun was slung across his shoulders, the hunter's\nhorn hung from his belt, and in his hand was a small pike, which, as\nhe held it, added to the manly grace of his figure, and assisted the\nagility of his steps.\n\nAfter a moment's hesitation, St. Aubert again stopped the carriage, and\nwaited till he came up, that they might enquire concerning the hamlet\nthey were in search of. The stranger informed him, that it was only half\na league distant, that he was going thither himself, and would readily\nshew the way. St. Aubert thanked him for the offer, and, pleased with\nhis chevalier-like air and open countenance, asked him to take a seat\nin the carriage; which the stranger, with an acknowledgment, declined,\nadding that he would keep pace with the mules. 'But I fear you will be\nwretchedly accommodated,' said he: 'the inhabitants of these mountains\nare a simple people, who are not only without the luxuries of life,\nbut almost destitute of what in other places are held to be its\nnecessaries.'\n\n'I perceive you are not one of its inhabitants, sir,' said St. Aubert.\n\n'No, sir, I am only a wanderer here.'\n\nThe carriage drove on, and the increasing dusk made the travellers very\nthankful that they had a guide; the frequent glens, too, that now opened\namong the mountains, would likewise have added to their perplexity.\nEmily, as she looked up one of these, saw something at a great distance\nlike a bright cloud in the air. 'What light is yonder, sir?' said she.\n\nSt. Aubert looked, and perceived that it was the snowy summit of a\nmountain, so much higher than any around it, that it still reflected the\nsun's rays, while those below lay in deep shade.\n\nAt length, the village lights were seen to twinkle through the dusk,\nand, soon after, some cottages were discovered in the valley, or rather\nwere seen by reflection in the stream, on whose margin they stood, and\nwhich still gleamed with the evening light.\n\nThe stranger now came up, and St. Aubert, on further enquiry, found not\nonly that there was no inn in the place, but not any sort of house of\npublic reception. The stranger, however, offered to walk on, and enquire\nfor a cottage to accommodate them; for which further civility St. Aubert\nreturned his thanks, and said, that, as the village was so near, he\nwould alight, and walk with him. Emily followed slowly in the carriage.\n\nOn the way, St. Aubert asked his companion what success he had had\nin the chase. 'Not much, sir,' he replied, 'nor do I aim at it. I am\npleased with the country, and mean to saunter away a few weeks among\nits scenes. My dogs I take with me more for companionship than for game.\nThis dress, too, gives me an ostensible business, and procures me that\nrespect from the people, which would, perhaps, be refused to a lonely\nstranger, who had no visible motive for coming among them.'\n\n'I admire your taste,' said St. Aubert, 'and, if I was a younger man,\nshould like to pass a few weeks in your way exceedingly. I, too, am a\nwanderer, but neither my plan nor pursuits are exactly like yours--I go\nin search of health, as much as of amusement.' St. Aubert sighed, and\npaused; and then, seeming to recollect himself, he resumed: 'If I can\nhear of a tolerable road, that shall afford decent accommodation, it\nis my intention to pass into Rousillon, and along the sea-shore to\nLanguedoc. You, sir, seem to be acquainted with the country, and can,\nperhaps, give me information on the subject.'\n\nThe stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely at\nhis service; and then mentioned a road rather more to the east, which\nled to a town, whence it would be easy to proceed into Rousillon.\n\nThey now arrived at the village, and commenced their search for a\ncottage, that would afford a night's lodging. In several, which they\nentered, ignorance, poverty, and mirth seemed equally to prevail; and\nthe owners eyed St. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity and timidity.\nNothing like a bed could be found, and he had ceased to enquire for\none, when Emily joined him, who observed the languor of her father's\ncountenance, and lamented, that he had taken a road so ill provided\nwith the comforts necessary for an invalid. Other cottages, which they\nexamined, seemed somewhat less savage than the former, consisting of\ntwo rooms, if such they could be called; the first of these occupied by\nmules and pigs, the second by the family, which generally consisted of\nsix or eight children, with their parents, who slept on beds of skins\nand dried beech leaves, spread upon a mud floor. Here, light was\nadmitted, and smoke discharged, through an aperture in the roof; and\nhere the scent of spirits (for the travelling smugglers, who haunted the\nPyrenees, had made this rude people familiar with the use of liquors)\nwas generally perceptible enough. Emily turned from such scenes, and\nlooked at her father with anxious tenderness, which the young stranger\nseemed to observe; for, drawing St. Aubert aside, he made him an offer\nof his own bed. 'It is a decent one,' said he, 'when compared with\nwhat we have just seen, yet such as in other circumstances I should be\nashamed to offer you.' St. Aubert acknowledged how much he felt himself\nobliged by this kindness, but refused to accept it, till the young\nstranger would take no denial. 'Do not give me the pain of knowing,\nsir,' said he, 'that an invalid, like you, lies on hard skins, while\nI sleep in a bed. Besides, sir, your refusal wounds my pride; I must\nbelieve you think my offer unworthy your acceptance. Let me shew you the\nway. I have no doubt my landlady can accommodate this young lady also.'\n\nSt. Aubert at length consented, that, if this could be done, he would\naccept his kindness, though he felt rather surprised, that the stranger\nhad proved himself so deficient in gallantry, as to administer to the\nrepose of an infirm man, rather than to that of a very lovely young\nwoman, for he had not once offered the room for Emily. But she thought\nnot of herself, and the animated smile she gave him, told how much she\nfelt herself obliged for the preference of her father.\n\nOn their way, the stranger, whose name was Valancourt, stepped on first\nto speak to his hostess, and she came out to welcome St. Aubert into a\ncottage, much superior to any he had seen. This good woman seemed very\nwilling to accommodate the strangers, who were soon compelled to accept\nthe only two beds in the place. Eggs and milk were the only food the\ncottage afforded; but against scarcity of provisions St. Aubert had\nprovided, and he requested Valancourt to stay, and partake with him of\nless homely fare; an invitation, which was readily accepted, and they\npassed an hour in intelligent conversation. St. Aubert was much pleased\nwith the manly frankness, simplicity, and keen susceptibility to the\ngrandeur of nature, which his new acquaintance discovered; and, indeed,\nhe had often been heard to say, that, without a certain simplicity of\nheart, this taste could not exist in any strong degree.\n\nThe conversation was interrupted by a violent uproar without, in which\nthe voice of the muleteer was heard above every other sound. Valancourt\nstarted from his seat, and went to enquire the occasion; but the dispute\ncontinued so long afterwards, that St. Aubert went himself, and found\nMichael quarrelling with the hostess, because she had refused to let his\nmules lie in a little room where he and three of her sons were to pass\nthe night. The place was wretched enough, but there was no other for\nthese people to sleep in; and, with somewhat more of delicacy than was\nusual among the inhabitants of this wild tract of country, she persisted\nin refusing to let the animals have the same BED-CHAMBER with her\nchildren. This was a tender point with the muleteer; his honour was\nwounded when his mules were treated with disrespect, and he would have\nreceived a blow, perhaps, with more meekness. He declared that his\nbeasts were as honest beasts, and as good beasts, as any in the whole\nprovince; and that they had a right to be well treated wherever they\nwent. 'They are as harmless as lambs,' said he, 'if people don't affront\nthem. I never knew them behave themselves amiss above once or twice in\nmy life, and then they had good reason for doing so. Once, indeed, they\nkicked at a boy's leg that lay asleep in the stable, and broke it; but\nI told them they were out there, and by St. Anthony! I believe they\nunderstood me, for they never did so again.'\n\nHe concluded this eloquent harangue with protesting, that they should\nshare with him, go where he would.\n\nThe dispute was at length settled by Valancourt, who drew the hostess\naside, and desired she would let the muleteer and his beasts have the\nplace in question to themselves, while her sons should have the bed of\nskins designed for him, for that he would wrap himself in his cloak, and\nsleep on the bench by the cottage door. But this she thought it her\nduty to oppose, and she felt it to be her inclination to disappoint the\nmuleteer. Valancourt, however, was positive, and the tedious affair was\nat length settled.\n\nIt was late when St. Aubert and Emily retired to their rooms, and\nValancourt to his station at the door, which, at this mild season, he\npreferred to a close cabin and a bed of skins. St. Aubert was somewhat\nsurprised to find in his room volumes of Homer, Horace, and Petrarch;\nbut the name of Valancourt, written in them, told him to whom they\nbelonged.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\n   In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,\n  Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene,\n  In darkness, and in storm he found delight;\n  Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene\n  The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling sheen.\n  Even sad vicissitude amus'd his soul;\n  And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,\n  And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,\n A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to controul.\n     THE MINSTREL\n\nSt. Aubert awoke at an early hour, refreshed by sleep, and desirous to\nset forward. He invited the stranger to breakfast with him; and, talking\nagain of the road, Valancourt said, that, some months past, he had\ntravelled as far as Beaujeu, which was a town of some consequence on the\nway to Rousillon. He recommended it to St. Aubert to take that route,\nand the latter determined to do so.\n\n'The road from this hamlet,' said Valancourt, 'and that to Beaujeu, part\nat the distance of about a league and a half from hence; if you will\ngive me leave, I will direct your muleteer so far. I must wander\nsomewhere, and your company would make this a pleasanter ramble than any\nother I could take.'\n\nSt. Aubert thankfully accepted his offer, and they set out together, the\nyoung stranger on foot, for he refused the invitation of St. Aubert to\ntake a seat in his little carriage.\n\nThe road wound along the feet of the mountains through a pastoral\nvalley, bright with verdure, and varied with groves of dwarf oak,\nbeech and sycamore, under whose branches herds of cattle reposed. The\nmountain-ash too, and the weeping birch, often threw their pendant\nfoliage over the steeps above, where the scanty soil scarcely concealed\ntheir roots, and where their light branches waved to every breeze that\nfluttered from the mountains.\n\nThe travellers were frequently met at this early hour, for the sun had\nnot yet risen upon the valley, by shepherds driving immense flocks from\ntheir folds to feed upon the hills. St. Aubert had set out thus early,\nnot only that he might enjoy the first appearance of sunrise, but that\nhe might inhale the first pure breath of morning, which above all things\nis refreshing to the spirits of the invalid. In these regions it was\nparticularly so, where an abundance of wild flowers and aromatic herbs\nbreathed forth their essence on the air.\n\nThe dawn, which softened the scenery with its peculiar grey tint, now\ndispersed, and Emily watched the progress of the day, first trembling on\nthe tops of the highest cliffs, then touching them with splendid light,\nwhile their sides and the vale below were still wrapt in dewy mist.\nMeanwhile, the sullen grey of the eastern clouds began to blush, then to\nredden, and then to glow with a thousand colours, till the golden light\ndarted over all the air, touched the lower points of the mountain's\nbrow, and glanced in long sloping beams upon the valley and its stream.\nAll nature seemed to have awakened from death into life; the spirit of\nSt. Aubert was renovated. His heart was full; he wept, and his thoughts\nascended to the Great Creator.\n\nEmily wished to trip along the turf, so green and bright with dew, and\nto taste the full delight of that liberty, which the izard seemed to\nenjoy as he bounded along the brow of the cliffs; while Valancourt often\nstopped to speak with the travellers, and with social feeling to point\nout to them the peculiar objects of his admiration. St. Aubert was\npleased with him: 'Here is the real ingenuousness and ardour of youth,'\nsaid he to himself; 'this young man has never been at Paris.'\n\nHe was sorry when they came to the spot where the roads parted, and his\nheart took a more affectionate leave of him than is usual after so short\nan acquaintance. Valancourt talked long by the side of the carriage;\nseemed more than once to be going, but still lingered, and appeared to\nsearch anxiously for topics of conversation to account for his delay. At\nlength he took leave. As he went, St. Aubert observed him look with an\nearnest and pensive eye at Emily, who bowed to him with a countenance\nfull of timid sweetness, while the carriage drove on. St. Aubert, for\nwhatever reason, soon after looked from the window, and saw Valancourt\nstanding upon the bank of the road, resting on his pike with folded\narms, and following the carriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, and\nValancourt, seeming to awake from his reverie, returned the salute, and\nstarted away.\n\nThe aspect of the country now began to change, and the travellers soon\nfound themselves among mountains covered from their base nearly to their\nsummits with forests of gloomy pine, except where a rock of granite shot\nup from the vale, and lost its snowy top in the clouds. The rivulet,\nwhich had hitherto accompanied them, now expanded into a river; and,\nflowing deeply and silently along, reflected, as in a mirror, the\nblackness of the impending shades. Sometimes a cliff was seen lifting\nits bold head above the woods and the vapours, that floated mid-way down\nthe mountains; and sometimes a face of perpendicular marble rose from\nthe water's edge, over which the larch threw his gigantic arms, here\nscathed with lightning, and there floating in luxuriant foliage.\n\nThey continued to travel over a rough and unfrequented road, seeing now\nand then at a distance the solitary shepherd, with his dog, stalking\nalong the valley, and hearing only the dashing of torrents, which the\nwoods concealed from the eye, the long sullen murmur of the breeze,\nas it swept over the pines, or the notes of the eagle and the vulture,\nwhich were seen towering round the beetling cliff.\n\nOften, as the carriage moved slowly over uneven ground, St. Aubert\nalighted, and amused himself with examining the curious plants that grew\non the banks of the road, and with which these regions abound; while\nEmily, wrapt in high enthusiasm, wandered away under the shades,\nlistening in deep silence to the lonely murmur of the woods.\n\nNeither village nor hamlet was seen for many leagues; the goat-herd's or\nthe hunter's cabin, perched among the cliffs of the rocks, were the only\nhuman habitations that appeared.\n\nThe travellers again took their dinner in the open air, on a pleasant\nspot in the valley, under the spreading shade of cedars; and then set\nforward towards Beaujeu.\n\nThe road now began to descend, and, leaving the pine forests behind,\nwound among rocky precipices. The evening twilight again fell over the\nscene, and the travellers were ignorant how far they might yet be from\nBeaujeu. St. Aubert, however, conjectured that the distance could not be\nvery great, and comforted himself with the prospect of travelling on a\nmore frequented road after reaching that town, where he designed to pass\nthe night. Mingled woods, and rocks, and heathy mountains were now seen\nobscurely through the dusk; but soon even these imperfect images faded\nin darkness. Michael proceeded with caution, for he could scarcely\ndistinguish the road; his mules, however, seemed to have more sagacity,\nand their steps were sure.\n\nOn turning the angle of a mountain, a light appeared at a distance, that\nillumined the rocks, and the horizon to a great extent. It was evidently\na large fire, but whether accidental, or otherwise, there were no means\nof knowing. St. Aubert thought it was probably kindled by some of the\nnumerous banditti, that infested the Pyrenees, and he became watchful\nand anxious to know whether the road passed near this fire. He had arms\nwith him, which, on an emergency, might afford some protection, though\ncertainly a very unequal one, against a band of robbers, so desperate\ntoo as those usually were who haunted these wild regions. While many\nreflections rose upon his mind, he heard a voice shouting from the road\nbehind, and ordering the muleteer to stop. St. Aubert bade him proceed\nas fast as possible; but either Michael, or his mules were obstinate,\nfor they did not quit the old pace. Horses' feet were now heard; a man\nrode up to the carriage, still ordering the driver to stop; and St.\nAubert, who could no longer doubt his purpose, was with difficulty able\nto prepare a pistol for his defence, when his hand was upon the door of\nthe chaise. The man staggered on his horse, the report of the pistol was\nfollowed by a groan, and St. Aubert's horror may be imagined, when in\nthe next instant he thought he heard the faint voice of Valancourt.\nHe now himself bade the muleteer stop; and, pronouncing the name of\nValancourt, was answered in a voice, that no longer suffered him to\ndoubt. St. Aubert, who instantly alighted and went to his assistance,\nfound him still sitting on his horse, but bleeding profusely, and\nappearing to be in great pain, though he endeavoured to soften the\nterror of St. Aubert by assurances that he was not materially hurt, the\nwound being only in his arm. St. Aubert, with the muleteer, assisted him\nto dismount, and he sat down on the bank of the road, where St. Aubert\ntried to bind up his arm, but his hands trembled so excessively that he\ncould not accomplish it; and, Michael being now gone in pursuit of the\nhorse, which, on being disengaged from his rider, had galloped off,\nhe called Emily to his assistance. Receiving no answer, he went to the\ncarriage, and found her sunk on the seat in a fainting fit. Between the\ndistress of this circumstance and that of leaving Valancourt bleeding,\nhe scarcely knew what he did; he endeavoured, however, to raise her,\nand called to Michael to fetch water from the rivulet that flowed by the\nroad, but Michael was gone beyond the reach of his voice. Valancourt,\nwho heard these calls, and also the repeated name of Emily, instantly\nunderstood the subject of his distress; and, almost forgetting his own\ncondition, he hastened to her relief. She was reviving when he\nreached the carriage; and then, understanding that anxiety for him had\noccasioned her indisposition, he assured her, in a voice that trembled,\nbut not from anguish, that his wound was of no consequence. While he\nsaid this St. Aubert turned round, and perceiving that he was still\nbleeding, the subject of his alarm changed again, and he hastily formed\nsome handkerchiefs into a bandage. This stopped the effusion of the\nblood; but St. Aubert, dreading the consequence of the wound, enquired\nrepeatedly how far they were from Beaujeu; when, learning that it was\nat two leagues' distance, his distress increased, since he knew not how\nValancourt, in his present state, would bear the motion of the carriage,\nand perceived that he was already faint from loss of blood. When he\nmentioned the subject of his anxiety, Valancourt entreated that he would\nnot suffer himself to be thus alarmed on his account, for that he had no\ndoubt he should be able to support himself very well; and then he talked\nof the accident as a slight one. The muleteer being now returned with\nValancourt's horse, assisted him into the chaise; and, as Emily was now\nrevived, they moved slowly on towards Beaujeu.\n\nSt. Aubert, when he had recovered from the terror occasioned him by this\naccident, expressed surprise on seeing Valancourt, who explained\nhis unexpected appearance by saying, 'You, sir, renewed my taste for\nsociety; when you had left the hamlet, it did indeed appear a solitude.\nI determined, therefore, since my object was merely amusement, to change\nthe scene; and I took this road, because I knew it led through a more\nromantic tract of mountains than the spot I have left. Besides,' added\nhe, hesitating for an instant, 'I will own, and why should I not? that I\nhad some hope of overtaking you.'\n\n'And I have made you a very unexpected return for the compliment,'\nsaid St. Aubert, who lamented again the rashness which had produced\nthe accident, and explained the cause of his late alarm. But Valancourt\nseemed anxious only to remove from the minds of his companions every\nunpleasant feeling relative to himself; and, for that purpose, still\nstruggled against a sense of pain, and tried to converse with gaiety.\nEmily meanwhile was silent, except when Valancourt particularly\naddressed her, and there was at those times a tremulous tone in his\nvoice that spoke much.\n\nThey were now so near the fire, which had long flamed at a distance on\nthe blackness of night, that it gleamed upon the road, and they could\ndistinguish figures moving about the blaze. The way winding still\nnearer, they perceived in the valley one of those numerous bands of\ngipsies, which at that period particularly haunted the wilds of the\nPyrenees, and lived partly by plundering the traveller. Emily looked\nwith some degree of terror on the savage countenances of these people,\nshewn by the fire, which heightened the romantic effects of the scenery,\nas it threw a red dusky gleam upon the rocks and on the foliage of the\ntrees, leaving heavy masses of shade and regions of obscurity, which the\neye feared to penetrate.\n\nThey were preparing their supper; a large pot stood by the fire, over\nwhich several figures were busy. The blaze discovered a rude kind of\ntent, round which many children and dogs were playing, and the whole\nformed a picture highly grotesque. The travellers saw plainly their\ndanger. Valancourt was silent, but laid his hand on one of St. Aubert's\npistols; St. Aubert drew forth another, and Michael was ordered to\nproceed as fast as possible. They passed the place, however,\nwithout being attacked; the rovers being probably unprepared for the\nopportunity, and too busy about their supper to feel much interest, at\nthe moment, in any thing besides.\n\nAfter a league and a half more, passed in darkness, the travellers\narrived at Beaujeu, and drove up to the only inn the place afforded;\nwhich, though superior to any they had seen since they entered the\nmountains, was bad enough.\n\nThe surgeon of the town was immediately sent for, if a surgeon he could\nbe called, who prescribed for horses as well as for men, and shaved\nfaces at least as dexterously as he set bones. After examining\nValancourt's arm, and perceiving that the bullet had passed through\nthe flesh without touching the bone, he dressed it, and left him with\na solemn prescription of quiet, which his patient was not inclined to\nobey. The delight of ease had now succeeded to pain; for ease may be\nallowed to assume a positive quality when contrasted with anguish; and,\nhis spirits thus re-animated, he wished to partake of the conversation\nof St. Aubert and Emily, who, released from so many apprehensions, were\nuncommonly cheerful. Late as it was, however, St. Aubert was obliged to\ngo out with the landlord to buy meat for supper; and Emily, who, during\nthis interval, had been absent as long as she could, upon excuses of\nlooking to their accommodation, which she found rather better than she\nexpected, was compelled to return, and converse with Valancourt alone.\nThey talked of the character of the scenes they had passed, of the\nnatural history of the country, of poetry, and of St. Aubert; a subject\non which Emily always spoke and listened to with peculiar pleasure.\n\nThe travellers passed an agreeable evening; but St. Aubert was fatigued\nwith his journey; and, as Valancourt seemed again sensible of pain, they\nseparated soon after supper.\n\nIn the morning St. Aubert found that Valancourt had passed a restless\nnight; that he was feverish, and his wound very painful. The surgeon,\nwhen he dressed it, advised him to remain quietly at Beaujeu; advice\nwhich was too reasonable to be rejected. St. Aubert, however, had no\nfavourable opinion of this practitioner, and was anxious to commit\nValancourt into more skilful hands; but learning, upon enquiry, that\nthere was no town within several leagues which seemed more likely to\nafford better advice, he altered the plan of his journey, and determined\nto await the recovery of Valancourt, who, with somewhat more ceremony\nthan sincerity, made many objections to this delay.\n\nBy order of his surgeon, Valancourt did not go out of the house that\nday; but St. Aubert and Emily surveyed with delight the environs of\nthe town, situated at the feet of the Pyrenean Alps, that rose, some\nin abrupt precipices, and others swelling with woods of cedar, fir, and\ncypress, which stretched nearly to their highest summits. The cheerful\ngreen of the beech and mountain-ash was sometimes seen, like a gleam of\nlight, amidst the dark verdure of the forest; and sometimes a torrent\npoured its sparkling flood, high among the woods.\n\nValancourt's indisposition detained the travellers at Beaujeu several\ndays, during which interval St. Aubert had observed his disposition and\nhis talents with the philosophic inquiry so natural to him. He saw\na frank and generous nature, full of ardour, highly susceptible of\nwhatever is grand and beautiful, but impetuous, wild, and somewhat\nromantic. Valancourt had known little of the world. His perceptions were\nclear, and his feelings just; his indignation of an unworthy, or his\nadmiration of a generous action, were expressed in terms of equal\nvehemence. St. Aubert sometimes smiled at his warmth, but seldom checked\nit, and often repeated to himself, 'This young man has never been at\nParis.' A sigh sometimes followed this silent ejaculation. He determined\nnot to leave Valancourt till he should be perfectly recovered; and, as\nhe was now well enough to travel, though not able to manage his horse,\nSt. Aubert invited him to accompany him for a few days in the carriage.\nThis he the more readily did, since he had discovered that Valancourt\nwas of a family of the same name in Gascony, with whose respectability\nhe was well acquainted. The latter accepted the offer with great\npleasure, and they again set forward among these romantic wilds about\nRousillon.\n\nThey travelled leisurely; stopping wherever a scene uncommonly grand\nappeared; frequently alighting to walk to an eminence, whither the mules\ncould not go, from which the prospect opened in greater magnificence;\nand often sauntering over hillocks covered with lavender, wild thyme,\njuniper, and tamarisc; and under the shades of woods, between those\nboles they caught the long mountain-vista, sublime beyond any thing that\nEmily had ever imagined.\n\nSt. Aubert sometimes amused himself with botanizing, while Valancourt\nand Emily strolled on; he pointing out to her notice the objects that\nparticularly charmed him, and reciting beautiful passages from such of\nthe Latin and Italian poets as he had heard her admire. In the pauses of\nconversation, when he thought himself not observed, he frequently fixed\nhis eyes pensively on her countenance, which expressed with so much\nanimation the taste and energy of her mind; and when he spoke again,\nthere was a peculiar tenderness in the tone of his voice, that defeated\nany attempt to conceal his sentiments. By degrees these silent pauses\nbecame more frequent; till Emily, only, betrayed an anxiety to interrupt\nthem; and she; who had been hitherto reserved, would now talk again,\nand again, of the woods and the vallies and the mountains, to avoid the\ndanger of sympathy and silence.\n\nFrom Beaujeu the road had constantly ascended, conducting the travellers\ninto the higher regions of the air, where immense glaciers exhibited\ntheir frozen horrors, and eternal snow whitened the summits of the\nmountains. They often paused to contemplate these stupendous scenes,\nand, seated on some wild cliff, where only the ilex or the larch could\nflourish, looked over dark forests of fir, and precipices where human\nfoot had never wandered, into the glen--so deep, that the thunder of the\ntorrent, which was seen to foam along the bottom, was scarcely heard to\nmurmur. Over these crags rose others of stupendous height, and fantastic\nshape; some shooting into cones; others impending far over their base,\nin huge masses of granite, along whose broken ridges was often lodged\na weight of snow, that, trembling even to the vibration of a sound,\nthreatened to bear destruction in its course to the vale. Around, on\nevery side, far as the eye could penetrate, were seen only forms of\ngrandeur--the long perspective of mountain-tops, tinged with ethereal\nblue, or white with snow; vallies of ice, and forests of gloomy fir.\nThe serenity and clearness of the air in these high regions were\nparticularly delightful to the travellers; it seemed to inspire them\nwith a finer spirit, and diffused an indescribable complacency over\ntheir minds. They had no words to express the sublime emotions they\nfelt. A solemn expression characterized the feelings of St. Aubert;\ntears often came to his eyes, and he frequently walked away from his\ncompanions. Valancourt now and then spoke, to point to Emily's notice\nsome feature of the scene. The thinness of the atmosphere, through which\nevery object came so distinctly to the eye, surprised and deluded her;\nwho could scarcely believe that objects, which appeared so near, were,\nin reality, so distant. The deep silence of these solitudes was broken\nonly at intervals by the scream of the vultures, seen cowering round\nsome cliff below, or by the cry of the eagle sailing high in the air;\nexcept when the travellers listened to the hollow thunder that sometimes\nmuttered at their feet. While, above, the deep blue of the heavens was\nunobscured by the lightest cloud, half way down the mountains, long\nbillows of vapour were frequently seen rolling, now wholly excluding the\ncountry below, and now opening, and partially revealing its features.\nEmily delighted to observe the grandeur of these clouds as they changed\nin shape and tints, and to watch their various effect on the lower\nworld, whose features, partly veiled, were continually assuming new\nforms of sublimity.\n\nAfter traversing these regions for many leagues, they began to descend\ntowards Rousillon, and features of beauty then mingled with the scene.\nYet the travellers did not look back without some regret to the sublime\nobjects they had quitted; though the eye, fatigued with the extension\nof its powers, was glad to repose on the verdure of woods and pastures,\nthat now hung on the margin of the river below; to view again the humble\ncottage shaded by cedars, the playful group of mountaineer-children, and\nthe flowery nooks that appeared among the hills.\n\nAs they descended, they saw at a distance, on the right, one of the\ngrand passes of the Pyrenees into Spain, gleaming with its battlements\nand towers to the splendour of the setting rays, yellow tops of woods\ncolouring the steeps below, while far above aspired the snowy points of\nthe mountains, still reflecting a rosy hue.\n\nSt. Aubert began to look out for the little town he had been directed to\nby the people of Beaujeu, and where he meant to pass the night; but no\nhabitation yet appeared. Of its distance Valancourt could not assist him\nto judge, for he had never been so far along this chain of Alps before.\nThere was, however, a road to guide them; and there could be little\ndoubt that it was the right one; for, since they had left Beaujeu, there\nhad been no variety of tracks to perplex or mislead.\n\nThe sun now gave his last light, and St. Aubert bade the muleteer\nproceed with all possible dispatch. He found, indeed, the lassitude of\nillness return upon him, after a day of uncommon fatigue, both of body\nand mind, and he longed for repose. His anxiety was not soothed by\nobserving a numerous train, consisting of men, horses, and loaded\nmules, winding down the steeps of an opposite mountain, appearing and\ndisappearing at intervals among the woods, so that its numbers could not\nbe judged of. Something bright, like arms, glanced in the setting ray,\nand the military dress was distinguishable upon the men who were in the\nvan, and on others scattered among the troop that followed. As these\nwound into the vale, the rear of the party emerged from the woods, and\nexhibited a band of soldiers. St. Aubert's apprehensions now subsided;\nhe had no doubt that the train before him consisted of smugglers, who,\nin conveying prohibited goods over the Pyrenees, had been encountered,\nand conquered by a party of troops.\n\nThe travellers had lingered so long among the sublimer scenes of\nthese mountains, that they found themselves entirely mistaken in their\ncalculation that they could reach Montigny at sun-set; but, as they\nwound along the valley, the saw, on a rude Alpine bridge, that united\ntwo lofty crags of the glen, a group of mountaineer-children, amusing\nthemselves with dropping pebbles into a torrent below, and watching the\nstones plunge into the water, that threw up its white spray high in the\nair as it received them, and returned a sullen sound, which the echoes\nof the mountains prolonged. Under the bridge was seen a perspective of\nthe valley, with its cataract descending among the rocks, and a cottage\non a cliff, overshadowed with pines. It appeared, that they could not\nbe far from some small town. St. Aubert bade the muleteer stop, and\nthen called to the children to enquire if he was near Montigny; but the\ndistance, and the roaring of the waters, would not suffer his voice to\nbe heard; and the crags, adjoining the bridge, were of such tremendous\nheight and steepness, that to have climbed either would have been\nscarcely practicable to a person unacquainted with the ascent. St.\nAubert, therefore, did not waste more moments in delay. They continued\nto travel long after twilight had obscured the road, which was so\nbroken, that, now thinking it safer to walk than to ride, they all\nalighted. The moon was rising, but her light was yet too feeble to\nassist them. While they stepped carefully on, they heard the vesper-bell\nof a convent. The twilight would not permit them to distinguish anything\nlike a building, but the sounds seemed to come from some woods, that\noverhung an acclivity to the right. Valancourt proposed to go in\nsearch of this convent. 'If they will not accommodate us with a night's\nlodging,' said he, 'they may certainly inform us how far we are from\nMontigny, and direct us towards it.' He was bounding forward, without\nwaiting St. Aubert's reply, when the latter stopped him. 'I am very\nweary,' said St. Aubert, 'and wish for nothing so much as for immediate\nrest. We will all go to the convent; your good looks would defeat our\npurpose; but when they see mine and Emily's exhausted countenances, they\nwill scarcely deny us repose.'\n\nAs he said this, he took Emily's arm within his, and, telling Michael to\nwait awhile in the road with the carriage, they began to ascend towards\nthe woods, guided by the bell of the convent. His steps were feeble, and\nValancourt offered him his arm, which he accepted. The moon now threw\na faint light over their path, and, soon after, enabled them to\ndistinguish some towers rising above the tops of the woods. Still\nfollowing the note of the bell, they entered the shade of those woods,\nlighted only by the moonbeams, that glided down between the leaves,\nand threw a tremulous uncertain gleam upon the steep track they were\nwinding. The gloom and the silence that prevailed, except when the bell\nreturned upon the air, together with the wildness of the surrounding\nscene, struck Emily with a degree of fear, which, however, the voice and\nconversation of Valancourt somewhat repressed. When they had been some\ntime ascending, St. Aubert complained of weariness, and they stopped to\nrest upon a little green summit, where the trees opened, and admitted\nthe moon-light. He sat down upon the turf, between Emily and Valancourt.\nThe bell had now ceased, and the deep repose of the scene was\nundisturbed by any sound, for the low dull murmur of some distant\ntorrents might be said to sooth, rather than to interrupt, the silence.\n\nBefore them, extended the valley they had quitted; its rocks, and woods\nto the left, just silvered by the rays, formed a contrast to the deep\nshadow, that involved the opposite cliffs, whose fringed summits only\nwere tipped with light; while the distant perspective of the valley was\nlost in the yellow mist of moon-light. The travellers sat for some time\nwrapt in the complacency which such scenes inspire.\n\n'These scenes,' said Valancourt, at length, 'soften the heart, like the\nnotes of sweet music, and inspire that delicious melancholy which no\nperson, who had felt it once, would resign for the gayest pleasures.\nThey waken our best and purest feelings, disposing us to benevolence,\npity, and friendship. Those whom I love--I always seem to love more in\nsuch an hour as this.' His voice trembled, and he paused.\n\nSt. Aubert was silent; Emily perceived a warm tear fall upon the hand he\nheld; she knew the object of his thoughts; hers too had, for some time,\nbeen occupied by the remembrance of her mother. He seemed by an effort\nto rouse himself. 'Yes,' said he, with an half-suppressed sigh, 'the\nmemory of those we love--of times for ever past! in such an hour as this\nsteals upon the mind, like a strain of distant music in the stillness\nof night;--all tender and harmonious as this landscape, sleeping in the\nmellow moon-light.' After the pause of a moment, St. Aubert added, 'I\nhave always fancied, that I thought with more clearness, and precision,\nat such an hour than at any other, and that heart must be insensible\nin a great degree, that does not soften to its influence. But many such\nthere are.'\n\nValancourt sighed.\n\n'Are there, indeed, many such?' said Emily.\n\n'A few years hence, my Emily,' replied St. Aubert, 'and you may smile at\nthe recollection of that question--if you do not weep to it. But come, I\nam somewhat refreshed, let us proceed.'\n\nHaving emerged from the woods, they saw, upon a turfy hillock above, the\nconvent of which they were in search. A high wall, that surrounded it,\nled them to an ancient gate, at which they knocked; and the poor monk,\nwho opened it, conducted them into a small adjoining room, where he\ndesired they would wait while he informed the superior of their request.\nIn this interval, several friars came in separately to look at them;\nand at length the first monk returned, and they followed him to a room,\nwhere the superior was sitting in an arm-chair, with a large folio\nvolume, printed in black letter, open on a desk before him. He received\nthem with courtesy, though he did not rise from his seat; and, having\nasked them a few questions, granted their request. After a short\nconversation, formal and solemn on the part of the superior, they\nwithdrew to the apartment where they were to sup, and Valancourt, whom\none of the inferior friars civilly desired to accompany, went to seek\nMichael and his mules. They had not descended half way down the cliffs,\nbefore they heard the voice of the muleteer echoing far and wide.\nSometimes he called on St. Aubert, and sometimes on Valancourt; who\nhaving, at length, convinced him that he had nothing to fear either for\nhimself, or his master; and having disposed of him, for the night, in a\ncottage on the skirts of the woods, returned to sup with his friends,\non such sober fare as the monks thought it prudent to set before them.\nWhile St. Aubert was too much indisposed to share it, Emily, in her\nanxiety for her father, forgot herself; and Valancourt, silent and\nthoughtful, yet never inattentive to them, appeared particularly\nsolicitous to accommodate and relieve St. Aubert, who often observed,\nwhile his daughter was pressing him to eat, or adjusting the pillow she\nhad placed in the back of his arm-chair, that Valancourt fixed on her a\nlook of pensive tenderness, which he was not displeased to understand.\n\nThey separated at an early hour, and retired to their respective\napartments. Emily was shown to hers by a nun of the convent, whom she\nwas glad to dismiss, for her heart was melancholy, and her attention\nso much abstracted, that conversation with a stranger was painful. She\nthought her father daily declining, and attributed his present fatigue\nmore to the feeble state of his frame, than to the difficulty of the\njourney. A train of gloomy ideas haunted her mind, till she fell asleep.\n\nIn about two hours after, she was awakened by the chiming of a bell, and\nthen heard quick steps pass along the gallery, into which her chamber\nopened. She was so little accustomed to the manners of a convent, as to\nbe alarmed by this circumstance; her fears, ever alive for her father,\nsuggested that he was very ill, and she rose in haste to go to him.\nHaving paused, however, to let the persons in the gallery pass before\nshe opened her door, her thoughts, in the mean time, recovered from the\nconfusion of sleep, and she understood that the bell was the call of\nthe monks to prayers. It had now ceased, and, all being again still,\nshe forbore to go to St. Aubert's room. Her mind was not disposed\nfor immediate sleep, and the moon-light, that shone into her chamber,\ninvited her to open the casement, and look out upon the country.\n\nIt was a still and beautiful night, the sky was unobscured by any cloud,\nand scarce a leaf of the woods beneath trembled in the air. As she\nlistened, the mid-night hymn of the monks rose softly from a chapel,\nthat stood on one of the lower cliffs, an holy strain, that seemed to\nascend through the silence of night to heaven, and her thoughts ascended\nwith it. From the consideration of His works, her mind arose to the\nadoration of the Deity, in His goodness and power; wherever she turned\nher view, whether on the sleeping earth, or to the vast regions of\nspace, glowing with worlds beyond the reach of human thought, the\nsublimity of God, and the majesty of His presence appeared. Her eyes\nwere filled with tears of awful love and admiration; and she felt that\npure devotion, superior to all the distinctions of human system, which\nlifts the soul above this world, and seems to expand it into a nobler\nnature; such devotion as can, perhaps, only be experienced, when\nthe mind, rescued, for a moment, from the humbleness of earthly\nconsiderations, aspires to contemplate His power in the sublimity of His\nworks, and His goodness in the infinity of His blessings.\n\n     Is it not now the hour,\n The holy hour, when to the cloudless height\n Of yon starred concave climbs the full-orbed moon,\n And to this nether world in solemn stillness,\n Gives sign, that, to the list'ning ear of Heaven\n Religion's voice should plead?  The very babe\n Knows this, and, chance awak'd, his little hands\n Lifts to the gods, and on his innocent couch\n Calls down a blessing.*\n     *Caractacus\n\n\nThe midnight chant of the monks soon after dropped into silence; but\nEmily remained at the casement, watching the setting moon, and the\nvalley sinking into deep shade, and willing to prolong her present state\nof mind. At length she retired to her mattress, and sunk into tranquil\nslumber.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\n     While in the rosy vale\n Love breath'd his infant sighs, from anguish free.\n     Thomson\n\nSt. Aubert, sufficiently restored by a night's repose to pursue his\njourney, set out in the morning, with his family and Valancourt, for\nRousillon, which he hoped to reach before night-fall. The scenes,\nthrough which they now passed, were as wild and romantic, as any they\nhad yet observed, with this difference, that beauty, every now and then,\nsoftened the landscape into smiles. Little woody recesses appeared among\nthe mountains, covered with bright verdure and flowers; or a pastoral\nvalley opened its grassy bosom in the shade of the cliffs, with flocks\nand herds loitering along the banks of a rivulet, that refreshed it\nwith perpetual green. St. Aubert could not repent the having taken this\nfatiguing road, though he was this day, also, frequently obliged to\nalight, to walk along the rugged precipice, and to climb the steep and\nflinty mountain. The wonderful sublimity and variety of the prospects\nrepaid him for all this, and the enthusiasm, with which they were viewed\nby his young companions, heightened his own, and awakened a remembrance\nof all the delightful emotions of his early days, when the sublime\ncharms of nature were first unveiled to him. He found great pleasure in\nconversing with Valancourt, and in listening to his ingenuous\nremarks. The fire and simplicity of his manners seemed to render him\na characteristic figure in the scenes around them; and St. Aubert\ndiscovered in his sentiments the justness and the dignity of an elevated\nmind, unbiased by intercourse with the world. He perceived, that his\nopinions were formed, rather than imbibed; were more the result of\nthought, than of learning. Of the world he seemed to know nothing; for\nhe believed well of all mankind, and this opinion gave him the reflected\nimage of his own heart.\n\nSt. Aubert, as he sometimes lingered to examine the wild plants in his\npath, often looked forward with pleasure to Emily and Valancourt, as\nthey strolled on together; he, with a countenance of animated delight,\npointing to her attention some grand feature of the scene; and she,\nlistening and observing with a look of tender seriousness, that spoke\nthe elevation of her mind. They appeared like two lovers who had\nnever strayed beyond these their native mountains; whose situation had\nsecluded them from the frivolities of common life, whose ideas were\nsimple and grand, like the landscapes among which they moved, and who\nknew no other happiness, than in the union of pure and affectionate\nhearts. St. Aubert smiled, and sighed at the romantic picture of\nfelicity his fancy drew; and sighed again to think, that nature and\nsimplicity were so little known to the world, as that their pleasures\nwere thought romantic.\n\n'The world,' said he, pursuing this train of thought, 'ridicules a\npassion which it seldom feels; its scenes, and its interests, distract\nthe mind, deprave the taste, corrupt the heart, and love cannot exist\nin a heart that has lost the meek dignity of innocence. Virtue and taste\nare nearly the same, for virtue is little more than active taste, and\nthe most delicate affections of each combine in real love. How then are\nwe to look for love in great cities, where selfishness, dissipation, and\ninsincerity supply the place of tenderness, simplicity and truth?'\n\nIt was near noon, when the travellers, having arrived at a piece of\nsteep and dangerous road, alighted to walk. The road wound up an ascent,\nthat was clothed with wood, and, instead of following the carriage, they\nentered the refreshing shade. A dewy coolness was diffused upon the air,\nwhich, with the bright verdure of turf, that grew under the trees, the\nmingled fragrance of flowers and of balm, thyme, and lavender, that\nenriched it, and the grandeur of the pines, beech, and chestnuts, that\novershadowed them, rendered this a most delicious retreat. Sometimes,\nthe thick foliage excluded all view of the country; at others, it\nadmitted some partial catches of the distant scenery, which gave\nhints to the imagination to picture landscapes more interesting, more\nimpressive, than any that had been presented to the eye. The wanderers\noften lingered to indulge in these reveries of fancy.\n\nThe pauses of silence, such as had formerly interrupted the\nconversations of Valancourt and Emily, were more frequent today than\never. Valancourt often dropped suddenly from the most animating vivacity\ninto fits of deep musing, and there was, sometimes, an unaffected\nmelancholy in his smile, which Emily could not avoid understanding, for\nher heart was interested in the sentiment it spoke.\n\nSt. Aubert was refreshed by the shades, and they continued to saunter\nunder them, following, as nearly as they could guess, the direction of\nthe road, till they perceived that they had totally lost it. They had\ncontinued near the brow of the precipice, allured by the scenery\nit exhibited, while the road wound far away over the cliff above.\nValancourt called loudly to Michael, but heard no voice, except his own,\nechoing among the rocks, and his various efforts to regain the road were\nequally unsuccessful. While they were thus circumstanced, they perceived\na shepherd's cabin, between the boles of the trees at some distance, and\nValancourt bounded on first to ask assistance. When he reached it, he\nsaw only two little children, at play, on the turf before the door. He\nlooked into the hut, but no person was there, and the eldest of the boys\ntold him that their father was with his flocks, and their mother was\ngone down into the vale, but would be back presently. As he stood,\nconsidering what was further to be done, on a sudden he heard Michael's\nvoice roaring forth most manfully among the cliffs above, till he\nmade their echoes ring. Valancourt immediately answered the call, and\nendeavoured to make his way through the thicket that clothed the steeps,\nfollowing the direction of the sound. After much struggle over brambles\nand precipices, he reached Michael, and at length prevailed with him to\nbe silent, and to listen to him. The road was at a considerable distance\nfrom the spot where St. Aubert and Emily were; the carriage could not\neasily return to the entrance of the wood, and, since it would be very\nfatiguing for St. Aubert to climb the long and steep road to the place\nwhere it now stood, Valancourt was anxious to find a more easy ascent,\nby the way he had himself passed.\n\nMeanwhile St. Aubert and Emily approached the cottage, and rested\nthemselves on a rustic bench, fastened between two pines, which\novershadowed it, till Valancourt, whose steps they had observed, should\nreturn.\n\nThe eldest of the children desisted from his play, and stood still to\nobserve the strangers, while the younger continued his little gambols,\nand teased his brother to join in them. St. Aubert looked with pleasure\nupon this picture of infantine simplicity, till it brought to his\nremembrance his own boys, whom he had lost about the age of these, and\ntheir lamented mother; and he sunk into a thoughtfulness, which Emily\nobserving, she immediately began to sing one of those simple and lively\nairs he was so fond of, and which she knew how to give with the most\ncaptivating sweetness. St. Aubert smiled on her through his tears, took\nher hand and pressed it affectionately, and then tried to dissipate the\nmelancholy reflections that lingered in his mind.\n\nWhile she sung, Valancourt approached, who was unwilling to interrupt\nher, and paused at a little distance to listen. When she had concluded,\nhe joined the party, and told them, that he had found Michael, as\nwell as a way, by which he thought they could ascend the cliff to\nthe carriage. He pointed to the woody steeps above, which St. Aubert\nsurveyed with an anxious eye. He was already wearied by his walk, and\nthis ascent was formidable to him. He thought, however, it would be less\ntoilsome than the long and broken road, and he determined to attempt it;\nbut Emily, ever watchful of his ease, proposing that he should rest, and\ndine before they proceeded further, Valancourt went to the carriage for\nthe refreshments deposited there.\n\nOn his return, he proposed removing a little higher up the mountain, to\nwhere the woods opened upon a grand and extensive prospect; and\nthither they were preparing to go, when they saw a young woman join the\nchildren, and caress and weep over them.\n\nThe travellers, interested by her distress, stopped to observe her.\nShe took the youngest of the children in her arms, and, perceiving the\nstrangers, hastily dried her tears, and proceeded to the cottage.\nSt. Aubert, on enquiring the occasion of her sorrow, learned that her\nhusband, who was a shepherd, and lived here in the summer months to\nwatch over the flocks he led to feed upon these mountains, had lost, on\nthe preceding night, his little all. A gang of gipsies, who had for some\ntime infested the neighbourhood, had driven away several of his master's\nsheep. 'Jacques,' added the shepherd's wife, 'had saved a little money,\nand had bought a few sheep with it, and now they must go to his master\nfor those that are stolen; and what is worse than all, his master, when\nhe comes to know how it is, will trust him no longer with the care of\nhis flocks, for he is a hard man! and then what is to become of our\nchildren!'\n\nThe innocent countenance of the woman, and the simplicity of her manner\nin relating her grievance, inclined St. Aubert to believe her story; and\nValancourt, convinced that it was true, asked eagerly what was the value\nof the stolen sheep; on hearing which he turned away with a look of\ndisappointment. St. Aubert put some money into her hand, Emily too gave\nsomething from her little purse, and they walked towards the cliff; but\nValancourt lingered behind, and spoke to the shepherd's wife, who was\nnow weeping with gratitude and surprise. He enquired how much money was\nyet wanting to replace the stolen sheep, and found, that it was a\nsum very little short of all he had about him. He was perplexed and\ndistressed. 'This sum then,' said he to himself, 'would make this poor\nfamily completely happy--it is in my power to give it--to make them\ncompletely happy! But what is to become of me?--how shall I contrive\nto reach home with the little money that will remain?' For a moment he\nstood, unwilling to forego the luxury of raising a family from ruin to\nhappiness, yet considering the difficulties of pursuing his journey with\nso small a sum as would be left.\n\nWhile he was in this state of perplexity, the shepherd himself appeared:\nhis children ran to meet him; he took one of them in his arms, and, with\nthe other clinging to his coat, came forward with a loitering step. His\nforlorn and melancholy look determined Valancourt at once; he threw down\nall the money he had, except a very few louis, and bounded away\nafter St. Aubert and Emily, who were proceeding slowly up the steep.\nValancourt had seldom felt his heart so light as at this moment; his\ngay spirits danced with pleasure; every object around him appeared more\ninteresting, or beautiful, than before. St. Aubert observed the uncommon\nvivacity of his countenance: 'What has pleased you so much?' said he.\n'O what a lovely day,' replied Valancourt, 'how brightly the sun\nshines, how pure is this air, what enchanting scenery!' 'It is indeed\nenchanting,' said St. Aubert, whom early experience had taught to\nunderstand the nature of Valancourt's present feelings. 'What pity that\nthe wealthy, who can command such sunshine, should ever pass their days\nin gloom--in the cold shade of selfishness! For you, my young friend,\nmay the sun always shine as brightly as at this moment; may your own\nconduct always give you the sunshine of benevolence and reason united!'\n\nValancourt, highly flattered by this compliment, could make no reply but\nby a smile of gratitude.\n\nThey continued to wind under the woods, between the grassy knolls of the\nmountain, and, as they reached the shady summit, which he had pointed\nout, the whole party burst into an exclamation. Behind the spot\nwhere they stood, the rock rose perpendicularly in a massy wall to a\nconsiderable height, and then branched out into overhanging crags. Their\ngrey tints were well contrasted by the bright hues of the plants and\nwild flowers, that grew in their fractured sides, and were deepened by\nthe gloom of the pines and cedars, that waved above. The steeps below,\nover which the eye passed abruptly to the valley, were fringed with\nthickets of alpine shrubs; and, lower still, appeared the tufted tops of\nthe chesnut woods, that clothed their base, among which peeped forth the\nshepherd's cottage, just left by the travellers, with its blueish smoke\ncurling high in the air. On every side appeared the majestic summits\nof the Pyrenees, some exhibiting tremendous crags of marble, whose\nappearance was changing every instant, as the varying lights fell upon\ntheir surface; others, still higher, displaying only snowy points, while\ntheir lower steeps were covered almost invariably with forests of pine,\nlarch, and oak, that stretched down to the vale. This was one of\nthe narrow vallies, that open from the Pyrenees into the country of\nRousillon, and whose green pastures, and cultivated beauty, form a\ndecided and wonderful contrast to the romantic grandeur that environs\nit. Through a vista of the mountains appeared the lowlands of Rousillon,\ntinted with the blue haze of distance, as they united with the waters of\nthe Mediterranean; where, on a promontory, which marked the boundary of\nthe shore, stood a lonely beacon, over which were seen circling flights\nof sea-fowl. Beyond, appeared, now and then, a stealing sail, white with\nthe sun-beam, and whose progress was perceivable by its approach to the\nlight-house. Sometimes, too, was seen a sail so distant, that it served\nonly to mark the line of separation between the sky and the waves.\n\nOn the other side of the valley, immediately opposite to the spot where\nthe travellers rested, a rocky pass opened toward Gascony. Here no sign\nof cultivation appeared. The rocks of granite, that screened the glen,\nrose abruptly from their base, and stretched their barren points to the\nclouds, unvaried with woods, and uncheered even by a hunter's cabin.\nSometimes, indeed, a gigantic larch threw its long shade over the\nprecipice, and here and there a cliff reared on its brow a monumental\ncross, to tell the traveller the fate of him who had ventured thither\nbefore. This spot seemed the very haunt of banditti; and Emily, as she\nlooked down upon it, almost expected to see them stealing out from\nsome hollow cave to look for their prey. Soon after an object not less\nterrific struck her,--a gibbet standing on a point of rock near the\nentrance of the pass, and immediately over one of the crosses she had\nbefore observed. These were hieroglyphics that told a plain and dreadful\nstory. She forbore to point it out to St. Aubert, but it threw a gloom\nover her spirits, and made her anxious to hasten forward, that\nthey might with certainty reach Rousillon before night-fall. It was\nnecessary, however, that St. Aubert should take some refreshment, and,\nseating themselves on the short dry turf, they opened the basket of\nprovisions, while\n\n     by breezy murmurs cool'd,\n Broad o'er THEIR heads the verdant cedars wave,\n And high palmetos lift their graceful shade.\n -----THEY draw\n Ethereal soul, there drink reviving gales\n Profusely breathing from the piney groves,\n And vales of fragrance; there at a distance hear\n The roaring floods, and cataracts.*\n     *Thomson\n\n\nSt. Aubert was revived by rest, and by the serene air of this summit;\nand Valancourt was so charmed with all around, and with the conversation\nof his companions, that he seemed to have forgotten he had any further\nto go. Having concluded their simple repast, they gave a long farewell\nlook to the scene, and again began to ascend. St. Aubert rejoiced when\nhe reached the carriage, which Emily entered with him; but Valancourt,\nwilling to take a more extensive view of the enchanting country, into\nwhich they were about to descend, than he could do from a carriage,\nloosened his dogs, and once more bounded with them along the banks of\nthe road. He often quitted it for points that promised a wider prospect,\nand the slow pace, at which the mules travelled, allowed him to overtake\nthem with ease. Whenever a scene of uncommon magnificence appeared, he\nhastened to inform St. Aubert, who, though he was too much tired to\nwalk himself, sometimes made the chaise wait, while Emily went to the\nneighbouring cliff.\n\nIt was evening when they descended the lower alps, that bind Rousillon,\nand form a majestic barrier round that charming country, leaving it open\nonly on the east to the Mediterranean. The gay tints of cultivation once\nmore beautified the landscape; for the lowlands were coloured with the\nrichest hues, which a luxuriant climate, and an industrious people can\nawaken into life. Groves of orange and lemon perfumed the air, their\nripe fruit glowing among the foliage; while, sloping to the plains,\nextensive vineyards spread their treasures. Beyond these, woods and\npastures, and mingled towns and hamlets stretched towards the sea, on\nwhose bright surface gleamed many a distant sail; while, over the whole\nscene, was diffused the purple glow of evening. This landscape with the\nsurrounding alps did, indeed, present a perfect picture of the lovely\nand the sublime, of 'beauty sleeping in the lap of horror.'\n\nThe travellers, having reached the plains, proceeded, between hedges\nof flowering myrtle and pomegranate, to the town of Arles, where\nthey proposed to rest for the night. They met with simple, but neat\naccommodation, and would have passed a happy evening, after the toils\nand the delights of this day, had not the approaching separation thrown\na gloom over their spirit. It was St. Aubert's plan to proceed, on the\nmorrow, to the borders of the Mediterranean, and travel along its shores\ninto Languedoc; and Valancourt, since he was now nearly recovered, and\nhad no longer a pretence for continuing with his new friends, resolved\nto leave them here. St. Aubert, who was much pleased with him, invited\nhim to go further, but did not repeat the invitation, and Valancourt\nhad resolution enough to forego the temptation of accepting it, that\nhe might prove himself not unworthy of the favour. On the following\nmorning, therefore, they were to part, St. Aubert to pursue his way to\nLanguedoc, and Valancourt to explore new scenes among the mountains, on\nhis return home. During this evening he was often silent and thoughtful;\nSt. Aubert's manner towards him was affectionate, though grave, and\nEmily was serious, though she made frequent efforts to appear cheerful.\nAfter one of the most melancholy evenings they had yet passed together,\nthey separated for the night.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\n I care not, Fortune! what you me deny;\n You cannot rob me of free nature's grace;\n You cannot shut the windows of the sky,\n Through which Aurora shews her brightening face;\n You cannot bar my constant feet to trace\n The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve:\n Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,\n And I their toys to the great children leave:\n Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.\n     THOMSON\n\nIn the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St. Aubert and Emily,\nneither of whom seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor of illness\nstill hung over St. Aubert, and to Emily's fears his disorder appeared\nto be increasing fast upon him. She watched his looks with anxious\naffection, and their expression was always faithfully reflected in her\nown.\n\nAt the commencement of their acquaintance, Valancourt had made known his\nname and family. St. Aubert was not a stranger to either, for the\nfamily estates, which were now in the possession of an elder brother of\nValancourt, were little more than twenty miles distant from La\nVallee, and he had sometimes met the elder Valancourt on visits in the\nneighbourhood. This knowledge had made him more willingly receive his\npresent companion; for, though his countenance and manners would have\nwon him the acquaintance of St. Aubert, who was very apt to trust to the\nintelligence of his own eyes, with respect to countenances, he would\nnot have accepted these, as sufficient introductions to that of his\ndaughter.\n\nThe breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of the preceding night;\nbut their musing was at length interrupted by the sound of the carriage\nwheels, which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily. Valancourt started\nfrom his chair, and went to the window; it was indeed the carriage, and\nhe returned to his seat without speaking. The moment was now come when\nthey must part. St. Aubert told Valancourt, that he hoped he would\nnever pass La Vallee without favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt,\neagerly thanking him, assured him that he never would; as he said which\nhe looked timidly at Emily, who tried to smile away the seriousness of\nher spirits. They passed a few minutes in interesting conversation,\nand St. Aubert then led the way to the carriage, Emily and Valancourt\nfollowing in silence. The latter lingered at the door several minutes\nafter they were seated, and none of the party seemed to have courage\nenough to say--Farewell. At length, St. Aubert pronounced the melancholy\nword, which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a dejected\nsmile, and the carriage drove on.\n\nThe travellers remained, for some time, in a state of tranquil\npensiveness, which is not unpleasing. St. Aubert interrupted it by\nobserving, 'This is a very promising young man; it is many years since I\nhave been so much pleased with any person, on so short an acquaintance.\nHe brings back to my memory the days of my youth, when every scene was\nnew and delightful!' St. Aubert sighed, and sunk again into a reverie;\nand, as Emily looked back upon the road they had passed, Valancourt was\nseen, at the door of the little inn, following them with his eyes. Her\nperceived her, and waved his hand; and she returned the adieu, till the\nwinding road shut her from his sight.\n\n'I remember when I was about his age,' resumed St. Aubert, 'and I\nthought, and felt exactly as he does. The world was opening upon me\nthen, now--it is closing.'\n\n'My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,' said Emily in a trembling\nvoice, 'I hope you have many, many years to live--for your own sake--for\nMY sake.'\n\n'Ah, my Emily!' replied St. Aubert, 'for thy sake! Well--I hope it is\nso.' He wiped away a tear, that was stealing down his cheek, threw a\nsmile upon his countenance, and said in a cheering voice, 'there\nis something in the ardour and ingenuousness of youth, which is\nparticularly pleasing to the contemplation of an old man, if his\nfeelings have not been entirely corroded by the world. It is cheering\nand reviving, like the view of spring to a sick person; his mind catches\nsomewhat of the spirit of the season, and his eyes are lighted up with a\ntransient sunshine. Valancourt is this spring to me.'\n\nEmily, who pressed her father's hand affectionately, had never before\nlistened with so much pleasure to the praises he bestowed; no, not even\nwhen he had bestowed them on herself.\n\nThey travelled on, among vineyards, woods, and pastures, delighted with\nthe romantic beauty of the landscape, which was bounded, on one side, by\nthe grandeur of the Pyrenees, and, on the other, by the ocean; and,\nsoon after noon, they reached the town of Colioure, situated on the\nMediterranean. Here they dined, and rested till towards the cool of\nday, when they pursued their way along the shores--those enchanting\nshores!--which extend to Languedoc. Emily gazed with enthusiasm on the\nvastness of the sea, its surface varying, as the lights and shadows\nfell, and on its woody banks, mellowed with autumnal tints.\n\nSt. Aubert was impatient to reach Perpignan, where he expected letters\nfrom M. Quesnel; and it was the expectation of these letters, that\nhad induced him to leave Colioure, for his feeble frame had required\nimmediate rest. After travelling a few miles, he fell asleep; and Emily,\nwho had put two or three books into the carriage, on leaving La Vallee,\nhad now the leisure for looking into them. She sought for one, in which\nValancourt had been reading the day before, and hoped for the pleasure\nof re-tracing a page, over which the eyes of a beloved friend had\nlately passed, of dwelling on the passages, which he had admired, and of\npermitting them to speak to her in the language of his own mind, and to\nbring himself to her presence. On searching for the book, she could find\nit no where, but in its stead perceived a volume of Petrarch's poems,\nthat had belonged to Valancourt, whose name was written in it, and from\nwhich he had frequently read passages to her, with all the pathetic\nexpression, that characterized the feelings of the author. She hesitated\nin believing, what would have been sufficiently apparent to almost any\nother person, that he had purposely left this book, instead of the\none she had lost, and that love had prompted the exchange; but, having\nopened it with impatient pleasure, and observed the lines of his pencil\ndrawn along the various passages he had read aloud, and under others\nmore descriptive of delicate tenderness than he had dared to trust\nhis voice with, the conviction came, at length, to her mind. For some\nmoments she was conscious only of being beloved; then, a recollection\nof all the variations of tone and countenance, with which he had recited\nthese sonnets, and of the soul, which spoke in their expression, pressed\nto her memory, and she wept over the memorial of his affection.\n\nThey arrived at Perpignan soon after sunset, where St. Aubert found,\nas he had expected, letters from M. Quesnel, the contents of which\nso evidently and grievously affected him, that Emily was alarmed,\nand pressed him, as far as her delicacy would permit, to disclose\nthe occasion of his concern; but he answered her only by tears, and\nimmediately began to talk on other topics. Emily, though she forbore\nto press the one most interesting to her, was greatly affected by her\nfather's manner, and passed a night of sleepless solicitude.\n\nIn the morning they pursued their journey along the coast towards\nLeucate, another town on the Mediterranean, situated on the borders of\nLanguedoc and Rousillon. On the way, Emily renewed the subject of the\npreceding night, and appeared so deeply affected by St. Aubert's silence\nand dejection, that he relaxed from his reserve. 'I was unwilling, my\ndear Emily,' said he, 'to throw a cloud over the pleasure you receive\nfrom these scenes, and meant, therefore, to conceal, for the present,\nsome circumstances, with which, however, you must at length have been\nmade acquainted. But your anxiety has defeated my purpose; you suffer as\nmuch from this, perhaps, as you will do from a knowledge of the facts I\nhave to relate. M. Quesnel's visit proved an unhappy one to me; he came\nto tell me part of the news he has now confirmed. You may have heard me\nmention a M. Motteville, of Paris, but you did not know that the\nchief of my personal property was invested in his hands. I had great\nconfidence in him, and I am yet willing to believe, that he is not\nwholly unworthy of my esteem. A variety of circumstances have concurred\nto ruin him, and--I am ruined with him.'\n\nSt. Aubert paused to conceal his emotion.\n\n'The letters I have just received from M. Quesnel,' resumed he,\nstruggling to speak with firmness, 'enclosed others from Motteville,\nwhich confirmed all I dreaded.'\n\n'Must we then quit La Vallee?' said Emily, after a long pause of\nsilence. 'That is yet uncertain,' replied St. Aubert, 'it will depend\nupon the compromise Motteville is able to make with his creditors. My\nincome, you know, was never large, and now it will be reduced to\nlittle indeed! It is for you, Emily, for you, my child, that I am most\nafflicted.' His last words faltered; Emily smiled tenderly upon him\nthrough her tears, and then, endeavouring to overcome her emotion, 'My\ndear father,' said she, 'do not grieve for me, or for yourself; we may\nyet be happy;--if La Vallee remains for us, we must be happy. We will\nretain only one servant, and you shall scarcely perceive the change in\nyour income. Be comforted, my dear sir; we shall not feel the want of\nthose luxuries, which others value so highly, since we never had a taste\nfor them; and poverty cannot deprive us of many consolations. It cannot\nrob us of the affection we have for each other, or degrade us in our own\nopinion, or in that of any person, whose opinion we ought to value.'\n\nSt. Aubert concealed his face with his handkerchief, and was unable\nto speak; but Emily continued to urge to her father the truths, which\nhimself had impressed upon her mind.\n\n'Besides, my dear sir, poverty cannot deprive us of intellectual\ndelights. It cannot deprive you of the comfort of affording me examples\nof fortitude and benevolence; nor me of the delight of consoling a\nbeloved parent. It cannot deaden our taste for the grand, and the\nbeautiful, or deny us the means of indulging it; for the scenes\nof nature--those sublime spectacles, so infinitely superior to all\nartificial luxuries! are open for the enjoyment of the poor, as well as\nof the rich. Of what, then, have we to complain, so long as we are not\nin want of necessaries? Pleasures, such as wealth cannot buy, will still\nbe ours. We retain, then, the sublime luxuries of nature, and lose only\nthe frivolous ones of art.'\n\nSt. Aubert could not reply: he caught Emily to his bosom, their tears\nflowed together, but--they were not tears of sorrow. After this language\nof the heart, all other would have been feeble, and they remained silent\nfor some time. Then, St. Aubert conversed as before; for, if his mind\nhad not recovered its natural tranquillity, it at least assumed the\nappearance of it.\n\nThey reached the romantic town of Leucate early in the day, but St.\nAubert was weary, and they determined to pass the night there. In the\nevening, he exerted himself so far as to walk with his daughter to view\nthe environs that overlook the lake of Leucate, the Mediterranean, part\nof Rousillon, with the Pyrenees, and a wide extent of the luxuriant\nprovince of Languedoc, now blushing with the ripened vintage, which the\npeasants were beginning to gather. St. Aubert and Emily saw the busy\ngroups, caught the joyous song, that was wafted on the breeze, and\nanticipated, with apparent pleasure, their next day's journey over this\ngay region. He designed, however, still to wind along the sea-shore.\nTo return home immediately was partly his wish, but from this he was\nwithheld by a desire to lengthen the pleasure, which the journey gave\nhis daughter, and to try the effect of the sea air on his own disorder.\n\nOn the following day, therefore, they recommenced their journey through\nLanguedoc, winding the shores of the Mediterranean; the Pyrenees still\nforming the magnificent back-ground of their prospects, while on their\nright was the ocean, and, on their left, wide extended plains melting\ninto the blue horizon. St. Aubert was pleased, and conversed much with\nEmily, yet his cheerfulness was sometimes artificial, and sometimes a\nshade of melancholy would steal upon his countenance, and betray him.\nThis was soon chased away by Emily's smile; who smiled, however, with an\naching heart, for she saw that his misfortunes preyed upon his mind, and\nupon his enfeebled frame.\n\nIt was evening when they reached a small village of Upper Languedoc,\nwhere they meant to pass the night, but the place could not afford\nthem beds; for here, too, it was the time of the vintage, and they\nwere obliged to proceed to the next post. The languor of illness and of\nfatigue, which returned upon St. Aubert, required immediate repose,\nand the evening was now far advanced; but from necessity there was no\nappeal, and he ordered Michael to proceed.\n\nThe rich plains of Languedoc, which exhibited all the glories of the\nvintage, with the gaieties of a French festival, no longer awakened St.\nAubert to pleasure, whose condition formed a mournful contrast to the\nhilarity and youthful beauty which surrounded him. As his languid eyes\nmoved over the scene, he considered, that they would soon, perhaps, be\nclosed for ever on this world. 'Those distant and sublime mountains,'\nsaid he secretly, as he gazed on a chain of the Pyrenees that stretched\ntowards the west, 'these luxuriant plains, this blue vault, the cheerful\nlight of day, will be shut from my eyes! The song of the peasant, the\ncheering voice of man--will no longer sound for me!'\n\nThe intelligent eyes of Emily seemed to read what passed in the mind of\nher father, and she fixed them on his face, with an expression of such\ntender pity, as recalled his thoughts from every desultory object of\nregret, and he remembered only, that he must leave his daughter without\nprotection. This reflection changed regret to agony; he sighed deeply,\nand remained silent, while she seemed to understand that sigh, for\nshe pressed his hand affectionately, and then turned to the window to\nconceal her tears. The sun now threw a last yellow gleam on the waves of\nthe Mediterranean, and the gloom of twilight spread fast over the scene,\ntill only a melancholy ray appeared on the western horizon, marking the\npoint where the sun had set amid the vapours of an autumnal evening. A\ncool breeze now came from the shore, and Emily let down the glass; but\nthe air, which was refreshing to health, was as chilling to sickness,\nand St. Aubert desired, that the window might be drawn up. Increasing\nillness made him now more anxious than ever to finish the day's journey,\nand he stopped the muleteer to enquire how far they had yet to go to the\nnext post. He replied, 'Nine miles.' 'I feel I am unable to proceed much\nfurther,' said St. Aubert; 'enquire, as you go, if there is any house on\nthe road that would accommodate us for the night.' He sunk back in\nthe carriage, and Michael, cracking his whip in the air, set off, and\ncontinued on the full gallop, till St. Aubert, almost fainting, called\nto him to stop. Emily looked anxiously from the window, and saw a\npeasant walking at some little distance on the road, for whom they\nwaited, till he came up, when he was asked, if there was any house in\nthe neighbourhood that accommodated travellers. He replied, that he knew\nof none. 'There is a chateau, indeed, among those woods on the right,'\nadded he, 'but I believe it receives nobody, and I cannot show you the\nway, for I am almost a stranger here.' St. Aubert was going to ask\nhim some further question concerning the chateau, but the man abruptly\npassed on. After some consideration, he ordered Michael to proceed\nslowly to the woods. Every moment now deepened the twilight, and\nincreased the difficulty of finding the road. Another peasant soon after\npassed. 'Which is the way to the chateau in the woods?' cried Michael.\n\n'The chateau in the woods!' exclaimed the peasant--'Do you mean that\nwith the turret, yonder?'\n\n'I don't know as for the turret, as you call it,' said Michael, 'I mean\nthat white piece of a building, that we see at a distance there, among\nthe trees.'\n\n'Yes, that is the turret; why, who are you, that you are going thither?'\nsaid the man with surprise.\n\nSt. Aubert, on hearing this odd question, and observing the peculiar\ntone in which it was delivered, looked out from the carriage. 'We are\ntravellers,' said he, 'who are in search of a house of accommodation for\nthe night; is there any hereabout?'\n\n'None, Monsieur, unless you have a mind to try your luck yonder,'\nreplied the peasant, pointing to the woods, 'but I would not advise you\nto go there.'\n\n'To whom does the chateau belong?'\n\n'I scarcely know myself, Monsieur.'\n\n'It is uninhabited, then?' 'No, not uninhabited; the steward and\nhousekeeper are there, I believe.'\n\nOn hearing this, St. Aubert determined to proceed to the chateau, and\nrisque the refusal of being accommodated for the night; he therefore\ndesired the countryman would shew Michael the way, and bade him expect\nreward for his trouble. The man was for a moment silent, and then said,\nthat he was going on other business, but that the road could not be\nmissed, if they went up an avenue to the right, to which he pointed. St.\nAubert was going to speak, but the peasant wished him good night, and\nwalked on.\n\nThe carriage now moved towards the avenue, which was guarded by a gate,\nand Michael having dismounted to open it, they entered between rows of\nancient oak and chesnut, whose intermingled branches formed a lofty arch\nabove. There was something so gloomy and desolate in the appearance of\nthis avenue, and its lonely silence, that Emily almost shuddered as\nshe passed along; and, recollecting the manner in which the peasant had\nmentioned the chateau, she gave a mysterious meaning to his words, such\nas she had not suspected when he uttered them. These apprehensions,\nhowever, she tried to check, considering that they were probably the\neffect of a melancholy imagination, which her father's situation, and\na consideration of her own circumstances, had made sensible to every\nimpression.\n\nThey passed slowly on, for they were now almost in darkness, which,\ntogether with the unevenness of the ground, and the frequent roots of\nold trees, that shot up above the soil, made it necessary to proceed\nwith caution. On a sudden Michael stopped the carriage; and, as St.\nAubert looked from the window to enquire the cause, he perceived a\nfigure at some distance moving up the avenue. The dusk would not permit\nhim to distinguish what it was, but he bade Michael go on.\n\n'This seems a wild place,' said Michael; 'there is no house hereabout,\ndon't your honour think we had better turn back?'\n\n'Go a little farther, and if we see no house then, we will return to the\nroad,' replied St. Aubert.\n\nMichael proceeded with reluctance, and the extreme slowness of his pace\nmade St. Aubert look again from the window to hasten him, when again he\nsaw the same figure. He was somewhat startled: probably the gloominess\nof the spot made him more liable to alarm than usual; however this\nmight be, he now stopped Michael, and bade him call to the person in the\navenue.\n\n'Please your honour, he may be a robber,' said Michael. 'It does not\nplease me,' replied St. Aubert, who could not forbear smiling at the\nsimplicity of his phrase, 'and we will, therefore, return to the road,\nfor I see no probability of meeting here with what we seek.'\n\nMichael turned about immediately, and was retracing his way with\nalacrity, when a voice was heard from among the trees on the left. It\nwas not the voice of command, or distress, but a deep hollow tone, which\nseemed to be scarcely human. The man whipped his mules till they went as\nfast as possible, regardless of the darkness, the broken ground, and\nthe necks of the whole party, nor once stopped till he reached the gate,\nwhich opened from the avenue into the high-road, where he went into a\nmore moderate pace.\n\n'I am very ill,' said St. Aubert, taking his daughter's hand. 'You are\nworse, then, sir!' said Emily, extremely alarmed by his manner, 'you\nare worse, and here is no assistance. Good God! what is to be done!' He\nleaned his head on her shoulder, while she endeavoured to support him\nwith her arm, and Michael was again ordered to stop. When the rattling\nof the wheels had ceased, music was heard on their air; it was to Emily\nthe voice of Hope. 'Oh! we are near some human habitation!' said she,\n'help may soon be had.'\n\nShe listened anxiously; the sounds were distant, and seemed to come from\na remote part of the woods that bordered the road; and, as she looked\ntowards the spot whence they issued, she perceived in the faint\nmoon-light something like a chateau. It was difficult, however, to reach\nthis; St. Aubert was now too ill to bear the motion of the carriage;\nMichael could not quit his mules; and Emily, who still supported her\nfather, feared to leave him, and also feared to venture alone to such a\ndistance, she knew not whither, or to whom. Something, however, it was\nnecessary to determine upon immediately; St. Aubert, therefore, told\nMichael to proceed slowly; but they had not gone far, when he fainted,\nand the carriage was again stopped. He lay quite senseless.--'My dear,\ndear father!' cried Emily in great agony, who began to fear that he was\ndying, 'speak, if it is only one word to let me hear the sound of your\nvoice!' But no voice spoke in reply. In the agony of terror she bade\nMichael bring water from the rivulet, that flowed along the road;\nand, having received some in the man's hat, with trembling hands she\nsprinkled it over her father's face, which, as the moon's rays now\nfell upon it, seemed to bear the impression of death. Every emotion of\nselfish fear now gave way to a stronger influence, and, committing St.\nAubert to the care of Michael, who refused to go far from his mules,\nshe stepped from the carriage in search of the chateau she had seen at\na distance. It was a still moon-light night, and the music, which yet\nsounded on the air, directed her steps from the high road, up a shadowy\nlane, that led to the woods. Her mind was for some time so entirely\noccupied by anxiety and terror for her father, that she felt none for\nherself, till the deepening gloom of the overhanging foliage, which now\nwholly excluded the moon-light, and the wildness of the place, recalled\nher to a sense of her adventurous situation. The music had ceased,\nand she had no guide but chance. For a moment she paused in terrified\nperplexity, till a sense of her father's condition again overcoming\nevery consideration for herself, she proceeded. The lane terminated in\nthe woods, but she looked round in vain for a house, or a human being,\nand as vainly listened for a sound to guide her. She hurried on,\nhowever, not knowing whither, avoiding the recesses of the woods, and\nendeavouring to keep along their margin, till a rude kind of avenue,\nwhich opened upon a moon-light spot, arrested her attention. The\nwildness of this avenue brought to her recollection the one leading to\nthe turreted chateau, and she was inclined to believe, that this was a\npart of the same domain, and probably led to the same point. While she\nhesitated, whether to follow it or not, a sound of many voices in loud\nmerriment burst upon her ear. It seemed not the laugh of cheerfulness,\nbut of riot, and she stood appalled. While she paused, she heard a\ndistant voice, calling from the way she had come, and not doubting but\nit was that of Michael, her first impulse was to hasten back; but a\nsecond thought changed her purpose; she believed that nothing less than\nthe last extremity could have prevailed with Michael to quit his mules,\nand fearing that her father was now dying, she rushed forward, with a\nfeeble hope of obtaining assistance from the people in the woods. Her\nheart beat with fearful expectation, as she drew near the spot whence\nthe voices issued, and she often startled when her steps disturbed the\nfallen leaves. The sounds led her towards the moon-light glade she had\nbefore noticed; at a little distance from which she stopped, and saw,\nbetween the boles of the trees, a small circular level of green turf,\nsurrounded by the woods, on which appeared a group of figures. On\ndrawing nearer, she distinguished these, by their dress, to be peasants,\nand perceived several cottages scattered round the edge of the woods,\nwhich waved loftily over this spot. While she gazed, and endeavoured\nto overcome the apprehensions that withheld her steps, several peasant\ngirls came out of a cottage; music instantly struck up, and the dance\nbegan. It was the joyous music of the vintage! the same she had before\nheard upon the air. Her heart, occupied with terror for her father,\ncould not feel the contrast, which this gay scene offered to her own\ndistress; she stepped hastily forward towards a group of elder peasants,\nwho were seated at the door of a cottage, and, having explained her\nsituation, entreated their assistance. Several of them rose with\nalacrity, and, offering any service in their power, followed Emily, who\nseemed to move on the wind, as fast as they could towards the road.\n\nWhen she reached the carriage she found St. Aubert restored to\nanimation. On the recovery of his senses, having heard from Michael\nwhither his daughter was gone, anxiety for her overcame every regard for\nhimself, and he had sent him in search of her. He was, however, still\nlanguid, and, perceiving himself unable to travel much farther, he\nrenewed his enquiries for an inn, and concerning the chateau in the\nwoods. 'The chateau cannot accommodate you, sir,' said a venerable\npeasant who had followed Emily from the woods, 'it is scarcely\ninhabited; but, if you will do me the honour to visit my cottage, you\nshall be welcome to the best bed it affords.'\n\nSt. Aubert was himself a Frenchman; he therefore was not surprised at\nFrench courtesy; but, ill as he was, he felt the value of the offer\nenhanced by the manner which accompanied it. He had too much delicacy\nto apologize, or to appear to hesitate about availing himself of\nthe peasant's hospitality, but immediately accepted it with the same\nfrankness with which it was offered.\n\nThe carriage again moved slowly on; Michael following the peasants up\nthe lane, which Emily had just quitted, till they came to the moon-light\nglade. St. Aubert's spirits were so far restored by the courtesy of\nhis host, and the near prospect of repose, that he looked with a sweet\ncomplacency upon the moon-light scene, surrounded by the shadowy\nwoods, through which, here and there, an opening admitted the streaming\nsplendour, discovering a cottage, or a sparkling rivulet. He listened,\nwith no painful emotion, to the merry notes of the guitar and tamborine;\nand, though tears came to his eyes, when he saw the debonnaire dance of\nthe peasants, they were not merely tears of mournful regret. With Emily\nit was otherwise; immediate terror for her father had now subsided into\na gentle melancholy, which every note of joy, by awakening comparison,\nserved to heighten.\n\nThe dance ceased on the approach of the carriage, which was a phenomenon\nin these sequestered woods, and the peasantry flocked round it with\neager curiosity. On learning that it brought a sick stranger, several\ngirls ran across the turf, and returned with wine and baskets of grapes,\nwhich they presented to the travellers, each with kind contention\npressing for a preference. At length, the carriage stopped at a neat\ncottage, and his venerable conductor, having assisted St. Aubert to\nalight, led him and Emily to a small inner room, illuminated only by\nmoon-beams, which the open casement admitted. St. Aubert, rejoicing in\nrest, seated himself in an arm-chair, and his senses were refreshed by\nthe cool and balmy air, that lightly waved the embowering honeysuckles,\nand wafted their sweet breath into the apartment. His host, who was\ncalled La Voisin, quitted the room, but soon returned with fruits,\ncream, and all the pastoral luxury his cottage afforded; having set down\nwhich, with a smile of unfeigned welcome, he retired behind the chair of\nhis guest. St. Aubert insisted on his taking a seat at the table, and,\nwhen the fruit had allayed the fever of his palate, and he found himself\nsomewhat revived, he began to converse with his host, who communicated\nseveral particulars concerning himself and his family, which were\ninteresting, because they were spoken from the heart, and delineated\na picture of the sweet courtesies of family kindness. Emily sat by her\nfather, holding his hand, and, while she listened to the old man, her\nheart swelled with the affectionate sympathy he described, and her\ntears fell to the mournful consideration, that death would probably\nsoon deprive her of the dearest blessing she then possessed. The soft\nmoon-light of an autumnal evening, and the distant music, which now\nsounded a plaintive strain, aided the melancholy of her mind. The old\nman continued to talk of his family, and St. Aubert remained silent.\n'I have only one daughter living,' said La Voisin, 'but she is happily\nmarried, and is every thing to me. When I lost my wife,' he added with\na sigh, 'I came to live with Agnes, and her family; she has several\nchildren, who are all dancing on the green yonder, as merry as\ngrasshoppers--and long may they be so! I hope to die among them,\nmonsieur. I am old now, and cannot expect to live long, but there is\nsome comfort in dying surrounded by one's children.'\n\n'My good friend,' said St. Aubert, while his voice trembled, 'I hope you\nwill long live surrounded by them.'\n\n'Ah, sir! at my age I must not expect that!' replied the old man, and he\npaused: 'I can scarcely wish it,' he resumed, 'for I trust that whenever\nI die I shall go to heaven, where my poor wife is gone before me. I can\nsometimes almost fancy I see her of a still moon-light night, walking\namong these shades she loved so well. Do you believe, monsieur, that\nwe shall be permitted to revisit the earth, after we have quitted the\nbody?'\n\nEmily could no longer stifle the anguish of her heart; her tears fell\nfast upon her father's hand, which she yet held. He made an effort to\nspeak, and at length said in a low voice, 'I hope we shall be permitted\nto look down on those we have left on the earth, but I can only hope it.\nFuturity is much veiled from our eyes, and faith and hope are our only\nguides concerning it. We are not enjoined to believe, that disembodied\nspirits watch over the friends they have loved, but we may innocently\nhope it. It is a hope which I will never resign,' continued he, while\nhe wiped the tears from his daughter's eyes, 'it will sweeten the bitter\nmoments of death!' Tears fell slowly on his cheeks; La Voisin wept too,\nand there was a pause of silence. Then, La Voisin, renewing the subject,\nsaid, 'But you believe, sir, that we shall meet in another world the\nrelations we have loved in this; I must believe this.' 'Then do\nbelieve it,' replied St. Aubert, 'severe, indeed, would be the pangs of\nseparation, if we believed it to be eternal. Look up, my dear Emily,\nwe shall meet again!' He lifted his eyes towards heaven, and a gleam\nof moon-light, which fell upon his countenance, discovered peace and\nresignation, stealing on the lines of sorrow.\n\nLa Voisin felt that he had pursued the subject too far, and he dropped\nit, saying, 'We are in darkness, I forgot to bring a light.'\n\n'No,' said St. Aubert, 'this is a light I love. Sit down, my good\nfriend. Emily, my love, I find myself better than I have been all day;\nthis air refreshes me. I can enjoy this tranquil hour, and that music,\nwhich floats so sweetly at a distance. Let me see you smile. Who touches\nthat guitar so tastefully? are there two instruments, or is it an echo I\nhear?'\n\n'It is an echo, monsieur, I fancy. That guitar is often heard at night,\nwhen all is still, but nobody knows who touches it, and it is sometimes\naccompanied by a voice so sweet, and so sad, one would almost think the\nwoods were haunted.' 'They certainly are haunted,' said St. Aubert with\na smile, 'but I believe it is by mortals.' 'I have sometimes heard it\nat midnight, when I could not sleep,' rejoined La Voisin, not seeming to\nnotice this remark, 'almost under my window, and I never heard any music\nlike it. It has often made me think of my poor wife till I cried. I have\nsometimes got up to the window to look if I could see anybody, but as\nsoon as I opened the casement all was hushed, and nobody to be seen; and\nI have listened, and listened till I have been so timorous, that even\nthe trembling of the leaves in the breeze has made me start. They say\nit often comes to warn people of their death, but I have heard it these\nmany years, and outlived the warning.'\n\nEmily, though she smiled at the mention of this ridiculous superstition,\ncould not, in the present tone of her spirits, wholly resist its\ncontagion.\n\n'Well, but, my good friend,' said St. Aubert, 'has nobody had courage to\nfollow the sounds? If they had, they would probably have discovered who\nis the musician.' 'Yes, sir, they have followed them some way into the\nwoods, but the music has still retreated, and seemed as distant as ever,\nand the people have at last been afraid of being led into harm, and\nwould go no further. It is very seldom that I have heard these sounds so\nearly in the evening. They usually come about midnight, when that bright\nplanet, which is rising above the turret yonder, sets below the woods on\nthe left.'\n\n'What turret?' asked St. Aubert with quickness, 'I see none.'\n\n'Your pardon, monsieur, you do see one indeed, for the moon shines full\nupon it;--up the avenue yonder, a long way off; the chateau it belongs\nto is hid among the trees.'\n\n'Yes, my dear sir,' said Emily, pointing, 'don't you see something\nglitter above the dark woods? It is a fane, I fancy, which the rays fall\nupon.'\n\n'O yes, I see what you mean; and who does the chateau belong to?'\n\n'The Marquis de Villeroi was its owner,' replied La Voisin,\nemphatically.\n\n'Ah!' said St. Aubert, with a deep sigh, 'are we then so near Le-Blanc!'\nHe appeared much agitated.\n\n'It used to be the Marquis's favourite residence,' resumed La Voisin,\n'but he took a dislike to the place, and has not been there for many\nyears. We have heard lately that he is dead, and that it is fallen into\nother hands.' St. Aubert, who had sat in deep musing, was roused by the\nlast words. 'Dead!' he exclaimed, 'Good God! when did he die?'\n\n'He is reported to have died about five weeks since,' replied La Voisin.\n'Did you know the Marquis, sir?'\n\n'This is very extraordinary!' said St. Aubert without attending to the\nquestion. 'Why is it so, my dear sir?' said Emily, in a voice of timid\ncuriosity. He made no reply, but sunk again into a reverie; and in a\nfew moments, when he seemed to have recovered himself, asked who had\nsucceeded to the estates. 'I have forgot his title, monsieur,' said La\nVoisin; 'but my lord resides at Paris chiefly; I hear no talk of his\ncoming hither.'\n\n'The chateau is shut up then, still?'\n\n'Why, little better, sir; the old housekeeper, and her husband the\nsteward, have the care of it, but they live generally in a cottage hard\nby.'\n\n'The chateau is spacious, I suppose,' said Emily, 'and must be desolate\nfor the residence of only two persons.'\n\n'Desolate enough, mademoiselle,' replied La Voisin, 'I would not pass\none night in the chateau, for the value of the whole domain.'\n\n'What is that?' said St. Aubert, roused again from thoughtfulness. As\nhis host repeated his last sentence, a groan escaped from St. Aubert,\nand then, as if anxious to prevent it from being noticed, he hastily\nasked La Voisin how long he had lived in this neighbourhood. 'Almost\nfrom my childhood, sir,' replied his host.\n\n'You remember the late marchioness, then?' said St. Aubert in an altered\nvoice.\n\n'Ah, monsieur!--that I do well. There are many besides me who remember\nher.'\n\n'Yes--' said St. Aubert, 'and I am one of those.'\n\n'Alas, sir! you remember, then, a most beautiful and excellent lady. She\ndeserved a better fate.'\n\nTears stood in St. Aubert's eyes; 'Enough,' said he, in a voice almost\nstifled by the violence of his emotions,--'it is enough, my friend.'\n\nEmily, though extremely surprised by her father's manner, forbore to\nexpress her feelings by any question. La Voisin began to apologize, but\nSt. Aubert interrupted him; 'Apology is quite unnecessary,' said he,\n'let us change the topic. You was speaking of the music we just now\nheard.'\n\n'I was, monsieur--but hark!--it comes again; listen to that voice!' They\nwere all silent;\n\n At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound\n Rose, like a stream of rich distilled perfumes,\n And stole upon the air, that even Silence\n Was took ere she was 'ware, and wished she might\n Deny her nature, and be never more\n Still, to be so displaced.*\n     *Milton.\n\n\nIn a few moments the voice died into air, and the instrument, which had\nbeen heard before, sounded in low symphony. St. Aubert now observed,\nthat it produced a tone much more full and melodious than that of a\nguitar, and still more melancholy and soft than the lute. They continued\nto listen, but the sounds returned no more. 'This is strange!' said St.\nAubert, at length interrupting the silence. 'Very strange!' said Emily.\n'It is so,' rejoined La Voisin, and they were again silent.\n\nAfter a long pause, 'It is now about eighteen years since I first heard\nthat music,' said La Voisin; 'I remember it was on a fine summer's\nnight, much like this, but later, that I was walking in the woods, and\nalone. I remember, too, that my spirits were very low, for one of my\nboys was ill, and we feared we should lose him. I had been watching at\nhis bed-side all the evening while his mother slept; for she had sat\nup with him the night before. I had been watching, and went out for a\nlittle fresh air, the day had been very sultry. As I walked under the\nshades and mused, I heard music at a distance, and thought it was\nClaude playing upon his flute, as he often did of a fine evening, at\nthe cottage door. But, when I came to a place where the trees opened, (I\nshall never forget it!) and stood looking up at the north-lights, which\nshot up the heaven to a great height, I heard all of a sudden such\nsounds!--they came so as I cannot describe. It was like the music of\nangels, and I looked up again almost expecting to see them in the sky.\nWhen I came home, I told what I had heard, but they laughed at me, and\nsaid it must be some of the shepherds playing on their pipes, and I\ncould not persuade them to the contrary. A few nights after, however, my\nwife herself heard the same sounds, and was as much surprised as I was,\nand Father Denis frightened her sadly by saying, that it was music come\nto warn her of her child's death, and that music often came to houses\nwhere there was a dying person.'\n\nEmily, on hearing this, shrunk with a superstitious dread entirely new\nto her, and could scarcely conceal her agitation from St. Aubert.\n\n'But the boy lived, monsieur, in spite of Father Denis.'\n\n'Father Denis!' said St. Aubert, who had listened to 'narrative old age'\nwith patient attention, 'are we near a convent, then?'\n\n'Yes, sir; the convent of St. Clair stands at no great distance, on the\nsea shore yonder.'\n\n'Ah!' said St. Aubert, as if struck with some sudden remembrance, 'the\nconvent of St. Clair!' Emily observed the clouds of grief, mingled with\na faint expression of horror, gathering on his brow; his countenance\nbecame fixed, and, touched as it now was by the silver whiteness of\nthe moon-light, he resembled one of those marble statues of a monument,\nwhich seem to bend, in hopeless sorrow, over the ashes of the dead,\nshewn\n\n     by the blunted light\n That the dim moon through painted casements lends.*\n     * The Emigrants.\n\n\n'But, my dear sir,' said Emily, anxious to dissipate his thoughts, 'you\nforget that repose is necessary to you. If our kind host will give me\nleave, I will prepare your bed, for I know how you like it to be made.'\nSt. Aubert, recollecting himself, and smiling affectionately, desired\nshe would not add to her fatigue by that attention; and La Voisin, whose\nconsideration for his guest had been suspended by the interests\nwhich his own narrative had recalled, now started from his seat, and,\napologizing for not having called Agnes from the green, hurried out of\nthe room.\n\nIn a few moments he returned with his daughter, a young woman of\npleasing countenance, and Emily learned from her, what she had not\nbefore suspected, that, for their accommodation, it was necessary\npart of La Voisin's family should leave their beds; she lamented this\ncircumstance, but Agnes, by her reply, fully proved that she inherited,\nat least, a share of her father's courteous hospitality. It was settled,\nthat some of her children and Michael should sleep in the neighbouring\ncottage.\n\n'If I am better, to-morrow, my dear,' said St. Aubert when Emily\nreturned to him, 'I mean to set out at an early hour, that we may rest,\nduring the heat of the day, and will travel towards home. In the present\nstate of my health and spirits I cannot look on a longer journey with\npleasure, and I am also very anxious to reach La Vallee.' Emily, though\nshe also desired to return, was grieved at her father's sudden wish to\ndo so, which she thought indicated a greater degree of indisposition\nthan he would acknowledge. St. Aubert now retired to rest, and Emily to\nher little chamber, but not to immediate repose. Her thoughts returned\nto the late conversation, concerning the state of departed spirits; a\nsubject, at this time, particularly affecting to her, when she had every\nreason to believe that her dear father would ere long be numbered with\nthem. She leaned pensively on the little open casement, and in deep\nthought fixed her eyes on the heaven, whose blue unclouded concave was\nstudded thick with stars, the worlds, perhaps, of spirits, unsphered\nof mortal mould. As her eyes wandered along the boundless aether, her\nthoughts rose, as before, towards the sublimity of the Deity, and to the\ncontemplation of futurity. No busy note of this world interrupted the\ncourse of her mind; the merry dance had ceased, and every cottager had\nretired to his home. The still air seemed scarcely to breathe upon the\nwoods, and, now and then, the distant sound of a solitary sheep-bell,\nor of a closing casement, was all that broke on silence. At length, even\nthis hint of human being was heard no more. Elevated and enwrapt, while\nher eyes were often wet with tears of sublime devotion and solemn awe,\nshe continued at the casement, till the gloom of mid-night hung over the\nearth, and the planet, which La Voisin had pointed out, sunk below the\nwoods. She then recollected what he had said concerning this planet, and\nthe mysterious music; and, as she lingered at the window, half\nhoping and half fearing that it would return, her mind was led to the\nremembrance of the extreme emotion her father had shewn on mention of\nthe Marquis La Villeroi's death, and of the fate of the Marchioness,\nand she felt strongly interested concerning the remote cause of this\nemotion. Her surprise and curiosity were indeed the greater, because she\ndid not recollect ever to have heard him mention the name of Villeroi.\n\nNo music, however, stole on the silence of the night, and Emily,\nperceiving the lateness of the hour, returned to a scene of fatigue,\nremembered that she was to rise early in the morning, and withdrew from\nthe window to repose.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\n     Let those deplore their doom,\n Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn.\n But lofty souls can look beyond the tomb,\n Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn.\n Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return?\n Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed?--\n Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,\n And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,\n Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead!\n     BEATTIE\n\nEmily, called, as she had requested, at an early hour, awoke, little\nrefreshed by sleep, for uneasy dreams had pursued her, and marred the\nkindest blessing of the unhappy. But, when she opened her casement,\nlooked out upon the woods, bright with the morning sun, and inspired the\npure air, her mind was soothed. The scene was filled with that cheering\nfreshness, which seems to breathe the very spirit of health, and she\nheard only sweet and PICTURESQUE sounds, if such an expression may be\nallowed--the matin-bell of a distant convent, the faint murmur of the\nsea-waves, the song of birds, and the far-off low of cattle, which\nshe saw coming slowly on between the trunks of trees. Struck with\nthe circumstances of imagery around her, she indulged the pensive\ntranquillity which they inspired; and while she leaned on her window,\nwaiting till St. Aubert should descend to breakfast, her ideas arranged\nthemselves in the following lines:\n\nTHE FIRST HOUR OF MORNING\n\n How sweet to wind the forest's tangled shade,\n  When early twilight, from the eastern bound,\n Dawns on the sleeping landscape in the glade,\n  And fades as morning spreads her blush around!\n\n When ev'ry infant flower, that wept in night,\n  Lifts its chill head soft glowing with a tear,\n Expands its tender blossom to the light,\n  And gives its incense to the genial air.\n\n How fresh the breeze that wafts the rich perfume,\n  And swells the melody of waking birds;\n The hum of bees, beneath the verdant gloom,\n  And woodman's song, and low of distant herds!\n\n Then, doubtful gleams the mountain's hoary head,\n  Seen through the parting foliage from afar;\n And, farther still, the ocean's misty bed,\n  With flitting sails, that partial sun-beams share.\n\n But, vain the sylvan shade--the breath of May,\n  The voice of music floating on the gale,\n And forms, that beam through morning's dewy veil,\n If health no longer bid the heart be gay!\n O balmy hour! 'tis thine her wealth to give,\n Here spread her blush, and bid the parent live!\n\nEmily now heard persons moving below in the cottage, and presently the\nvoice of Michael, who was talking to his mules, as he led them forth\nfrom a hut adjoining. As she left her room, St. Aubert, who was now\nrisen, met her at the door, apparently as little restored by sleep as\nherself. She led him down stairs to the little parlour, in which they\nhad supped on the preceding night, where they found a neat breakfast set\nout, while the host and his daughter waited to bid them good-morrow.\n\n'I envy you this cottage, my good friends,' said St. Aubert, as he met\nthem, 'it is so pleasant, so quiet, and so neat; and this air, that one\nbreathes--if any thing could restore lost health, it would surely be\nthis air.'\n\nLa Voisin bowed gratefully, and replied, with the gallantry of a\nFrenchman, 'Our cottage may be envied, sir, since you and Mademoiselle\nhave honoured it with your presence.' St. Aubert gave him a friendly\nsmile for his compliment, and sat down to a table, spread with cream,\nfruit, new cheese, butter, and coffee. Emily, who had observed her\nfather with attention and thought he looked very ill, endeavoured to\npersuade him to defer travelling till the afternoon; but he seemed very\nanxious to be at home, and his anxiety he expressed repeatedly, and with\nan earnestness that was unusual with him. He now said, he found himself\nas well as he had been of late, and that he could bear travelling better\nin the cool hour of the morning, than at any other time. But, while\nhe was talking with his venerable host, and thanking him for his kind\nattentions, Emily observed his countenance change, and, before she could\nreach him, he fell back in his chair. In a few moments he recovered from\nthe sudden faintness that had come over him, but felt so ill, that\nhe perceived himself unable to set out, and, having remained a little\nwhile, struggling against the pressure of indisposition, he begged he\nmight be helped up stairs to bed. This request renewed all the terror\nwhich Emily had suffered on the preceding evening; but, though scarcely\nable to support herself, under the sudden shock it gave her, she tried\nto conceal her apprehensions from St. Aubert, and gave her trembling arm\nto assist him to the door of his chamber.\n\nWhen he was once more in bed, he desired that Emily, who was then\nweeping in her own room, might be called; and, as she came, he waved his\nhand for every other person to quit the apartment. When they were alone,\nhe held out his hand to her, and fixed his eyes upon her countenance,\nwith an expression so full of tenderness and grief, that all her\nfortitude forsook her, and she burst into an agony of tears. St. Aubert\nseemed struggling to acquire firmness, but was still unable to speak; he\ncould only press her hand, and check the tears that stood trembling in\nhis eyes. At length he commanded his voice, 'My dear child,' said he,\ntrying to smile through his anguish, 'my dear Emily!'--and paused again.\nHe raised his eyes to heaven, as if in prayer, and then, in a firmer\ntone, and with a look, in which the tenderness of the father was\ndignified by the pious solemnity of the saint, he said, 'My dear child,\nI would soften the painful truth I have to tell you, but I find myself\nquite unequal to the art. Alas! I would, at this moment, conceal it from\nyou, but that it would be most cruel to deceive you. It cannot be\nlong before we must part; let us talk of it, that our thoughts and our\nprayers may prepare us to bear it.' His voice faltered, while Emily,\nstill weeping, pressed his hand close to her heart, which swelled with a\nconvulsive sigh, but she could not look up.\n\n'Let me not waste these moments,' said St. Aubert, recovering himself,\n'I have much to say. There is a circumstance of solemn consequence,\nwhich I have to mention, and a solemn promise to obtain from you; when\nthis is done I shall be easier. You have observed, my dear, how anxious\nI am to reach home, but know not all my reasons for this. Listen to what\nI am going to say.--Yet stay--before I say more give me this promise, a\npromise made to your dying father!'--St. Aubert was interrupted; Emily,\nstruck by his last words, as if for the first time, with a conviction of\nhis immediate danger, raised her head; her tears stopped, and, gazing\nat him for a moment with an expression of unutterable anguish, a slight\nconvulsion seized her, and she sunk senseless in her chair. St.\nAubert's cries brought La Voisin and his daughter to the room, and\nthey administered every means in their power to restore her, but, for a\nconsiderable time, without effect. When she recovered, St. Aubert was so\nexhausted by the scene he had witnessed, that it was many minutes\nbefore he had strength to speak; he was, however, somewhat revived by\na cordial, which Emily gave him; and, being again alone with her, he\nexerted himself to tranquilize her spirits, and to offer her all the\ncomfort of which her situation admitted. She threw herself into his\narms, wept on his neck, and grief made her so insensible to all he said,\nthat he ceased to offer the alleviations, which he himself could not, at\nthis moment, feel, and mingled his silent tears with hers. Recalled, at\nlength, to a sense of duty, she tried to spare her father from a farther\nview of her suffering; and, quitting his embrace, dried her tears,\nand said something, which she meant for consolation. 'My dear Emily,'\nreplied St. Aubert, 'my dear child, we must look up with humble\nconfidence to that Being, who has protected and comforted us in every\ndanger, and in every affliction we have known; to whose eye every moment\nof our lives has been exposed; he will not, he does not, forsake us now;\nI feel his consolations in my heart. I shall leave you, my child, still\nin his care; and, though I depart from this world, I shall be still in\nhis presence. Nay, weep not again, my Emily. In death there is nothing\nnew, or surprising, since we all know, that we are born to die; and\nnothing terrible to those, who can confide in an all-powerful God.\nHad my life been spared now, after a very few years, in the course\nof nature, I must have resigned it; old age, with all its train of\ninfirmity, its privations and its sorrows, would have been mine; and\nthen, at last, death would have come, and called forth the tears you now\nshed. Rather, my child, rejoice, that I am saved from such suffering,\nand that I am permitted to die with a mind unimpaired, and sensible of\nthe comforts of faith and resignation.' St. Aubert paused, fatigued with\nspeaking. Emily again endeavoured to assume an air of composure; and, in\nreplying to what he had said, tried to sooth him with a belief, that he\nhad not spoken in vain.\n\nWhen he had reposed a while, he resumed the conversation. 'Let me\nreturn,' said he, 'to a subject, which is very near my heart. I said I\nhad a solemn promise to receive from you; let me receive it now, before\nI explain the chief circumstance which it concerns; there are others,\nof which your peace requires that you should rest in ignorance. Promise,\nthen, that you will perform exactly what I shall enjoin.'\n\nEmily, awed by the earnest solemnity of his manner, dried her tears,\nthat had begun again to flow, in spite of her efforts to suppress them;\nand, looking eloquently at St. Aubert, bound herself to do whatever he\nshould require by a vow, at which she shuddered, yet knew not why.\n\nHe proceeded: 'I know you too well, my Emily, to believe, that you would\nbreak any promise, much less one thus solemnly given; your assurance\ngives me peace, and the observance of it is of the utmost importance to\nyour tranquillity. Hear, then, what I am going to tell you. The closet,\nwhich adjoins my chamber at La Vallee, has a sliding board in the floor.\nYou will know it by a remarkable knot in the wood, and by its being the\nnext board, except one, to the wainscot, which fronts the door. At the\ndistance of about a yard from that end, nearer the window, you will\nperceive a line across it, as if the plank had been joined;--the way to\nopen it is this:--Press your foot upon the line; the end of the board\nwill then sink, and you may slide it with ease beneath the other. Below,\nyou will see a hollow place.' St. Aubert paused for breath, and Emily\nsat fixed in deep attention. 'Do you understand these directions, my\ndear?' said he. Emily, though scarcely able to speak, assured him that\nshe did.\n\n'When you return home, then,' he added with a deep sigh--\n\nAt the mention of her return home, all the melancholy circumstances,\nthat must attend this return, rushed upon her fancy; she burst into\nconvulsive grief, and St. Aubert himself, affected beyond the resistance\nof the fortitude which he had, at first, summoned, wept with her.\nAfter some moments, he composed himself. 'My dear child,' said he, 'be\ncomforted. When I am gone, you will not be forsaken--I leave you only in\nthe more immediate care of that Providence, which has never yet forsaken\nme. Do not afflict me with this excess of grief; rather teach me by\nyour example to bear my own.' He stopped again, and Emily, the more she\nendeavoured to restrain her emotion, found it the less possible to do\nso.\n\nSt. Aubert, who now spoke with pain, resumed the subject. 'That closet,\nmy dear,--when you return home, go to it; and, beneath the board I have\ndescribed, you will find a packet of written papers. Attend to me now,\nfor the promise you have given particularly relates to what I shall\ndirect. These papers you must burn--and, solemnly I command you, WITHOUT\nEXAMINING THEM.'\n\nEmily's surprise, for a moment, overcame her grief, and she ventured to\nask, why this must be? St. Aubert replied, that, if it had been right\nfor him to explain his reasons, her late promise would have been\nunnecessarily exacted. 'It is sufficient for you, my love, to have a\ndeep sense of the importance of observing me in this instance.' St.\nAubert proceeded. 'Under that board you will also find about two hundred\nlouis d'ors, wrapped in a silk purse; indeed, it was to secure whatever\nmoney might be in the chateau, that this secret place was contrived,\nat a time when the province was over-run by troops of men, who took\nadvantage of the tumults, and became plunderers.\n\n'But I have yet another promise to receive from you, which is--that\nyou will never, whatever may be your future circumstances, SELL the\nchateau.' St. Aubert even enjoined her, whenever she might marry, to\nmake it an article in the contract, that the chateau should always\nbe hers. He then gave her a more minute account of his present\ncircumstances than he had yet done, adding, 'The two hundred louis, with\nwhat money you will now find in my purse, is all the ready money I have\nto leave you. I have told you how I am circumstanced with M. Motteville,\nat Paris. Ah, my child! I leave you poor--but not destitute,' he added,\nafter a long pause. Emily could make no reply to any thing he now said,\nbut knelt at the bed-side, with her face upon the quilt, weeping over\nthe hand she held there.\n\nAfter this conversation, the mind of St. Aubert appeared to be much more\nat ease; but, exhausted by the effort of speaking, he sunk into a kind\nof doze, and Emily continued to watch and weep beside him, till a gentle\ntap at the chamber-door roused her. It was La Voisin, come to say, that\na confessor from the neighbouring convent was below, ready to attend St.\nAubert. Emily would not suffer her father to be disturbed, but desired,\nthat the priest might not leave the cottage. When St. Aubert awoke from\nthis doze, his senses were confused, and it was some moments before he\nrecovered them sufficiently to know, that it was Emily who sat beside\nhim. He then moved his lips, and stretched forth his hand to her; as she\nreceived which, she sunk back in her chair, overcome by the impression\nof death on his countenance. In a few minutes he recovered his voice,\nand Emily then asked, if he wished to see the confessor; he replied,\nthat he did; and, when the holy father appeared, she withdrew. They\nremained alone together above half an hour; when Emily was called in,\nshe found St. Aubert more agitated than when she had left him, and she\ngazed, with a slight degree of resentment, at the friar, as the cause\nof this; who, however, looked mildly and mournfully at her, and turned\naway. St. Aubert, in a tremulous voice, said, he wished her to join in\nprayer with him, and asked if La Voisin would do so too. The old man and\nhis daughter came; they both wept, and knelt with Emily round the bed,\nwhile the holy father read in a solemn voice the service for the dying.\nSt. Aubert lay with a serene countenance, and seemed to join fervently\nin the devotion, while tears often stole from beneath his closed\neyelids, and Emily's sobs more than once interrupted the service.\n\nWhen it was concluded, and extreme unction had been administered,\nthe friar withdrew. St. Aubert then made a sign for La Voisin to come\nnearer. He gave him his hand, and was, for a moment, silent. At length,\nhe said, in a trembling voice, 'My good friend, our acquaintance has\nbeen short, but long enough to give you an opportunity of shewing me\nmuch kind attention. I cannot doubt, that you will extend this kindness\nto my daughter, when I am gone; she will have need of it. I entrust her\nto your care during the few days she will remain here. I need say no\nmore--you know the feelings of a father, for you have children; mine\nwould be, indeed, severe if I had less confidence in you.' He paused. La\nVoisin assured him, and his tears bore testimony to his sincerity, that\nhe would do all he could to soften her affliction, and that, if St.\nAubert wished it, he would even attend her into Gascony; an offer so\npleasing to St. Aubert, that he had scarcely words to acknowledge his\nsense of the old man's kindness, or to tell him, that he accepted it.\nThe scene, that followed between St. Aubert and Emily, affected La\nVoisin so much, that he quitted the chamber, and she was again left\nalone with her father, whose spirits seemed fainting fast, but neither\nhis senses, or his voice, yet failed him; and, at intervals, he employed\nmuch of these last awful moments in advising his daughter, as to her\nfuture conduct. Perhaps, he never had thought more justly, or expressed\nhimself more clearly, than he did now.\n\n'Above all, my dear Emily,' said he, 'do not indulge in the pride of\nfine feeling, the romantic error of amiable minds. Those, who really\npossess sensibility, ought early to be taught, that it is a dangerous\nquality, which is continually extracting the excess of misery, or\ndelight, from every surrounding circumstance. And, since, in our passage\nthrough this world, painful circumstances occur more frequently than\npleasing ones, and since our sense of evil is, I fear, more acute than\nour sense of good, we become the victims of our feelings, unless we can\nin some degree command them. I know you will say, (for you are young, my\nEmily) I know you will say, that you are contented sometimes to suffer,\nrather than to give up your refined sense of happiness, at others;\nbut, when your mind has been long harassed by vicissitude, you will be\ncontent to rest, and you will then recover from your delusion. You will\nperceive, that the phantom of happiness is exchanged for the substance;\nfor happiness arises in a state of peace, not of tumult. It is of a\ntemperate and uniform nature, and can no more exist in a heart, that is\ncontinually alive to minute circumstances, than in one that is dead to\nfeeling. You see, my dear, that, though I would guard you against the\ndangers of sensibility, I am not an advocate for apathy. At your age\nI should have said THAT is a vice more hateful than all the errors of\nsensibility, and I say so still. I call it a VICE, because it leads to\npositive evil; in this, however, it does no more than an ill-governed\nsensibility, which, by such a rule, might also be called a vice; but\nthe evil of the former is of more general consequence. I have exhausted\nmyself,' said St. Aubert, feebly, 'and have wearied you, my Emily; but,\non a subject so important to your future comfort, I am anxious to be\nperfectly understood.'\n\nEmily assured him, that his advice was most precious to her, and that\nshe would never forget it, or cease from endeavouring to profit by it.\nSt. Aubert smiled affectionately and sorrowfully upon her. 'I repeat\nit,' said he, 'I would not teach you to become insensible, if I could;\nI would only warn you of the evils of susceptibility, and point out\nhow you may avoid them. Beware, my love, I conjure you, of that\nself-delusion, which has been fatal to the peace of so many persons;\nbeware of priding yourself on the gracefulness of sensibility; if you\nyield to this vanity, your happiness is lost for ever. Always remember\nhow much more valuable is the strength of fortitude, than the grace of\nsensibility. Do not, however, confound fortitude with apathy; apathy\ncannot know the virtue. Remember, too, that one act of beneficence,\none act of real usefulness, is worth all the abstract sentiment in the\nworld. Sentiment is a disgrace, instead of an ornament, unless it lead\nus to good actions. The miser, who thinks himself respectable, merely\nbecause he possesses wealth, and thus mistakes the means of doing good,\nfor the actual accomplishment of it, is not more blameable than the man\nof sentiment, without active virtue. You may have observed persons, who\ndelight so much in this sort of sensibility to sentiment, which excludes\nthat to the calls of any practical virtue, that they turn from\nthe distressed, and, because their sufferings are painful to be\ncontemplated, do not endeavour to relieve them. How despicable is that\nhumanity, which can be contented to pity, where it might assuage!'\n\nSt. Aubert, some time after, spoke of Madame Cheron, his sister. 'Let\nme inform you of a circumstance, that nearly affects your welfare,' he\nadded. 'We have, you know, had little intercourse for some years, but,\nas she is now your only female relation, I have thought it proper to\nconsign you to her care, as you will see in my will, till you are of\nage, and to recommend you to her protection afterwards. She is not\nexactly the person, to whom I would have committed my Emily, but I had\nno alternative, and I believe her to be upon the whole--a good kind of\nwoman. I need not recommend it to your prudence, my love, to endeavour\nto conciliate her kindness; you will do this for his sake, who has often\nwished to do so for yours.'\n\nEmily assured him, that, whatever he requested she would religiously\nperform to the utmost of her ability. 'Alas!' added she, in a voice\ninterrupted by sighs, 'that will soon be all which remains for me; it\nwill be almost my only consolation to fulfil your wishes.'\n\nSt. Aubert looked up silently in her face, as if would have spoken, but\nhis spirit sunk a while, and his eyes became heavy and dull. She felt\nthat look at her heart. 'My dear father!' she exclaimed; and then,\nchecking herself, pressed his hand closer, and hid her face with\nher handkerchief. Her tears were concealed, but St. Aubert heard her\nconvulsive sobs. His spirits returned. 'O my child!' said he, faintly,\n'let my consolations be yours. I die in peace; for I know, that I\nam about to return to the bosom of my Father, who will still be your\nFather, when I am gone. Always trust in him, my love, and he will\nsupport you in these moments, as he supports me.'\n\nEmily could only listen, and weep; but the extreme composure of his\nmanner, and the faith and hope he expressed, somewhat soothed her\nanguish. Yet, whenever she looked upon his emaciated countenance, and\nsaw the lines of death beginning to prevail over it--saw his sunk eyes,\nstill bent on her, and their heavy lids pressing to a close, there was a\npang in her heart, such as defied expression, though it required filial\nvirtue, like hers, to forbear the attempt.\n\nHe desired once more to bless her; 'Where are you, my dear?' said he,\nas he stretched forth his hands. Emily had turned to the window, that he\nmight not perceive her anguish; she now understood, that his sight had\nfailed him. When he had given her his blessing, and it seemed to be the\nlast effort of expiring life, he sunk back on his pillow. She kissed\nhis forehead; the damps of death had settled there, and, forgetting her\nfortitude for a moment, her tears mingled with them. St. Aubert lifted\nup his eyes; the spirit of a father returned to them, but it quickly\nvanished, and he spoke no more.\n\nSt. Aubert lingered till about three o'clock in the afternoon, and, thus\ngradually sinking into death, he expired without a struggle, or a sigh.\n\nEmily was led from the chamber by La Voisin and his daughter, who did\nwhat they could to comfort her. The old man sat and wept with her. Agnes\nwas more erroneously officious.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\n O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,\n Aerial forms shall sit at eve,\n and bend the pensive head.\n     COLLINS\n\nThe monk, who had before appeared, returned in the evening to offer\nconsolation to Emily, and brought a kind message from the lady abbess,\ninviting her to the convent. Emily, though she did not accept the offer,\nreturned an answer expressive of her gratitude. The holy conversation\nof the friar, whose mild benevolence of manners bore some resemblance to\nthose of St. Aubert, soothed the violence of her grief, and lifted her\nheart to the Being, who, extending through all place and all eternity,\nlooks on the events of this little world as on the shadows of a moment,\nand beholds equally, and in the same instant, the soul that has passed\nthe gates of death, and that, which still lingers in the body. 'In the\nsight of God,' said Emily, 'my dear father now exists, as truly as he\nyesterday existed to me; it is to me only that he is dead; to God and to\nhimself he yet lives!'\n\nThe good monk left her more tranquil than she had been since St. Aubert\ndied; and, before she retired to her little cabin for the night, she\ntrusted herself so far as to visit the corpse. Silent, and without\nweeping, she stood by its side. The features, placid and serene, told\nthe nature of the last sensations, that had lingered in the now deserted\nframe. For a moment she turned away, in horror of the stillness in which\ndeath had fixed that countenance, never till now seen otherwise\nthan animated; then gazed on it with a mixture of doubt and awful\nastonishment. Her reason could scarcely overcome an involuntary and\nunaccountable expectation of seeing that beloved countenance still\nsusceptible. She continued to gaze wildly; took up the cold hand;\nspoke; still gazed, and then burst into a transport of grief. La Voisin,\nhearing her sobs, came into the room to lead her away, but she heard\nnothing, and only begged that he would leave her.\n\nAgain alone, she indulged her tears, and, when the gloom of evening\nobscured the chamber, and almost veiled from her eyes the object of her\ndistress, she still hung over the body; till her spirits, at length,\nwere exhausted, and she became tranquil. La Voisin again knocked at the\ndoor, and entreated that she would come to the common apartment. Before\nshe went, she kissed the lips of St. Aubert, as she was wont to do when\nshe bade him good night. Again she kissed them; her heart felt as if it\nwould break, a few tears of agony started to her eyes, she looked up to\nheaven, then at St. Aubert, and left the room.\n\nRetired to her lonely cabin, her melancholy thoughts still hovered\nround the body of her deceased parent; and, when she sunk into a kind\nof slumber, the images of her waking mind still haunted her fancy. She\nthought she saw her father approaching her with a benign countenance;\nthen, smiling mournfully and pointing upwards, his lips moved, but,\ninstead of words, she heard sweet music borne on the distant air, and\npresently saw his features glow with the mild rapture of a superior\nbeing. The strain seemed to swell louder, and she awoke. The vision\nwas gone, but music yet came to her ear in strains such as angels might\nbreathe. She doubted, listened, raised herself in the bed, and again\nlistened. It was music, and not an illusion of her imagination. After\na solemn steady harmony, it paused; then rose again, in mournful\nsweetness, and then died, in a cadence, that seemed to bear away the\nlistening soul to heaven. She instantly remembered the music of the\npreceding night, with the strange circumstances, related by La Voisin,\nand the affecting conversation it had led to, concerning the state of\ndeparted spirits. All that St. Aubert had said, on that subject, now\npressed upon her heart, and overwhelmed it. What a change in a few\nhours! He, who then could only conjecture, was now made acquainted with\ntruth; was himself become one of the departed! As she listened, she was\nchilled with superstitious awe, her tears stopped; and she rose, and\nwent to the window. All without was obscured in shade; but Emily,\nturning her eyes from the massy darkness of the woods, whose waving\noutline appeared on the horizon, saw, on the left, that effulgent\nplanet, which the old man had pointed out, setting over the woods. She\nremembered what he had said concerning it, and, the music now coming\nat intervals on the air, she unclosed the casement to listen to the\nstrains, that soon gradually sunk to a greater distance, and tried\nto discover whence they came. The obscurity prevented her from\ndistinguishing any object on the green platform below; and the sounds\nbecame fainter and fainter, till they softened into silence. She\nlistened, but they returned no more. Soon after, she observed the\nplanet trembling between the fringed tops of the woods, and, in the next\nmoment, sink behind them. Chilled with a melancholy awe, she retired\nonce more to her bed, and, at length, forgot for a while her sorrows in\nsleep.\n\nOn the following morning, she was visited by a sister of the convent,\nwho came, with kind offices and a second invitation from the lady\nabbess; and Emily, though she could not forsake the cottage, while the\nremains of her father were in it, consented, however painful such a\nvisit must be, in the present state of her spirits, to pay her respects\nto the abbess, in the evening.\n\nAbout an hour before sun-set, La Voisin shewed her the way through the\nwoods to the convent, which stood in a small bay of the Mediterranean,\ncrowned by a woody amphitheatre; and Emily, had she been less unhappy,\nwould have admired the extensive sea view, that appeared from the green\nslope, in front of the edifice, and the rich shores, hung with woods\nand pastures, that extended on either hand. But her thoughts were\nnow occupied by one sad idea, and the features of nature were to her\ncolourless and without form. The bell for vespers struck, as she passed\nthe ancient gate of the convent, and seemed the funereal note for St.\nAubert. Little incidents affect a mind, enervated by sorrow; Emily\nstruggled against the sickening faintness, that came over her, and was\nled into the presence of the abbess, who received her with an air of\nmaternal tenderness; an air of such gentle solicitude and consideration,\nas touched her with an instantaneous gratitude; her eyes were filled\nwith tears, and the words she would have spoken faltered on her lips.\nThe abbess led her to a seat, and sat down beside her, still holding\nher hand and regarding her in silence, as Emily dried her tears and\nattempted to speak. 'Be composed, my daughter,' said the abbess in\na soothing voice, 'do not speak yet; I know all you would say. Your\nspirits must be soothed. We are going to prayers;--will you attend\nour evening service? It is comfortable, my child, to look up in our\nafflictions to a father, who sees and pities us, and who chastens in his\nmercy.'\n\nEmily's tears flowed again, but a thousand sweet emotions mingled with\nthem. The abbess suffered her to weep without interruption, and watched\nover her with a look of benignity, that might have characterized the\ncountenance of a guardian angel. Emily, when she became tranquil, was\nencouraged to speak without reserve, and to mention the motive, that\nmade her unwilling to quit the cottage, which the abbess did not oppose\neven by a hint; but praised the filial piety of her conduct, and added a\nhope, that she would pass a few days at the convent, before she returned\nto La Vallee. 'You must allow yourself a little time to recover from\nyour first shock, my daughter, before you encounter a second; I will not\naffect to conceal from you how much I know your heart must suffer, on\nreturning to the scene of your former happiness. Here, you will have\nall, that quiet and sympathy and religion can give, to restore your\nspirits. But come,' added she, observing the tears swell in Emily's\neyes, 'we will go to the chapel.'\n\nEmily followed to the parlour, where the nuns were assembled, to whom\nthe abbess committed her, saying, 'This is a daughter, for whom I have\nmuch esteem; be sisters to her.'\n\nThey passed on in a train to the chapel, where the solemn devotion, with\nwhich the service was performed, elevated her mind, and brought to it\nthe comforts of faith and resignation.\n\nTwilight came on, before the abbess's kindness would suffer Emily to\ndepart, when she left the convent, with a heart much lighter than she\nhad entered it, and was reconducted by La Voisin through the woods, the\npensive gloom of which was in unison with the temper of her mind; and\nshe pursued the little wild path, in musing silence, till her guide\nsuddenly stopped, looked round, and then struck out of the path into the\nhigh grass, saying he had mistaken the road. He now walked on quickly,\nand Emily, proceeding with difficulty over the obscured and uneven\nground, was left at some distance, till her voice arrested him, who\nseemed unwilling to stop, and still hurried on. 'If you are in doubt\nabout the way,' said Emily, 'had we not better enquire it at the chateau\nyonder, between the trees?'\n\n'No,' replied La Voisin, 'there is no occasion. When we reach that\nbrook, ma'amselle, (you see the light upon the water there, beyond the\nwoods) when we reach that brook, we shall be at home presently. I don't\nknow how I happened to mistake the path; I seldom come this way after\nsun-set.'\n\n'It is solitary enough,' said Emily, 'but you have no banditti here.'\n\n'No, ma'amselle--no banditti.'\n\n'What are you afraid of then, my good friend? you are not\nsuperstitious?' 'No, not superstitious; but, to tell you the truth,\nlady, nobody likes to go near that chateau, after dusk.' 'By whom is it\ninhabited,' said Emily, 'that it is so formidable?' 'Why, ma'amselle,\nit is scarcely inhabited, for our lord the Marquis, and the lord of all\nthese find woods, too, is dead. He had not once been in it, for these\nmany years, and his people, who have the care of it, live in a cottage\nclose by.' Emily now understood this to be the chateau, which La Voisin\nhad formerly pointed out, as having belonged to the Marquis Villeroi, on\nthe mention of which her father had appeared so much affected.\n\n'Ah! it is a desolate place now,' continued La Voisin, 'and such a\ngrand, fine place, as I remember it!' Emily enquired what had occasioned\nthis lamentable change; but the old man was silent, and Emily, whose\ninterest was awakened by the fear he had expressed, and above all by\na recollection of her father's agitation, repeated the question, and\nadded, 'If you are neither afraid of the inhabitants, my good friend,\nnor are superstitious, how happens it, that you dread to pass near that\nchateau in the dark?'\n\n'Perhaps, then, I am a little superstitious, ma'amselle; and, if you\nknew what I do, you might be so too. Strange things have happened\nthere. Monsieur, your good father, appeared to have known the late\nMarchioness.' 'Pray inform me what did happen?' said Emily, with much\nemotion.\n\n'Alas! ma'amselle,' answered La Voisin, 'enquire no further; it is not\nfor me to lay open the domestic secrets of my lord.'--Emily, surprised\nby the old man's words, and his manner of delivering them, forbore to\nrepeat her question; a nearer interest, the remembrance of St. Aubert,\noccupied her thoughts, and she was led to recollect the music she heard\non the preceding night, which she mentioned to La Voisin. 'You was not\nalone, ma'amselle, in this,' he replied, 'I heard it too; but I have so\noften heard it, at the same hour, that I was scarcely surprised.'\n\n'You doubtless believe this music to have some connection with the\nchateau,' said Emily suddenly, 'and are, therefore, superstitious.' 'It\nmay be so, ma'amselle, but there are other circumstances, belonging to\nthat chateau, which I remember, and sadly too.' A heavy sigh followed:\nbut Emily's delicacy restrained the curiosity these words revived, and\nshe enquired no further.\n\nOn reaching the cottage, all the violence of her grief returned; it\nseemed as if she had escaped its heavy pressure only while she was\nremoved from the object of it. She passed immediately to the chamber,\nwhere the remains of her father were laid, and yielded to all the\nanguish of hopeless grief. La Voisin, at length, persuaded her to\nleave the room, and she returned to her own, where, exhausted by\nthe sufferings of the day, she soon fell into deep sleep, and awoke\nconsiderably refreshed.\n\nWhen the dreadful hour arrived, in which the remains of St. Aubert were\nto be taken from her for ever, she went alone to the chamber to look\nupon his countenance yet once again, and La Voisin, who had waited\npatiently below stairs, till her despair should subside, with the\nrespect due to grief, forbore to interrupt the indulgence of it, till\nsurprise, at the length of her stay, and then apprehension overcame his\ndelicacy, and he went to lead her from the chamber. Having tapped gently\nat the door, without receiving an answer, he listened attentively, but\nall was still; no sigh, no sob of anguish was heard. Yet more alarmed by\nthis silence, he opened the door, and found Emily lying senseless across\nthe foot of the bed, near which stood the coffin. His calls procured\nassistance, and she was carried to her room, where proper applications,\nat length, restored her.\n\nDuring her state of insensibility, La Voisin had given directions for\nthe coffin to be closed, and he succeeded in persuading Emily to forbear\nrevisiting the chamber. She, indeed, felt herself unequal to this, and\nalso perceived the necessity of sparing her spirits, and recollecting\nfortitude sufficient to bear her through the approaching scene. St.\nAubert had given a particular injunction, that his remains should be\ninterred in the church of the convent of St. Clair, and, in mentioning\nthe north chancel, near the ancient tomb of the Villerois, had pointed\nout the exact spot, where he wished to be laid. The superior had granted\nthis place for the interment, and thither, therefore, the sad procession\nnow moved, which was met, at the gates, by the venerable priest,\nfollowed by a train of friars. Every person, who heard the solemn chant\nof the anthem, and the peal of the organ, that struck up, when the\nbody entered the church, and saw also the feeble steps, and the assumed\ntranquillity of Emily, gave her involuntary tears. She shed none,\nbut walked, her face partly shaded by a thin black veil, between two\npersons, who supported her, preceded by the abbess, and followed by\nnuns, whose plaintive voices mellowed the swelling harmony of the dirge.\nWhen the procession came to the grave the music ceased. Emily drew the\nveil entirely over her face, and, in a momentary pause, between the\nanthem and the rest of the service, her sobs were distinctly audible.\nThe holy father began the service, and Emily again commanded her\nfeelings, till the coffin was let down, and she heard the earth rattle\non its lid. Then, as she shuddered, a groan burst from her heart, and\nshe leaned for support on the person who stood next to her. In a few\nmoments she recovered; and, when she heard those affecting and sublime\nwords: 'His body is buried in peace, and his soul returns to Him that\ngave it,' her anguish softened into tears.\n\nThe abbess led her from the church into her own parlour, and there\nadministered all the consolations, that religion and gentle sympathy\ncan give. Emily struggled against the pressure of grief; but the abbess,\nobserving her attentively, ordered a bed to be prepared, and recommended\nher to retire to repose. She also kindly claimed her promise to remain\na few days at the convent; and Emily, who had no wish to return to\nthe cottage, the scene of all her sufferings, had leisure, now that no\nimmediate care pressed upon her attention, to feel the indisposition,\nwhich disabled her from immediately travelling.\n\nMeanwhile, the maternal kindness of the abbess, and the gentle\nattentions of the nuns did all, that was possible, towards soothing her\nspirits and restoring her health. But the latter was too deeply wounded,\nthrough the medium of her mind, to be quickly revived. She lingered for\nsome weeks at the convent, under the influence of a slow fever, wishing\nto return home, yet unable to go thither; often even reluctant to\nleave the spot where her father's relics were deposited, and sometimes\nsoothing herself with the consideration, that, if she died here, her\nremains would repose beside those of St. Aubert. In the meanwhile, she\nsent letters to Madame Cheron and to the old housekeeper, informing them\nof the sad event, that had taken place, and of her own situation.\nFrom her aunt she received an answer, abounding more in common-place\ncondolement, than in traits of real sorrow, which assured her, that a\nservant should be sent to conduct her to La Vallee, for that her\nown time was so much occupied by company, that she had no leisure to\nundertake so long a journey. However Emily might prefer La Vallee to\nTholouse, she could not be insensible to the indecorous and unkind\nconduct of her aunt, in suffering her to return thither, where she had\nno longer a relation to console and protect her; a conduct, which was\nthe more culpable, since St. Aubert had appointed Madame Cheron the\nguardian of his orphan daughter.\n\nMadame Cheron's servant made the attendance of the good La Voisin\nunnecessary; and Emily, who felt sensibly her obligations to him, for\nall his kind attention to her late father, as well as to herself, was\nglad to spare him a long, and what, at his time of life, must have been\na troublesome journey.\n\nDuring her stay at the convent, the peace and sanctity that reigned\nwithin, the tranquil beauty of the scenery without, and the delicate\nattentions of the abbess and the nuns, were circumstances so soothing to\nher mind, that they almost tempted her to leave a world, where she had\nlost her dearest friends, and devote herself to the cloister, in a spot,\nrendered sacred to her by containing the tomb of St. Aubert. The pensive\nenthusiasm, too, so natural to her temper, had spread a beautiful\nillusion over the sanctified retirement of a nun, that almost hid from\nher view the selfishness of its security. But the touches, which a\nmelancholy fancy, slightly tinctured with superstition, gave to the\nmonastic scene, began to fade, as her spirits revived, and brought once\nmore to her heart an image, which had only transiently been banished\nthence. By this she was silently awakened to hope and comfort and sweet\naffections; visions of happiness gleamed faintly at a distance, and,\nthough she knew them to be illusions, she could not resolve to shut them\nout for ever. It was the remembrance of Valancourt, of his taste, his\ngenius, and of the countenance which glowed with both, that, perhaps,\nalone determined her to return to the world. The grandeur and sublimity\nof the scenes, amidst which they had first met, had fascinated her\nfancy, and had imperceptibly contributed to render Valancourt more\ninteresting by seeming to communicate to him somewhat of their own\ncharacter. The esteem, too, which St. Aubert had repeatedly expressed\nfor him, sanctioned this kindness; but, though his countenance and\nmanner had continually expressed his admiration of her, he had not\notherwise declared it; and even the hope of seeing him again was so\ndistant, that she was scarcely conscious of it, still less that it\ninfluenced her conduct on this occasion.\n\nIt was several days after the arrival of Madame Cheron's servant before\nEmily was sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey to La Vallee.\nOn the evening preceding her departure, she went to the cottage to take\nleave of La Voisin and his family, and to make them a return for their\nkindness. The old man she found sitting on a bench at his door, between\nhis daughter, and his son-in-law, who was just returned from his daily\nlabour, and who was playing upon a pipe, that, in tone, resembled an\noboe. A flask of wine stood beside the old man, and, before him, a small\ntable with fruit and bread, round which stood several of his grandsons,\nfine rosy children, who were taking their supper, as their mother\ndistributed it. On the edge of the little green, that spread before\nthe cottage, were cattle and a few sheep reposing under the trees. The\nlandscape was touched with the mellow light of the evening sun, whose\nlong slanting beams played through a vista of the woods, and lighted\nup the distant turrets of the chateau. She paused a moment, before she\nemerged from the shade, to gaze upon the happy group before her--on the\ncomplacency and ease of healthy age, depictured on the countenance of\nLa Voisin; the maternal tenderness of Agnes, as she looked upon her\nchildren, and the innocency of infantine pleasures, reflected in their\nsmiles. Emily looked again at the venerable old man, and at the cottage;\nthe memory of her father rose with full force upon her mind, and she\nhastily stepped forward, afraid to trust herself with a longer pause.\nShe took an affectionate and affecting leave of La Voisin and his\nfamily; he seemed to love her as his daughter, and shed tears; Emily\nshed many. She avoided going into the cottage, since she knew it would\nrevive emotions, such as she could not now endure.\n\nOne painful scene yet awaited her, for she determined to visit again her\nfather's grave; and that she might not be interrupted, or observed in\nthe indulgence of her melancholy tenderness, she deferred her visit,\ntill every inhabitant of the convent, except the nun who promised\nto bring her the key of the church, should be retired to rest. Emily\nremained in her chamber, till she heard the convent bell strike twelve,\nwhen the nun came, as she had appointed, with the key of a private door,\nthat opened into the church, and they descended together the narrow\nwinding stair-case, that led thither. The nun offered to accompany Emily\nto the grave, adding, 'It is melancholy to go alone at this hour;' but\nthe former, thanking her for the consideration, could not consent to\nhave any witness of her sorrow; and the sister, having unlocked the\ndoor, gave her the lamp. 'You will remember, sister,' said she, 'that in\nthe east aisle, which you must pass, is a newly opened grave; hold the\nlight to the ground, that you may not stumble over the loose earth.'\nEmily, thanking her again, took the lamp, and, stepping into the church,\nsister Mariette departed. But Emily paused a moment at the door;\na sudden fear came over her, and she returned to the foot of the\nstair-case, where, as she heard the steps of the nun ascending, and,\nwhile she held up the lamp, saw her black veil waving over the spiral\nbalusters, she was tempted to call her back. While she hesitated, the\nveil disappeared, and, in the next moment, ashamed of her fears, she\nreturned to the church. The cold air of the aisles chilled her, and\ntheir deep silence and extent, feebly shone upon by the moon-light, that\nstreamed through a distant gothic window, would at any other time have\nawed her into superstition; now, grief occupied all her attention. She\nscarcely heard the whispering echoes of her own steps, or thought of the\nopen grave, till she found herself almost on its brink. A friar of the\nconvent had been buried there on the preceding evening, and, as she had\nsat alone in her chamber at twilight, she heard, at distance, the monks\nchanting the requiem for his soul. This brought freshly to her memory\nthe circumstances of her father's death; and, as the voices, mingling\nwith a low querulous peal of the organ, swelled faintly, gloomy and\naffecting visions had arisen upon her mind. Now she remembered them,\nand, turning aside to avoid the broken ground, these recollections made\nher pass on with quicker steps to the grave of St. Aubert, when in the\nmoon-light, that fell athwart a remote part of the aisle, she thought\nshe saw a shadow gliding between the pillars. She stopped to listen,\nand, not hearing any footstep, believed that her fancy had deceived her,\nand, no longer apprehensive of being observed, proceeded. St. Aubert was\nburied beneath a plain marble, bearing little more than his name and the\ndate of his birth and death, near the foot of the stately monument of\nthe Villerois. Emily remained at his grave, till a chime, that called\nthe monks to early prayers, warned her to retire; then, she wept over\nit a last farewel, and forced herself from the spot. After this hour of\nmelancholy indulgence, she was refreshed by a deeper sleep, than she\nhad experienced for a long time, and, on awakening, her mind was more\ntranquil and resigned, than it had been since St. Aubert's death.\n\nBut, when the moment of her departure from the convent arrived, all her\ngrief returned; the memory of the dead, and the kindness of the living\nattached her to the place; and for the sacred spot, where her father's\nremains were interred, she seemed to feel all those tender affections\nwhich we conceive for home. The abbess repeated many kind assurances of\nregard at their parting, and pressed her to return, if ever she should\nfind her condition elsewhere unpleasant; many of the nuns also expressed\nunaffected regret at her departure, and Emily left the convent with many\ntears, and followed by sincere wishes for her happiness.\n\nShe had travelled several leagues, before the scenes of the country,\nthrough which she passed, had power to rouse her for a moment from the\ndeep melancholy, into which she was sunk, and, when they did, it was\nonly to remind her, that, on her last view of them, St. Aubert was at\nher side, and to call up to her remembrance the remarks he had delivered\non similar scenery. Thus, without any particular occurrence, passed\nthe day in languor and dejection. She slept that night in a town on the\nskirts of Languedoc, and, on the following morning, entered Gascony.\n\nTowards the close of this day, Emily came within view of the plains in\nthe neighbourhood of La Vallee, and the well-known objects of former\ntimes began to press upon her notice, and with them recollections, that\nawakened all her tenderness and grief. Often, while she looked through\nher tears upon the wild grandeur of the Pyrenees, now varied with the\nrich lights and shadows of evening, she remembered, that, when last she\nsaw them, her father partook with her of the pleasure they inspired.\nSuddenly some scene, which he had particularly pointed out to her, would\npresent itself, and the sick languor of despair would steal upon her\nheart. 'There!' she would exclaim, 'there are the very cliffs, there the\nwood of pines, which he looked at with such delight, as we passed this\nroad together for the last time. There, too, under the crag of that\nmountain, is the cottage, peeping from among the cedars, which he bade\nme remember, and copy with my pencil. O my father, shall I never see you\nmore!'\n\nAs she drew near the chateau, these melancholy memorials of past times\nmultiplied. At length, the chateau itself appeared, amid the glowing\nbeauty of St. Aubert's favourite landscape. This was an object, which\ncalled for fortitude, not for tears; Emily dried hers, and prepared to\nmeet with calmness the trying moment of her return to that home, where\nthere was no longer a parent to welcome her. 'Yes,' said she, 'let me\nnot forget the lessons he has taught me! How often he has pointed out\nthe necessity of resisting even virtuous sorrow; how often we have\nadmired together the greatness of a mind, that can at once suffer and\nreason! O my father! if you are permitted to look down upon your\nchild, it will please you to see, that she remembers, and endeavours to\npractise, the precepts you have given her.'\n\nA turn on the road now allowed a nearer view of the chateau, the\nchimneys, tipped with light, rising from behind St. Aubert's favourite\noaks, whose foliage partly concealed the lower part of the building.\nEmily could not suppress a heavy sigh. 'This, too, was his favourite\nhour,' said she, as she gazed upon the long evening shadows, stretched\nathwart the landscape. 'How deep the repose, how lovely the scene!\nlovely and tranquil as in former days!'\n\nAgain she resisted the pressure of sorrow, till her ear caught the gay\nmelody of the dance, which she had so often listened to, as she walked\nwith St. Aubert, on the margin of the Garonne, when all her fortitude\nforsook her, and she continued to weep, till the carriage stopped at the\nlittle gate, that opened upon what was now her own territory. She raised\nher eyes on the sudden stopping of the carriage, and saw her father's\nold housekeeper coming to open the gate. Manchon also came running, and\nbarking before her; and when his young mistress alighted, fawned, and\nplayed round her, gasping with joy.\n\n'Dear ma'amselle!' said Theresa, and paused, and looked as if she\nwould have offered something of condolement to Emily, whose tears now\nprevented reply. The dog still fawned and ran round her, and then flew\ntowards the carriage, with a short quick bark. 'Ah, ma'amselle!--my\npoor master!' said Theresa, whose feelings were more awakened than her\ndelicacy, 'Manchon's gone to look for him.' Emily sobbed aloud; and, on\nlooking towards the carriage, which still stood with the door open, saw\nthe animal spring into it, and instantly leap out, and then with his\nnose on the ground run round the horses.\n\n'Don't cry so, ma'amselle,' said Theresa, 'it breaks my heart to see\nyou.' The dog now came running to Emily, then returned to the carriage,\nand then back again to her, whining and discontented. 'Poor rogue!' said\nTheresa, 'thou hast lost thy master, thou mayst well cry! But come, my\ndear young lady, be comforted. What shall I get to refresh you?' Emily\ngave her hand to the old servant, and tried to restrain her grief,\nwhile she made some kind enquiries concerning her health. But she still\nlingered in the walk which led to the chateau, for within was no\nperson to meet her with the kiss of affection; her own heart no longer\npalpitated with impatient joy to meet again the well-known smile, and\nshe dreaded to see objects, which would recall the full remembrance of\nher former happiness. She moved slowly towards the door, paused, went\non, and paused again. How silent, how forsaken, how forlorn did the\nchateau appear! Trembling to enter it, yet blaming herself for delaying\nwhat she could not avoid, she, at length, passed into the hall; crossed\nit with a hurried step, as if afraid to look round, and opened the door\nof that room, which she was wont to call her own. The gloom of evening\ngave solemnity to its silent and deserted air. The chairs, the tables,\nevery article of furniture, so familiar to her in happier times,\nspoke eloquently to her heart. She seated herself, without immediately\nobserving it, in a window, which opened upon the garden, and where St.\nAubert had often sat with her, watching the sun retire from the rich and\nextensive prospect, that appeared beyond the groves.\n\nHaving indulged her tears for some time, she became more composed; and,\nwhen Theresa, after seeing the baggage deposited in her lady's room,\nagain appeared, she had so far recovered her spirits, as to be able to\nconverse with her.\n\n'I have made up the green bed for you, ma'amselle,' said Theresa, as she\nset the coffee upon the table. 'I thought you would like it better than\nyour own now; but I little thought this day month, that you would come\nback alone. A-well-a-day! the news almost broke my heart, when it did\ncome. Who would have believed, that my poor master, when he went\nfrom home, would never return again!' Emily hid her face with her\nhandkerchief, and waved her hand.\n\n'Do taste the coffee,' said Theresa. 'My dear young lady, be\ncomforted--we must all die. My dear master is a saint above.' Emily\ntook the handkerchief from her face, and raised her eyes full of tears\ntowards heaven; soon after she dried them, and, in a calm, but tremulous\nvoice, began to enquire concerning some of her late father's pensioners.\n\n'Alas-a-day!' said Theresa, as she poured out the coffee, and handed\nit to her mistress, 'all that could come, have been here every day to\nenquire after you and my master.' She then proceeded to tell, that\nsome were dead whom they had left well; and others, who were ill, had\nrecovered. 'And see, ma'amselle,' added Theresa, 'there is old Mary\ncoming up the garden now; she has looked every day these three years as\nif she would die, yet she is alive still. She has seen the chaise at the\ndoor, and knows you are come home.'\n\nThe sight of this poor old woman would have been too much for Emily, and\nshe begged Theresa would go and tell her, that she was too ill to see\nany person that night. 'To-morrow I shall be better, perhaps; but give\nher this token of my remembrance.'\n\nEmily sat for some time, given up to sorrow. Not an object, on which her\neye glanced, but awakened some remembrance, that led immediately to the\nsubject of her grief. Her favourite plants, which St. Aubert had taught\nher to nurse; the little drawings, that adorned the room, which his\ntaste had instructed her to execute; the books, that he had selected\nfor her use, and which they had read together; her musical instruments,\nwhose sounds he loved so well, and which he sometimes awakened\nhimself--every object gave new force to sorrow. At length, she roused\nherself from this melancholy indulgence, and, summoning all her\nresolution, stepped forward to go into those forlorn rooms, which,\nthough she dreaded to enter, she knew would yet more powerfully affect\nher, if she delayed to visit them.\n\nHaving passed through the green-house, her courage for a moment forsook\nher, when she opened the door of the library; and, perhaps, the shade,\nwhich evening and the foliage of the trees near the windows threw across\nthe room, heightened the solemnity of her feelings on entering that\napartment, where every thing spoke of her father. There was an arm\nchair, in which he used to sit; she shrunk when she observed it, for\nshe had so often seen him seated there, and the idea of him rose so\ndistinctly to her mind, that she almost fancied she saw him before her.\nBut she checked the illusions of a distempered imagination, though she\ncould not subdue a certain degree of awe, which now mingled with her\nemotions. She walked slowly to the chair, and seated herself in it;\nthere was a reading-desk before it, on which lay a book open, as it\nhad been left by her father. It was some moments before she recovered\ncourage enough to examine it; and, when she looked at the open page,\nshe immediately recollected, that St. Aubert, on the evening before his\ndeparture from the chateau, had read to her some passages from this\nhis favourite author. The circumstance now affected her extremely; she\nlooked at the page, wept, and looked again. To her the book appeared\nsacred and invaluable, and she would not have moved it, or closed the\npage, which he had left open, for the treasures of the Indies. Still\nshe sat before the desk, and could not resolve to quit it, though the\nincreasing gloom, and the profound silence of the apartment, revived\na degree of painful awe. Her thoughts dwelt on the probable state of\ndeparted spirits, and she remembered the affecting conversation, which\nhad passed between St. Aubert and La Voisin, on the night preceding his\ndeath.\n\nAs she mused she saw the door slowly open, and a rustling sound in a\nremote part of the room startled her. Through the dusk she thought she\nperceived something move. The subject she had been considering, and the\npresent tone of her spirits, which made her imagination respond to\nevery impression of her senses, gave her a sudden terror of something\nsupernatural. She sat for a moment motionless, and then, her dissipated\nreason returning, 'What should I fear?' said she. 'If the spirits of\nthose we love ever return to us, it is in kindness.'\n\nThe silence, which again reigned, made her ashamed of her late fears,\nand she believed, that her imagination had deluded her, or that she had\nheard one of those unaccountable noises, which sometimes occur in old\nhouses. The same sound, however, returned; and, distinguishing something\nmoving towards her, and in the next instant press beside her into the\nchair, she shrieked; but her fleeting senses were instantly recalled,\non perceiving that it was Manchon who sat by her, and who now licked her\nhands affectionately.\n\nPerceiving her spirits unequal to the task she had assigned herself of\nvisiting the deserted rooms of the chateau this night, when she left\nthe library, she walked into the garden, and down to the terrace, that\noverhung the river. The sun was now set; but, under the dark branches\nof the almond trees, was seen the saffron glow of the west, spreading\nbeyond the twilight of middle air. The bat flitted silently by; and,\nnow and then, the mourning note of the nightingale was heard. The\ncircumstances of the hour brought to her recollection some lines, which\nshe had once heard St. Aubert recite on this very spot, and she had now\na melancholy pleasure in repeating them.\n\n     SONNET\n\n Now the bat circles on the breeze of eve,\n That creeps, in shudd'ring fits, along the wave,\n And trembles 'mid the woods, and through the cave\n Whose lonely sighs the wanderer deceive;\n For oft, when melancholy charms his mind,\n He thinks the Spirit of the rock he hears,\n Nor listens, but with sweetly-thrilling fears,\n To the low, mystic murmurs of the wind!\n Now the bat circles, and the twilight-dew\n Falls silent round, and, o'er the mountain-cliff,\n The gleaming wave, and far-discover'd skiff,\n Spreads the gray veil of soft, harmonious hue.\n So falls o'er Grief the dew of pity's tear\n Dimming her lonely visions of despair.\n\nEmily, wandering on, came to St. Aubert's favourite plane-tree, where so\noften, at this hour, they had sat beneath the shade together, and with\nher dear mother so often had conversed on the subject of a future state.\nHow often, too, had her father expressed the comfort he derived from\nbelieving, that they should meet in another world! Emily, overcome by\nthese recollections, left the plane-tree, and, as she leaned pensively\non the wall of the terrace, she observed a group of peasants dancing\ngaily on the banks of the Garonne, which spread in broad expanse below,\nand reflected the evening light. What a contrast they formed to the\ndesolate, unhappy Emily! They were gay and debonnaire, as they were wont\nto be when she, too, was gay--when St. Aubert used to listen to their\nmerry music, with a countenance beaming pleasure and benevolence. Emily,\nhaving looked for a moment on this sprightly band, turned away, unable\nto bear the remembrances it excited; but where, alas! could she turn,\nand not meet new objects to give acuteness to grief?\n\nAs she walked slowly towards the house, she was met by Theresa. 'Dear\nma'amselle,' said she, 'I have been seeking you up and down this half\nhour, and was afraid some accident had happened to you. How can you like\nto wander about so in this night air! Do come into the house. Think what\nmy poor master would have said, if he could see you. I am sure, when my\ndear lady died, no gentleman could take it more to heart than he did,\nyet you know he seldom shed a tear.'\n\n'Pray, Theresa, cease,' said Emily, wishing to interrupt this\nill-judged, but well-meaning harangue; Theresa's loquacity, however,\nwas not to be silenced so easily. 'And when you used to grieve so,' she\nadded, 'he often told you how wrong it was--for that my mistress was\nhappy. And, if she was happy, I am sure he is so too; for the prayers of\nthe poor, they say, reach heaven.' During this speech, Emily had walked\nsilently into the chateau, and Theresa lighted her across the hall\ninto the common sitting parlour, where she had laid the cloth, with one\nsolitary knife and fork, for supper. Emily was in the room before she\nperceived that it was not her own apartment, but she checked the emotion\nwhich inclined her to leave it, and seated herself quietly by the little\nsupper table. Her father's hat hung upon the opposite wall; while she\ngazed at it, a faintness came over her. Theresa looked at her, and then\nat the object, on which her eyes were settled, and went to remove it;\nbut Emily waved her hand--'No,' said she, 'let it remain. I am going\nto my chamber.' 'Nay, ma'amselle, supper is ready.' 'I cannot take it,'\nreplied Emily, 'I will go to my room, and try to sleep. Tomorrow I shall\nbe better.'\n\n'This is poor doings!' said Theresa. 'Dear lady! do take some food! I\nhave dressed a pheasant, and a fine one it is. Old Monsieur Barreaux\nsent it this morning, for I saw him yesterday, and told him you were\ncoming. And I know nobody that seemed more concerned, when he heard the\nsad news, then he.'\n\n'Did he?' said Emily, in a tender voice, while she felt her poor heart\nwarmed for a moment by a ray of sympathy.\n\nAt length, her spirits were entirely overcome, and she retired to her\nroom.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\n  Can Music's voice, can Beauty's eye,\n  Can Painting's glowing hand supply\n  A charm so suited to my mind,\n  As blows this hollow gust of wind?\n  As drops this little weeping rill,\n  Soft tinkling down the moss-grown hill;\n While, through the west, where sinks the crimson day,\n Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners gray?\n     MASON\n\nEmily, some time after her return to La Vallee, received letters from\nher aunt, Madame Cheron, in which, after some common-place condolement\nand advice, she invited her to Tholouse, and added, that, as her late\nbrother had entrusted Emily's EDUCATION to her, she should consider\nherself bound to overlook her conduct. Emily, at this time, wished\nonly to remain at La Vallee, in the scenes of her early happiness, now\nrendered infinitely dear to her, as the late residence of those, whom\nshe had lost for ever, where she could weep unobserved, retrace their\nsteps, and remember each minute particular of their manners. But she was\nequally anxious to avoid the displeasure of Madame Cheron.\n\nThough her affection would not suffer her to question, even a moment,\nthe propriety of St. Aubert's conduct in appointing Madame Cheron for\nher guardian, she was sensible, that this step had made her happiness\ndepend, in a great degree, on the humour of her aunt. In her reply, she\nbegged permission to remain, at present, at La Vallee, mentioning the\nextreme dejection of her spirits, and the necessity she felt for quiet\nand retirement to restore them. These she knew were not to be found at\nMadame Cheron's, whose inclinations led her into a life of dissipation,\nwhich her ample fortune encouraged; and, having given her answer, she\nfelt somewhat more at ease.\n\nIn the first days of her affliction, she was visited by Monsieur\nBarreaux, a sincere mourner for St. Aubert. 'I may well lament my\nfriend,' said he, 'for I shall never meet with his resemblance. If I\ncould have found such a man in what is called society, I should not have\nleft it.'\n\nM. Barreaux's admiration of her father endeared him extremely to Emily,\nwhose heart found almost its first relief in conversing of her parents,\nwith a man, whom she so much revered, and who, though with such an\nungracious appearance, possessed to much goodness of heart and delicacy\nof mind.\n\nSeveral weeks passed away in quiet retirement, and Emily's affliction\nbegan to soften into melancholy. She could bear to read the books she\nhad before read with her father; to sit in his chair in the library--to\nwatch the flowers his hand had planted--to awaken the tones of that\ninstrument his fingers had pressed, and sometimes even to play his\nfavourite air.\n\nWhen her mind had recovered from the first shock of affliction,\nperceiving the danger of yielding to indolence, and that activity alone\ncould restore its tone, she scrupulously endeavoured to pass all her\nhours in employment. And it was now that she understood the full value\nof the education she had received from St. Aubert, for in cultivating\nher understanding he had secured her an asylum from indolence, without\nrecourse to dissipation, and rich and varied amusement and information,\nindependent of the society, from which her situation secluded her. Nor\nwere the good effects of this education confined to selfish advantages,\nsince, St. Aubert having nourished every amiable qualify of her heart,\nit now expanded in benevolence to all around her, and taught her, when\nshe could not remove the misfortunes of others, at least to soften them\nby sympathy and tenderness;--a benevolence that taught her to feel for\nall, that could suffer.\n\nMadame Cheron returned no answer to Emily's letter, who began to\nhope, that she should be permitted to remain some time longer in her\nretirement, and her mind had now so far recovered its strength, that she\nventured to view the scenes, which most powerfully recalled the images\nof past times. Among these was the fishing-house; and, to indulge still\nmore the affectionate melancholy of the visit, she took thither her\nlute, that she might again hear there the tones, to which St. Aubert and\nher mother had so often delighted to listen. She went alone, and at that\nstill hour of the evening which is so soothing to fancy and to grief.\nThe last time she had been here she was in company with Monsieur and\nMadame St. Aubert, a few days preceding that, on which the latter was\nseized with a fatal illness. Now, when Emily again entered the woods,\nthat surrounded the building, they awakened so forcibly the memory of\nformer times, that her resolution yielded for a moment to excess of\ngrief. She stopped, leaned for support against a tree, and wept for some\nminutes, before she had recovered herself sufficiently to proceed. The\nlittle path, that led to the building, was overgrown with grass and the\nflowers which St. Aubert had scattered carelessly along the border\nwere almost choked with weeds--the tall thistle--the fox-glove, and the\nnettle. She often paused to look on the desolate spot, now so silent and\nforsaken, and when, with a trembling hand, she opened the door of the\nfishing-house, 'Ah!' said she, 'every thing--every thing remains as when\nI left it last--left it with those who never must return!' She went to\na window, that overhung the rivulet, and, leaning over it, with her eyes\nfixed on the current, was soon lost in melancholy reverie. The lute\nshe had brought lay forgotten beside her; the mournful sighing of the\nbreeze, as it waved the high pines above, and its softer whispers among\nthe osiers, that bowed upon the banks below, was a kind of music more\nin unison with her feelings. It did not vibrate on the chords of\nunhappy memory, but was soothing to the heart as the voice of Pity. She\ncontinued to muse, unconscious of the gloom of evening, and that the\nsun's last light trembled on the heights above, and would probably have\nremained so much longer, if a sudden footstep, without the building,\nhad not alarmed her attention, and first made her recollect that she was\nunprotected. In the next moment, a door opened, and a stranger appeared,\nwho stopped on perceiving Emily, and then began to apologize for his\nintrusion. But Emily, at the sound of his voice, lost her fear in a\nstronger emotion: its tones were familiar to her ear, and, though she\ncould not readily distinguish through the dusk the features of the\nperson who spoke, she felt a remembrance too strong to be distrusted.\n\nHe repeated his apology, and Emily then said something in reply, when\nthe stranger eagerly advancing, exclaimed, 'Good God! can it be--surely\nI am not mistaken--ma'amselle St. Aubert?--is it not?'\n\n'It is indeed,' said Emily, who was confirmed in her first conjecture,\nfor she now distinguished the countenance of Valancourt, lighted up with\nstill more than its usual animation. A thousand painful recollections\ncrowded to her mind, and the effort, which she made to support herself,\nonly served to increase her agitation. Valancourt, meanwhile, having\nenquired anxiously after her health, and expressed his hopes, that M.\nSt. Aubert had found benefit from travelling, learned from the flood of\ntears, which she could no longer repress, the fatal truth. He led her\nto a seat, and sat down by her, while Emily continued to weep, and\nValancourt to hold the hand, which she was unconscious he had taken,\ntill it was wet with the tears, which grief for St. Aubert and sympathy\nfor herself had called forth.\n\n'I feel,' said he at length, 'I feel how insufficient all attempt at\nconsolation must be on this subject. I can only mourn with you, for I\ncannot doubt the source of your tears. Would to God I were mistaken!'\n\nEmily could still answer only by tears, till she rose, and begged they\nmight leave the melancholy spot, when Valancourt, though he saw her\nfeebleness, could not offer to detain her, but took her arm within his,\nand led her from the fishing-house. They walked silently through the\nwoods, Valancourt anxious to know, yet fearing to ask any particulars\nconcerning St. Aubert; and Emily too much distressed to converse.\nAfter some time, however, she acquired fortitude enough to speak of her\nfather, and to give a brief account of the manner of his death; during\nwhich recital Valancourt's countenance betrayed strong emotion, and,\nwhen he heard that St. Aubert had died on the road, and that Emily\nhad been left among strangers, he pressed her hand between his, and\ninvoluntarily exclaimed, 'Why was I not there!' but in the next moment\nrecollected himself, for he immediately returned to the mention of her\nfather; till, perceiving that her spirits were exhausted, he gradually\nchanged the subject, and spoke of himself. Emily thus learned that,\nafter they had parted, he had wandered, for some time, along the shores\nof the Mediterranean, and had then returned through Languedoc into\nGascony, which was his native province, and where he usually resided.\n\nWhen he had concluded his little narrative, he sunk into a silence,\nwhich Emily was not disposed to interrupt, and it continued, till they\nreached the gate of the chateau, when he stopped, as if he had known\nthis to be the limit of his walk. Here, saying, that it was his\nintention to return to Estuviere on the following day, he asked her if\nshe would permit him to take leave of her in the morning; and Emily,\nperceiving that she could not reject an ordinary civility, without\nexpressing by her refusal an expectation of something more, was\ncompelled to answer, that she should be at home.\n\nShe passed a melancholy evening, during which the retrospect of all\nthat had happened, since she had seen Valancourt, would rise to her\nimagination; and the scene of her father's death appeared in tints\nas fresh, as if it had passed on the preceding day. She remembered\nparticularly the earnest and solemn manner, in which he had required her\nto destroy the manuscript papers, and, awakening from the lethargy,\nin which sorrow had held her, she was shocked to think she had not yet\nobeyed him, and determined, that another day should not reproach her\nwith the neglect.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\n     Can such things be,\n And overcome us like a summer's cloud,\n Without our special wonder?\n     MACBETH\n\nOn the next morning, Emily ordered a fire to be lighted in the stove\nof the chamber, where St. Aubert used to sleep; and, as soon as she had\nbreakfasted, went thither to burn the papers. Having fastened the\ndoor to prevent interruption, she opened the closet where they were\nconcealed, as she entered which, she felt an emotion of unusual awe,\nand stood for some moments surveying it, trembling, and almost afraid to\nremove the board. There was a great chair in one corner of the closet,\nand, opposite to it, stood the table, at which she had seen her father\nsit, on the evening that preceded his departure, looking over, with so\nmuch emotion, what she believed to be these very papers.\n\nThe solitary life, which Emily had led of late, and the melancholy\nsubjects, on which she had suffered her thoughts to dwell, had rendered\nher at times sensible to the 'thick-coming fancies' of a mind greatly\nenervated. It was lamentable, that her excellent understanding should\nhave yielded, even for a moment, to the reveries of superstition, or\nrather to those starts of imagination, which deceive the senses into\nwhat can be called nothing less than momentary madness. Instances of\nthis temporary failure of mind had more than once occurred since her\nreturn home; particularly when, wandering through this lonely mansion in\nthe evening twilight, she had been alarmed by appearances, which would\nhave been unseen in her more cheerful days. To this infirm state of her\nnerves may be attributed what she imagined, when, her eyes glancing\na second time on the arm-chair, which stood in an obscure part of the\ncloset, the countenance of her dead father appeared there. Emily stood\nfixed for a moment to the floor, after which she left the closet.\nHer spirits, however, soon returned; she reproached herself with the\nweakness of thus suffering interruption in an act of serious importance,\nand again opened the door. By the directions which St. Aubert had given\nher, she readily found the board he had described in an opposite corner\nof the closet, near the window; she distinguished also the line he\nhad mentioned, and, pressing it as he had bade her, it slid down, and\ndisclosed the bundle of papers, together with some scattered ones, and\nthe purse of louis. With a trembling hand she removed them, replaced the\nboard, paused a moment, and was rising from the floor, when, on looking\nup, there appeared to her alarmed fancy the same countenance in the\nchair. The illusion, another instance of the unhappy effect which\nsolitude and grief had gradually produced upon her mind, subdued her\nspirits; she rushed forward into the chamber, and sunk almost senseless\ninto a chair. Returning reason soon overcame the dreadful, but pitiable\nattack of imagination, and she turned to the papers, though still with\nso little recollection, that her eyes involuntarily settled on the\nwriting of some loose sheets, which lay open; and she was unconscious,\nthat she was transgressing her father's strict injunction, till a\nsentence of dreadful import awakened her attention and her memory\ntogether. She hastily put the papers from her; but the words, which had\nroused equally her curiosity and terror, she could not dismiss from her\nthoughts. So powerfully had they affected her, that she even could not\nresolve to destroy the papers immediately; and the more she dwelt on the\ncircumstance, the more it inflamed her imagination. Urged by the most\nforcible, and apparently the most necessary, curiosity to enquire\nfarther, concerning the terrible and mysterious subject, to which she\nhad seen an allusion, she began to lament her promise to destroy the\npapers. For a moment, she even doubted, whether it could justly be\nobeyed, in contradiction to such reasons as there appeared to be for\nfurther information. But the delusion was momentary.\n\n'I have given a solemn promise,' said she, 'to observe a solemn\ninjunction, and it is not my business to argue, but to obey. Let me\nhasten to remove the temptation, that would destroy my innocence, and\nembitter my life with the consciousness of irremediable guilt, while I\nhave strength to reject it.'\n\nThus re-animated with a sense of her duty, she completed the triumph\nof her integrity over temptation, more forcible than any she had ever\nknown, and consigned the papers to the flames. Her eyes watched them as\nthey slowly consumed, she shuddered at the recollection of the sentence\nshe had just seen, and at the certainty, that the only opportunity of\nexplaining it was then passing away for ever.\n\nIt was long after this, that she recollected the purse; and as she was\ndepositing it, unopened, in a cabinet, perceiving that it contained\nsomething of a size larger than coin, she examined it. 'His hand\ndeposited them here,' said she, as she kissed some pieces of the coin,\nand wetted them with her tears, 'his hand--which is now dust!' At the\nbottom of the purse was a small packet, having taken out which, and\nunfolded paper after paper, she found to be an ivory case, containing\nthe miniature of a--lady! She started--'The same,' said she, 'my father\nwept over!' On examining the countenance she could recollect no person\nthat it resembled. It was of uncommon beauty, and was characterized\nby an expression of sweetness, shaded with sorrow, and tempered by\nresignation.\n\nSt. Aubert had given no directions concerning this picture, nor had even\nnamed it; she, therefore, thought herself justified in preserving\nit. More than once remembering his manner, when he had spoken of the\nMarchioness of Villeroi, she felt inclined to believe that this was her\nresemblance; yet there appeared no reason why he should have preserved a\npicture of that lady, or, having preserved it, why he should lament over\nit in a manner so striking and affecting as she had witnessed on the\nnight preceding his departure.\n\nEmily still gazed on the countenance, examining its features, but she\nknew not where to detect the charm that captivated her attention,\nand inspired sentiments of such love and pity. Dark brown hair played\ncarelessly along the open forehead; the nose was rather inclined to\naquiline; the lips spoke in a smile, but it was a melancholy one; the\neyes were blue, and were directed upwards with an expression of peculiar\nmeekness, while the soft cloud of the brow spoke of the fine sensibility\nof the temper.\n\nEmily was roused from the musing mood into which the picture had thrown\nher, by the closing of the garden gate; and, on turning her eyes to\nthe window, she saw Valancourt coming towards the chateau. Her spirits\nagitated by the subjects that had lately occupied her mind, she felt\nunprepared to see him, and remained a few moments in the chamber to\nrecover herself.\n\nWhen she met him in the parlour, she was struck with the change that\nappeared in his air and countenance since they had parted in Rousillon,\nwhich twilight and the distress she suffered on the preceding evening\nhad prevented her from observing. But dejection and languor disappeared,\nfor a moment, in the smile that now enlightened his countenance, on\nperceiving her. 'You see,' said he, 'I have availed myself of the\npermission with which you honoured me--of bidding YOU farewell, whom I\nhad the happiness of meeting only yesterday.'\n\nEmily smiled faintly, and, anxious to say something, asked if he had\nbeen long in Gascony. 'A few days only,' replied Valancourt, while a\nblush passed over his cheek. 'I engaged in a long ramble after I had the\nmisfortune of parting with the friends who had made my wanderings among\nthe Pyrenees so delightful.'\n\nA tear came to Emily's eye, as Valancourt said this, which he observed;\nand, anxious to draw off her attention from the remembrance that had\noccasioned it, as well as shocked at his own thoughtlessness, he began\nto speak on other subjects, expressing his admiration of the chateau,\nand its prospects. Emily, who felt somewhat embarrassed how to support\na conversation, was glad of such an opportunity to continue it on\nindifferent topics. They walked down to the terrace, where Valancourt\nwas charmed with the river scenery, and the views over the opposite\nshores of Guienne.\n\nAs he leaned on the wall of the terrace, watching the rapid current of\nthe Garonne, 'I was a few weeks ago,' said he, 'at the source of this\nnoble river; I had not then the happiness of knowing you, or I should\nhave regretted your absence--it was a scene so exactly suited to\nyour taste. It rises in a part of the Pyrenees, still wilder and more\nsublime, I think, than any we passed in the way to Rousillon.' He then\ndescribed its fall among the precipices of the mountains, where its\nwaters, augmented by the streams that descend from the snowy summits\naround, rush into the Vallee d'Aran, between whose romantic heights it\nfoams along, pursuing its way to the north west till it emerges upon the\nplains of Languedoc. Then, washing the walls of Tholouse, and turning\nagain to the north west, it assumes a milder character, as it fertilizes\nthe pastures of Gascony and Guienne, in its progress to the Bay of\nBiscay.\n\nEmily and Valancourt talked of the scenes they had passed among\nthe Pyrenean Alps; as he spoke of which there was often a tremulous\ntenderness in his voice, and sometimes he expatiated on them with all\nthe fire of genius, sometimes would appear scarcely conscious of the\ntopic, though he continued to speak. This subject recalled forcibly to\nEmily the idea of her father, whose image appeared in every landscape,\nwhich Valancourt particularized, whose remarks dwelt upon her memory,\nand whose enthusiasm still glowed in her heart. Her silence, at length,\nreminded Valancourt how nearly his conversation approached to the\noccasion of her grief, and he changed the subject, though for one\nscarcely less affecting to Emily. When he admired the grandeur of the\nplane-tree, that spread its wide branches over the terrace, and under\nwhose shade they now sat, she remembered how often she had sat thus with\nSt. Aubert, and heard him express the same admiration.\n\n'This was a favourite tree with my dear father,' said she; 'he used to\nlove to sit under its foliage with his family about him, in the fine\nevenings of summer.'\n\nValancourt understood her feelings, and was silent; had she raised her\neyes from the ground she would have seen tears in his. He rose, and\nleaned on the wall of the terrace, from which, in a few moments, he\nreturned to his seat, then rose again, and appeared to be greatly\nagitated; while Emily found her spirits so much depressed, that several\nof her attempts to renew the conversation were ineffectual. Valancourt\nagain sat down, but was still silent, and trembled. At length he said,\nwith a hesitating voice, 'This lovely scene!--I am going to leave--to\nleave you--perhaps for ever! These moments may never return; I cannot\nresolve to neglect, though I scarcely dare to avail myself of them. Let\nme, however, without offending the delicacy of your sorrow, venture to\ndeclare the admiration I must always feel of your goodness--O! that at\nsome future period I might be permitted to call it love!'\n\nEmily's emotion would not suffer her to reply; and Valancourt, who now\nventured to look up, observing her countenance change, expected to see\nher faint, and made an involuntary effort to support her, which recalled\nEmily to a sense of her situation, and to an exertion of her spirits.\nValancourt did not appear to notice her indisposition, but, when he\nspoke again, his voice told the tenderest love. 'I will not presume,' he\nadded, 'to intrude this subject longer upon your attention at this time,\nbut I may, perhaps, be permitted to mention, that these parting moments\nwould lose much of their bitterness if I might be allowed to hope the\ndeclaration I have made would not exclude me from your presence in\nfuture.'\n\nEmily made another effort to overcome the confusion of her thoughts,\nand to speak. She feared to trust the preference her heart acknowledged\ntowards Valancourt, and to give him any encouragement for hope, on so\nshort an acquaintance. For though in this narrow period she had observed\nmuch that was admirable in his taste and disposition, and though these\nobservations had been sanctioned by the opinion of her father, they were\nnot sufficient testimonies of his general worth to determine her upon a\nsubject so infinitely important to her future happiness as that, which\nnow solicited her attention. Yet, though the thought of dismissing\nValancourt was so very painful to her, that she could scarcely endure to\npause upon it, the consciousness of this made her fear the partiality of\nher judgment, and hesitate still more to encourage that suit, for which\nher own heart too tenderly pleaded. The family of Valancourt, if not\nhis circumstances, had been known to her father, and known to be\nunexceptionable. Of his circumstances, Valancourt himself hinted as far\nas delicacy would permit, when he said he had at present little else to\noffer but an heart, that adored her. He had solicited only for a distant\nhope, and she could not resolve to forbid, though she scarcely dared to\npermit it; at length, she acquired courage to say, that she must think\nherself honoured by the good opinion of any person, whom her father had\nesteemed.\n\n'And was I, then, thought worthy of his esteem?' said Valancourt, in\na voice trembling with anxiety; then checking himself, he added, 'But\npardon the question; I scarcely know what I say. If I might dare to\nhope, that you think me not unworthy such honour, and might be permitted\nsometimes to enquire after your health, I should now leave you with\ncomparative tranquillity.'\n\nEmily, after a moment's silence, said, 'I will be ingenuous with you,\nfor I know you will understand, and allow for my situation; you will\nconsider it as a proof of my--my esteem that I am so. Though I live\nhere in what was my father's house, I live here alone. I have, alas! no\nlonger a parent--a parent, whose presence might sanction your visits.\nIt is unnecessary for me to point out the impropriety of my receiving\nthem.'\n\n'Nor will I affect to be insensible of this,' replied Valancourt, adding\nmournfully--'but what is to console me for my candour? I distress you,\nand would now leave the subject, if I might carry with me a hope of\nbeing some time permitted to renew it, of being allowed to make myself\nknown to your family.'\n\nEmily was again confused, and again hesitated what to reply; she felt\nmost acutely the difficulty--the forlornness of her situation, which did\nnot allow her a single relative, or friend, to whom she could turn\nfor even a look, that might support and guide her in the present\nembarrassing circumstances. Madame Cheron, who was her only relative,\nand ought to have been this friend, was either occupied by her own\namusements, or so resentful of the reluctance her niece had shewn to\nquit La Vallee, that she seemed totally to have abandoned her.\n\n'Ah! I see,' said Valancourt, after a long pause, during which Emily had\nbegun, and left unfinished two or three sentences, 'I see that I have\nnothing to hope; my fears were too just, you think me unworthy of your\nesteem. That fatal journey! which I considered as the happiest period of\nmy life--those delightful days were to embitter all my future ones. How\noften I have looked back to them with hope and fear--yet never till\nthis moment could I prevail with myself to regret their enchanting\ninfluence.'\n\nHis voice faltered, and he abruptly quitted his seat and walked on the\nterrace. There was an expression of despair on his countenance, that\naffected Emily. The pleadings of her heart overcame, in some degree, her\nextreme timidity, and, when he resumed his seat, she said, in an accent\nthat betrayed her tenderness, 'You do both yourself and me injustice\nwhen you say I think you unworthy of my esteem; I will acknowledge that\nyou have long possessed it, and--and--'\n\nValancourt waited impatiently for the conclusion of the sentence,\nbut the words died on her lips. Her eyes, however, reflected all the\nemotions of her heart. Valancourt passed, in an instant, from the\nimpatience of despair, to that of joy and tenderness. 'O Emily!' he\nexclaimed, 'my own Emily--teach me to sustain this moment! Let me seal\nit as the most sacred of my life!'\n\nHe pressed her hand to his lips, it was cold and trembling; and, raising\nher eyes, he saw the paleness of her countenance. Tears came to her\nrelief, and Valancourt watched in anxious silence over her. In a few\nmoments, she recovered herself, and smiling faintly through her tears,\nsaid, 'Can you excuse this weakness? My spirits have not yet, I believe,\nrecovered from the shock they lately received.'\n\n'I cannot excuse myself,' said Valancourt, 'but I will forbear to renew\nthe subject, which may have contributed to agitate them, now that I can\nleave you with the sweet certainty of possessing your esteem.'\n\nThen, forgetting his resolution, he again spoke of himself. 'You know\nnot,' said he, 'the many anxious hours I have passed near you lately,\nwhen you believed me, if indeed you honoured me with a thought, far\naway. I have wandered, near the chateau, in the still hours of the\nnight, when no eye could observe me. It was delightful to know I was so\nnear you, and there was something particularly soothing in the thought,\nthat I watched round your habitation, while you slept. These grounds are\nnot entirely new to me. Once I ventured within the fence, and spent one\nof the happiest, and yet most melancholy hours of my life in walking\nunder what I believed to be your window.'\n\nEmily enquired how long Valancourt had been in the neighbourhood.\n'Several days,' he replied. 'It was my design to avail myself of the\npermission M. St. Aubert had given me. I scarcely know how to account\nfor it; but, though I anxiously wished to do this, my resolution always\nfailed, when the moment approached, and I constantly deferred my visit.\nI lodged in a village at some distance, and wandered with my dogs, among\nthe scenes of this charming country, wishing continually to meet you,\nyet not daring to visit you.'\n\nHaving thus continued to converse, without perceiving the flight of\ntime, Valancourt, at length, seemed to recollect himself. 'I must go,'\nsaid he mournfully, 'but it is with the hope of seeing you again, of\nbeing permitted to pay my respects to your family; let me hear this hope\nconfirmed by your voice.' 'My family will be happy to see any friend\nof my dear father,' said Emily. Valancourt kissed her hand, and still\nlingered, unable to depart, while Emily sat silently, with her eyes bent\non the ground; and Valancourt, as he gazed on her, considered that it\nwould soon be impossible for him to recall, even to his memory, the\nexact resemblance of the beautiful countenance he then beheld; at this\nmoment an hasty footstep approached from behind the plane-tree, and,\nturning her eyes, Emily saw Madame Cheron. She felt a blush steal upon\nher cheek, and her frame trembled with the emotion of her mind; but she\ninstantly rose to meet her visitor. 'So, niece!' said Madame Cheron,\ncasting a look of surprise and enquiry on Valancourt, 'so niece, how\ndo you do? But I need not ask, your looks tell me you have already\nrecovered your loss.'\n\n'My looks do me injustice then, Madame, my loss I know can never be\nrecovered.'\n\n'Well--well! I will not argue with you; I see you have exactly your\nfather's disposition; and let me tell you it would have been much\nhappier for him, poor man! if it had been a different one.'\n\nA look of dignified displeasure, with which Emily regarded Madame\nCheron, while she spoke, would have touched almost any other heart;\nshe made no other reply, but introduced Valancourt, who could scarcely\nstifle the resentment he felt, and whose bow Madame Cheron returned with\na slight curtsy, and a look of supercilious examination. After a few\nmoments he took leave of Emily, in a manner, that hastily expressed his\npain both at his own departure, and at leaving her to the society of\nMadame Cheron.\n\n'Who is that young man?' said her aunt, in an accent which equally\nimplied inquisitiveness and censure. 'Some idle admirer of yours I\nsuppose; but I believed niece you had a greater sense of propriety, than\nto have received the visits of any young man in your present unfriended\nsituation. Let me tell you the world will observe those things, and it\nwill talk, aye and very freely too.'\n\nEmily, extremely shocked at this coarse speech, attempted to interrupt\nit; but Madame Cheron would proceed, with all the self-importance of a\nperson, to whom power is new.\n\n'It is very necessary you should be under the eye of some person more\nable to guide you than yourself. I, indeed, have not much leisure for\nsuch a task; however, since your poor father made it his last request,\nthat I should overlook your conduct--I must even take you under my care.\nBut this let me tell you niece, that, unless you will determine to be\nvery conformable to my direction, I shall not trouble myself longer\nabout you.'\n\nEmily made no attempt to interrupt Madame Cheron a second time, grief\nand the pride of conscious innocence kept her silent, till her aunt\nsaid, 'I am now come to take you with me to Tholouse; I am sorry\nto find, that your poor father died, after all, in such indifferent\ncircumstances; however, I shall take you home with me. Ah! poor man, he\nwas always more generous than provident, or he would not have left his\ndaughter dependent on his relations.'\n\n'Nor has he done so, I hope, madam,' said Emily calmly, 'nor did his\npecuniary misfortunes arise from that noble generosity, which always\ndistinguished him. The affairs of M. de Motteville may, I trust, yet\nbe settled without deeply injuring his creditors, and in the meantime I\nshould be very happy to remain at La Vallee.'\n\n'No doubt you would,' replied Madame Cheron, with a smile of irony, 'and\nI shall no doubt consent to this, since I see how necessary tranquillity\nand retirement are to restore your spirits. I did not think you capable\nof so much duplicity, niece; when you pleaded this excuse for remaining\nhere, I foolishly believed it to be a just one, nor expected to have\nfound with you so agreeable a companion as this M. La Val--, I forget\nhis name.'\n\nEmily could no longer endure these cruel indignities. 'It was a just\none, madam,' said she; 'and now, indeed, I feel more than ever the value\nof the retirement I then solicited; and, if the purport of your visit\nis only to add insult to the sorrows of your brother's child, she could\nwell have spared it.'\n\n'I see that I have undertaken a very troublesome task,' said Madame\nCheron, colouring highly. 'I am sure, madam,' said Emily mildly, and\nendeavouring to restrain her tears, 'I am sure my father did not mean it\nshould be such. I have the happiness to reflect, that my conduct under\nhis eye was such as he often delighted to approve. It would be very\npainful to me to disobey the sister of such a parent, and, if you\nbelieve the task will really be so troublesome, I must lament, that it\nis yours.'\n\n'Well! niece, fine speaking signifies little. I am willing, in\nconsideration of my poor brother, to overlook the impropriety of your\nlate conduct, and to try what your future will be.'\n\nEmily interrupted her, to beg she would explain what was the impropriety\nshe alluded to.\n\n'What impropriety! why that of receiving the visits of a lover unknown\nto your family,' replied Madame Cheron, not considering the impropriety\nof which she had herself been guilty, in exposing her niece to the\npossibility of conduct so erroneous.\n\nA faint blush passed over Emily's countenance; pride and anxiety\nstruggled in her breast; and, till she recollected, that appearances\ndid, in some degree, justify her aunt's suspicions, she could not\nresolve to humble herself so far as to enter into the defence of a\nconduct, which had been so innocent and undesigning on her part. She\nmentioned the manner of Valancourt's introduction to her father; the\ncircumstances of his receiving the pistol-shot, and of their afterwards\ntravelling together; with the accidental way, in which she had met him,\non the preceding evening. She owned he had declared a partiality for\nher, and that he had asked permission to address her family.\n\n'And who is this young adventurer, pray?' said Madame Cheron, 'and what\nare his pretensions?' 'These he must himself explain, madam,' replied\nEmily. 'Of his family my father was not ignorant, and I believe it is\nunexceptionable.' She then proceeded to mention what she knew concerning\nit.\n\n'Oh, then, this it seems is a younger brother,' exclaimed her aunt, 'and\nof course a beggar. A very fine tale indeed! And so my brother took a\nfancy to this young man after only a few days acquaintance!--but that\nwas so like him! In his youth he was always taking these likes and\ndislikes, when no other person saw any reason for them at all; nay,\nindeed, I have often thought the people he disapproved were much more\nagreeable than those he admired;--but there is no accounting for tastes.\nHe was always so much influenced by people's countenances; now I, for my\npart, have no notion of this, it is all ridiculous enthusiasm. What has\na man's face to do with his character? Can a man of good character\nhelp having a disagreeable face?'--which last sentence Madame Cheron\ndelivered with the decisive air of a person who congratulates herself\non having made a grand discovery, and believes the question to be\nunanswerably settled.\n\nEmily, desirous of concluding the conversation, enquired if her aunt\nwould accept some refreshment, and Madame Cheron accompanied her to the\nchateau, but without desisting from a topic, which she discussed with so\nmuch complacency to herself, and severity to her niece.\n\n'I am sorry to perceive, niece,' said she, in allusion to somewhat that\nEmily had said, concerning physiognomy, 'that you have a great many of\nyour father's prejudices, and among them those sudden predilections for\npeople from their looks. I can perceive, that you imagine yourself to be\nviolently in love with this young adventurer, after an acquaintance of\nonly a few days. There was something, too, so charmingly romantic in the\nmanner of your meeting!'\n\nEmily checked the tears, that trembled in her eyes, while she said,\n'When my conduct shall deserve this severity, madam, you will do well\nto exercise it; till then justice, if not tenderness, should surely\nrestrain it. I have never willingly offended you; now I have lost my\nparents, you are the only person to whom I can look for kindness. Let me\nnot lament more than ever the loss of such parents.' The last words were\nalmost stifled by her emotions, and she burst into tears. Remembering\nthe delicacy and the tenderness of St. Aubert, the happy, happy days\nshe had passed in these scenes, and contrasting them with the coarse\nand unfeeling behaviour of Madame Cheron, and from the future hours\nof mortification she must submit to in her presence--a degree of grief\nseized her, that almost reached despair. Madame Cheron, more offended\nby the reproof which Emily's words conveyed, than touched by the\nsorrow they expressed, said nothing, that might soften her grief; but,\nnotwithstanding an apparent reluctance to receive her niece, she desired\nher company. The love of sway was her ruling passion, and she knew it\nwould be highly gratified by taking into her house a young orphan, who\nhad no appeal from her decisions, and on whom she could exercise without\ncontroul the capricious humour of the moment.\n\nOn entering the chateau, Madame Cheron expressed a desire, that she\nwould put up what she thought necessary to take to Tholouse, as she\nmeant to set off immediately. Emily now tried to persuade her to defer\nthe journey, at least till the next day, and, at length, with much\ndifficulty, prevailed.\n\nThe day passed in the exercise of petty tyranny on the part of Madame\nCheron, and in mournful regret and melancholy anticipation on that of\nEmily, who, when her aunt retired to her apartment for the night, went\nto take leave of every other room in this her dear native home, which\nshe was now quitting for she knew not how long, and for a world, to\nwhich she was wholly a stranger. She could not conquer a presentiment,\nwhich frequently occurred to her, this night--that she should never more\nreturn to La Vallee. Having passed a considerable time in what had been\nher father's study, having selected some of his favourite authors, to\nput up with her clothes, and shed many tears, as she wiped the dust from\ntheir covers, she seated herself in his chair before the reading desk,\nand sat lost in melancholy reflection, till Theresa opened the door to\nexamine, as was her custom before she went to bed, if was all safe. She\nstarted, on observing her young lady, who bade her come in, and then\ngave her some directions for keeping the chateau in readiness for her\nreception at all times.\n\n'Alas-a-day! that you should leave it!' said Theresa, 'I think you would\nbe happier here than where you are going, if one may judge.' Emily made\nno reply to this remark; the sorrow Theresa proceeded to express at\nher departure affected her, but she found some comfort in the simple\naffection of this poor old servant, to whom she gave such directions as\nmight best conduce to her comfort during her own absence.\n\nHaving dismissed Theresa to bed, Emily wandered through every lonely\napartment of the chateau, lingering long in what had been her father's\nbed-room, indulging melancholy, yet not unpleasing, emotions, and,\nhaving often returned within the door to take another look at it, she\nwithdrew to her own chamber. From her window she gazed upon the\ngarden below, shewn faintly by the moon, rising over the tops of the\npalm-trees, and, at length, the calm beauty of the night increased a\ndesire of indulging the mournful sweetness of bidding farewel to the\nbeloved shades of her childhood, till she was tempted to descend.\nThrowing over her the light veil, in which she usually walked, she\nsilently passed into the garden, and, hastening towards the distant\ngroves, was glad to breathe once more the air of liberty, and to sigh\nunobserved. The deep repose of the scene, the rich scents, that floated\non the breeze, the grandeur of the wide horizon and of the clear\nblue arch, soothed and gradually elevated her mind to that sublime\ncomplacency, which renders the vexations of this world so insignificant\nand mean in our eyes, that we wonder they have had power for a moment to\ndisturb us. Emily forgot Madame Cheron and all the circumstances of\nher conduct, while her thoughts ascended to the contemplation of those\nunnumbered worlds, that lie scattered in the depths of aether, thousands\nof them hid from human eyes, and almost beyond the flight of human\nfancy. As her imagination soared through the regions of space, and\naspired to that Great First Cause, which pervades and governs all being,\nthe idea of her father scarcely ever left her; but it was a pleasing\nidea, since she resigned him to God in the full confidence of a pure and\nholy faith. She pursued her way through the groves to the terrace,\noften pausing as memory awakened the pang of affection, and as reason\nanticipated the exile, into which she was going.\n\nAnd now the moon was high over the woods, touching their summits with\nyellow light, and darting between the foliage long level beams; while on\nthe rapid Garonne below the trembling radiance was faintly obscured by\nthe lightest vapour. Emily long watched the playing lustre, listened to\nthe soothing murmur of the current, and the yet lighter sounds of the\nair, as it stirred, at intervals, the lofty palm-trees. 'How delightful\nis the sweet breath of these groves,' said she. 'This lovely scene!--how\noften shall I remember and regret it, when I am far away. Alas!\nwhat events may occur before I see it again! O, peaceful, happy\nshades!--scenes of my infant delights, of parental tenderness now lost\nfor ever!--why must I leave ye!--In your retreats I should still find\nsafety and repose. Sweet hours of my childhood--I am now to leave even\nyour last memorials! No objects, that would revive your impressions,\nwill remain for me!'\n\nThen drying her tears and looking up, her thoughts rose again to the\nsublime subject she had contemplated; the same divine complacency stole\nover her heart, and, hushing its throbs, inspired hope and confidence\nand resignation to the will of the Deity, whose works filled her mind\nwith adoration.\n\nEmily gazed long on the plane-tree, and then seated herself, for the\nlast time, on the bench under its shade, where she had so often sat with\nher parents, and where, only a few hours before, she had conversed\nwith Valancourt, at the remembrance of whom, thus revived, a mingled\nsensation of esteem, tenderness and anxiety rose in her breast. With\nthis remembrance occurred a recollection of his late confession--that he\nhad often wandered near her habitation in the night, having even passed\nthe boundary of the garden, and it immediately occurred to her, that\nhe might be at this moment in the grounds. The fear of meeting him,\nparticularly after the declaration he had made, and of incurring a\ncensure, which her aunt might so reasonably bestow, if it was known,\nthat she was met by her lover, at this hour, made her instantly leave\nher beloved plane-tree, and walk towards the chateau. She cast an\nanxious eye around, and often stopped for a moment to examine the\nshadowy scene before she ventured to proceed, but she passed on without\nperceiving any person, till, having reached a clump of almond trees, not\nfar from the house, she rested to take a retrospect of the garden, and\nto sigh forth another adieu. As her eyes wandered over the landscape she\nthought she perceived a person emerge from the groves, and pass slowly\nalong a moon-light alley that led between them; but the distance, and\nthe imperfect light would not suffer her to judge with any degree of\ncertainty whether this was fancy or reality. She continued to gaze for\nsome time on the spot, till on the dead stillness of the air she heard\na sudden sound, and in the next instant fancied she distinguished\nfootsteps near her. Wasting not another moment in conjecture, she\nhurried to the chateau, and, having reached it, retired to her chamber,\nwhere, as she closed her window she looked upon the garden, and then\nagain thought she distinguished a figure, gliding between the almond\ntrees she had just left. She immediately withdrew from the casement,\nand, though much agitated, sought in sleep the refreshment of a short\noblivion.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\n     I leave that flowery path for eye\n Of childhood, where I sported many a day,\n Warbling and sauntering carelessly along;\n Where every face was innocent and gay,\n Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue,\n Sweet, wild, and artless all.\n     THE MINSTREL\n\nAt an early hour, the carriage, which was to take Emily and Madame\nCheron to Tholouse, appeared at the door of the chateau, and Madame was\nalready in the breakfast-room, when her niece entered it. The repast\nwas silent and melancholy on the part of Emily; and Madame Cheron, whose\nvanity was piqued on observing her dejection, reproved her in a manner\nthat did not contribute to remove it. It was with much reluctance, that\nEmily's request to take with her the dog, which had been a favourite\nof her father, was granted. Her aunt, impatient to be gone, ordered the\ncarriage to draw up; and, while she passed to the hall door, Emily gave\nanother look into the library, and another farewell glance over the\ngarden, and then followed. Old Theresa stood at the door to take leave\nof her young lady. 'God for ever keep you, ma'amselle!' said she, while\nEmily gave her hand in silence, and could answer only with a pressure of\nher hand, and a forced smile.\n\nAt the gate, which led out of the grounds, several of her father's\npensioners were assembled to bid her farewell, to whom she would have\nspoken, if her aunt would have suffered the driver to stop; and, having\ndistributed to them almost all the money she had about her, she sunk\nback in the carriage, yielding to the melancholy of her heart. Soon\nafter, she caught, between the steep banks of the road, another view of\nthe chateau, peeping from among the high trees, and surrounded by green\nslopes and tufted groves, the Garonne winding its way beneath their\nshades, sometimes lost among the vineyards, and then rising in greater\nmajesty in the distant pastures. The towering precipices of the\nPyrenees, that rose to the south, gave Emily a thousand interesting\nrecollections of her late journey; and these objects of her former\nenthusiastic admiration, now excited only sorrow and regret. Having\ngazed on the chateau and its lovely scenery, till the banks again closed\nupon them, her mind became too much occupied by mournful reflections, to\npermit her to attend to the conversation, which Madame Cheron had begun\non some trivial topic, so that they soon travelled in profound silence.\n\nValancourt, mean while, was returned to Estuviere, his heart occupied\nwith the image of Emily; sometimes indulging in reveries of future\nhappiness, but more frequently shrinking with dread of the opposition\nhe might encounter from her family. He was the younger son of an ancient\nfamily of Gascony; and, having lost his parents at an early period\nof his life, the care of his education and of his small portion had\ndevolved to his brother, the Count de Duvarney, his senior by nearly\ntwenty years. Valancourt had been educated in all the accomplishments\nof his age, and had an ardour of spirit, and a certain grandeur of\nmind, that gave him particular excellence in the exercises then thought\nheroic. His little fortune had been diminished by the necessary expences\nof his education; but M. La Valancourt, the elder, seemed to think that\nhis genius and accomplishments would amply supply the deficiency of his\ninheritance. They offered flattering hopes of promotion in the military\nprofession, in those times almost the only one in which a gentleman\ncould engage without incurring a stain on his name; and La Valancourt\nwas of course enrolled in the army. The general genius of his mind was\nbut little understood by his brother. That ardour for whatever is great\nand good in the moral world, as well as in the natural one, displayed\nitself in his infant years; and the strong indignation, which he felt\nand expressed at a criminal, or a mean action, sometimes drew upon him\nthe displeasure of his tutor; who reprobated it under the general\nterm of violence of temper; and who, when haranguing on the virtues of\nmildness and moderation, seemed to forget the gentleness and compassion,\nwhich always appeared in his pupil towards objects of misfortune.\n\nHe had now obtained leave of absence from his regiment when he made the\nexcursion into the Pyrenees, which was the means of introducing him to\nSt. Aubert; and, as this permission was nearly expired, he was the more\nanxious to declare himself to Emily's family, from whom he reasonably\napprehended opposition, since his fortune, though, with a moderate\naddition from hers, it would be sufficient to support them, would not\nsatisfy the views, either of vanity, or ambition. Valancourt was not\nwithout the latter, but he saw golden visions of promotion in the army;\nand believed, that with Emily he could, in the mean time, be delighted\nto live within the limits of his humble income. His thoughts were now\noccupied in considering the means of making himself known to her family,\nto whom, however, he had yet no address, for he was entirely ignorant of\nEmily's precipitate departure from La Vallee, of whom he hoped to obtain\nit.\n\nMeanwhile, the travellers pursued their journey; Emily making frequent\nefforts to appear cheerful, and too often relapsing into silence and\ndejection. Madame Cheron, attributing her melancholy solely to the\ncircumstance of her being removed to a distance from her lover, and\nbelieving, that the sorrow, which her niece still expressed for the\nloss of St. Aubert, proceeded partly from an affectation of sensibility,\nendeavoured to make it appear ridiculous to her, that such deep regret\nshould continue to be felt so long after the period usually allowed for\ngrief.\n\nAt length, these unpleasant lectures were interrupted by the arrival of\nthe travellers at Tholouse; and Emily, who had not been there for many\nyears, and had only a very faint recollection of it, was surprised at\nthe ostentatious style exhibited in her aunt's house and furniture; the\nmore so, perhaps, because it was so totally different from the modest\nelegance, to which she had been accustomed. She followed Madame Cheron\nthrough a large hall, where several servants in rich liveries appeared,\nto a kind of saloon, fitted up with more shew than taste; and her aunt,\ncomplaining of fatigue, ordered supper immediately. 'I am glad to find\nmyself in my own house again,' said she, throwing herself on a large\nsettee, 'and to have my own people about me. I detest travelling;\nthough, indeed, I ought to like it, for what I see abroad always makes\nme delighted to return to my own chateau. What makes you so silent,\nchild?--What is it that disturbs you now?'\n\nEmily suppressed a starting tear, and tried to smile away the expression\nof an oppressed heart; she was thinking of HER home, and felt too\nsensibly the arrogance and ostentatious vanity of Madame Cheron's\nconversation. 'Can this be my father's sister!' said she to herself; and\nthen the conviction that she was so, warming her heart with something\nlike kindness towards her, she felt anxious to soften the harsh\nimpression her mind had received of her aunt's character, and to shew\na willingness to oblige her. The effort did not entirely fail; she\nlistened with apparent cheerfulness, while Madame Cheron expatiated\non the splendour of her house, told of the numerous parties she\nentertained, and what she should expect of Emily, whose diffidence\nassumed the air of a reserve, which her aunt, believing it to be that\nof pride and ignorance united, now took occasion to reprehend. She knew\nnothing of the conduct of a mind, that fears to trust its own powers;\nwhich, possessing a nice judgment, and inclining to believe, that every\nother person perceives still more critically, fears to commit itself\nto censure, and seeks shelter in the obscurity of silence. Emily had\nfrequently blushed at the fearless manners, which she had seen admired,\nand the brilliant nothings, which she had heard applauded; yet this\napplause, so far from encouraging her to imitate the conduct that had\nwon it, rather made her shrink into the reserve, that would protect her\nfrom such absurdity.\n\nMadame Cheron looked on her niece's diffidence with a feeling very near\nto contempt, and endeavoured to overcome it by reproof, rather than to\nencourage it by gentleness.\n\nThe entrance of supper somewhat interrupted the complacent discourse of\nMadame Cheron and the painful considerations, which it had forced\nupon Emily. When the repast, which was rendered ostentatious by the\nattendance of a great number of servants, and by a profusion of plate,\nwas over, Madame Cheron retired to her chamber, and a female servant\ncame to shew Emily to hers. Having passed up a large stair-case, and\nthrough several galleries, they came to a flight of back stairs, which\nled into a short passage in a remote part of the chateau, and there\nthe servant opened the door of a small chamber, which she said was\nMa'amselle Emily's, who, once more alone, indulged the tears she had\nlong tried to restrain.\n\nThose, who know, from experience, how much the heart becomes attached\neven to inanimate objects, to which it has been long accustomed, how\nunwillingly it resigns them; how with the sensations of an old friend it\nmeets them, after temporary absence, will understand the forlornness\nof Emily's feelings, of Emily shut out from the only home she had\nknown from her infancy, and thrown upon a scene, and among persons,\ndisagreeable for more qualities than their novelty. Her father's\nfavourite dog, now in the chamber, thus seemed to acquire the character\nand importance of a friend; and, as the animal fawned over her when she\nwept, and licked her hands, 'Ah, poor Manchon!' said she, 'I have nobody\nnow to love me--but you!' and she wept the more. After some time, her\nthoughts returning to her father's injunctions, she remembered how often\nhe had blamed her for indulging useless sorrow; how often he had pointed\nout to her the necessity of fortitude and patience, assuring her, that\nthe faculties of the mind strengthen by exertion, till they finally\nunnerve affliction, and triumph over it. These recollections dried her\ntears, gradually soothed her spirits, and inspired her with the sweet\nemulation of practising precepts, which her father had so frequently\ninculcated.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\n Some pow'r impart the spear and shield,\n At which the wizard passions fly,\n By which the giant follies die.\n     COLLINS\n\nMadame Cheron's house stood at a little distance from the city of\nTholouse, and was surrounded by extensive gardens, in which Emily, who\nhad risen early, amused herself with wandering before breakfast. From a\nterrace, that extended along the highest part of them, was a wide view\nover Languedoc. On the distant horizon to the south, she discovered\nthe wild summits of the Pyrenees, and her fancy immediately painted\nthe green pastures of Gascony at their feet. Her heart pointed to her\npeaceful home--to the neighbourhood where Valancourt was--where St.\nAubert had been; and her imagination, piercing the veil of distance,\nbrought that home to her eyes in all its interesting and romantic\nbeauty. She experienced an inexpressible pleasure in believing, that she\nbeheld the country around it, though no feature could be distinguished,\nexcept the retiring chain of the Pyrenees; and, inattentive to the scene\nimmediately before her, and to the flight of time, she continued to lean\non the window of a pavilion, that terminated the terrace, with her eyes\nfixed on Gascony, and her mind occupied with the interesting ideas which\nthe view of it awakened, till a servant came to tell her breakfast\nwas ready. Her thoughts thus recalled to the surrounding objects,\nthe straight walks, square parterres, and artificial fountains of the\ngarden, could not fail, as she passed through it, to appear the worse,\nopposed to the negligent graces, and natural beauties of the grounds of\nLa Vallee, upon which her recollection had been so intensely employed.\n\n'Whither have you been rambling so early?' said Madame Cheron, as her\nniece entered the breakfast-room. 'I don't approve of these solitary\nwalks;' and Emily was surprised, when, having informed her aunt, that\nshe had been no further than the gardens, she understood these to be\nincluded in the reproof. 'I desire you will not walk there again at\nso early an hour unattended,' said Madame Cheron; 'my gardens are very\nextensive; and a young woman, who can make assignations by moon-light,\nat La Vallee, is not to be trusted to her own inclinations elsewhere.'\n\nEmily, extremely surprised and shocked, had scarcely power to beg an\nexplanation of these words, and, when she did, her aunt absolutely\nrefused to give it, though, by her severe looks, and half sentences,\nshe appeared anxious to impress Emily with a belief, that she was well\ninformed of some degrading circumstances of her conduct. Conscious\ninnocence could not prevent a blush from stealing over Emily's cheek;\nshe trembled, and looked confusedly under the bold eye of Madame Cheron,\nwho blushed also; but hers was the blush of triumph, such as sometimes\nstains the countenance of a person, congratulating himself on the\npenetration which had taught him to suspect another, and who loses both\npity for the supposed criminal, and indignation of his guilt, in the\ngratification of his own vanity.\n\nEmily, not doubting that her aunt's mistake arose from the having\nobserved her ramble in the garden on the night preceding her departure\nfrom La Vallee, now mentioned the motive of it, at which Madame Cheron\nsmiled contemptuously, refusing either to accept this explanation, or\nto give her reasons for refusing it; and, soon after, she concluded the\nsubject by saying, 'I never trust people's assertions, I always judge\nof them by their actions; but I am willing to try what will be your\nbehaviour in future.'\n\nEmily, less surprised by her aunt's moderation and mysterious silence,\nthan by the accusation she had received, deeply considered the latter,\nand scarcely doubted, that it was Valancourt whom she had seen at night\nin the gardens of La Vallee, and that he had been observed there by\nMadame Cheron; who now passing from one painful topic only to revive\nanother almost equally so, spoke of the situation of her niece's\nproperty, in the hands of M. Motteville. While she thus talked with\nostentatious pity of Emily's misfortunes, she failed not to inculcate\nthe duties of humility and gratitude, or to render Emily fully sensible\nof every cruel mortification, who soon perceived, that she was to be\nconsidered as a dependant, not only by her aunt, but by her aunt's\nservants.\n\nShe was now informed, that a large party were expected to dinner, on\nwhich account Madame Cheron repeated the lesson of the preceding night,\nconcerning her conduct in company, and Emily wished, that she might have\ncourage enough to practise it. Her aunt then proceeded to examine the\nsimplicity of her dress, adding, that she expected to see her attired\nwith gaiety and taste; after which she condescended to shew Emily the\nsplendour of her chateau, and to point out the particular beauty, or\nelegance, which she thought distinguished each of her numerous suites of\napartments. She then withdrew to her toilet, the throne of her homage,\nand Emily to her chamber, to unpack her books, and to try to charm her\nmind by reading, till the hour of dressing.\n\nWhen the company arrived, Emily entered the saloon with an air of\ntimidity, which all her efforts could not overcome, and which was\nincreased by the consciousness of Madame Cheron's severe observation.\nHer mourning dress, the mild dejection of her beautiful countenance, and\nthe retiring diffidence of her manner, rendered her a very interesting\nobject to many of the company; among whom she distinguished Signor\nMontoni, and his friend Cavigni, the late visitors at M. Quesnel's, who\nnow seemed to converse with Madame Cheron with the familiarity of old\nacquaintance, and she to attend to them with particular pleasure.\n\nThis Signor Montoni had an air of conscious superiority, animated\nby spirit, and strengthened by talents, to which every person seemed\ninvoluntarily to yield. The quickness of his perceptions was strikingly\nexpressed on his countenance, yet that countenance could submit\nimplicitly to occasion; and, more than once in this day, the triumph of\nart over nature might have been discerned in it. His visage was long,\nand rather narrow, yet he was called handsome; and it was, perhaps,\nthe spirit and vigour of his soul, sparkling through his features, that\ntriumphed for him. Emily felt admiration, but not the admiration that\nleads to esteem; for it was mixed with a degree of fear she knew not\nexactly wherefore.\n\nCavigni was gay and insinuating as formerly; and, though he paid almost\nincessant attention to Madame Cheron, he found some opportunities of\nconversing with Emily, to whom he directed, at first, the sallies of his\nwit, but now and then assumed an air of tenderness, which she observed,\nand shrunk from. Though she replied but little, the gentleness and\nsweetness of her manners encouraged him to talk, and she felt relieved\nwhen a young lady of the party, who spoke incessantly, obtruded herself\non his notice. This lady, who possessed all the sprightliness of\na Frenchwoman, with all her coquetry, affected to understand every\nsubject, or rather there was no affectation in the case; for, never\nlooking beyond the limits of her own ignorance, she believed she had\nnothing to learn. She attracted notice from all; amused some, disgusted\nothers for a moment, and was then forgotten.\n\nThis day passed without any material occurrence; and Emily, though\namused by the characters she had seen, was glad when she could retire to\nthe recollections, which had acquired with her the character of duties.\n\nA fortnight passed in a round of dissipation and company, and Emily, who\nattended Madame Cheron in all her visits, was sometimes entertained, but\noftener wearied. She was struck by the apparent talents and knowledge\ndisplayed in the various conversations she listened to, and it was long\nbefore she discovered, that the talents were for the most part those of\nimposture, and the knowledge nothing more than was necessary to assist\nthem. But what deceived her most, was the air of constant gaiety and\ngood spirits, displayed by every visitor, and which she supposed to\narise from content as constant, and from benevolence as ready. At\nlength, from the over-acting of some, less accomplished than the others,\nshe could perceive, that, though contentment and benevolence are\nthe only sure sources of cheerfulness, the immoderate and feverish\nanimation, usually exhibited in large parties, results partly from an\ninsensibility to the cares, which benevolence must sometimes derive\nfrom the sufferings of others, and partly from a desire to display the\nappearance of that prosperity, which they know will command submission\nand attention to themselves.\n\nEmily's pleasantest hours were passed in the pavilion of the terrace, to\nwhich she retired, when she could steal from observation, with a book to\novercome, or a lute to indulge, her melancholy. There, as she sat\nwith her eyes fixed on the far-distant Pyrenees, and her thoughts on\nValancourt and the beloved scenes of Gascony, she would play the sweet\nand melancholy songs of her native province--the popular songs she had\nlistened to from her childhood.\n\nOne evening, having excused herself from accompanying her aunt abroad,\nshe thus withdrew to the pavilion, with books and her lute. It was\nthe mild and beautiful evening of a sultry day, and the windows, which\nfronted the west, opened upon all the glory of a setting sun. Its rays\nilluminated, with strong splendour, the cliffs of the Pyrenees, and\ntouched their snowy tops with a roseate hue, that remained, long after\nthe sun had sunk below the horizon, and the shades of twilight had\nstolen over the landscape. Emily touched her lute with that fine\nmelancholy expression, which came from her heart. The pensive hour and\nthe scene, the evening light on the Garonne, that flowed at no great\ndistance, and whose waves, as they passed towards La Vallee, she often\nviewed with a sigh,--these united circumstances disposed her mind to\ntenderness, and her thoughts were with Valancourt, of whom she had heard\nnothing since her arrival at Tholouse, and now that she was removed from\nhim, and in uncertainty, she perceived all the interest he held in her\nheart. Before she saw Valancourt she had never met a mind and taste so\naccordant with her own, and, though Madame Cheron told her much of the\narts of dissimulation, and that the elegance and propriety of thought,\nwhich she so much admired in her lover, were assumed for the purpose of\npleasing her, she could scarcely doubt their truth. This possibility,\nhowever, faint as it was, was sufficient to harass her mind with\nanxiety, and she found, that few conditions are more painful than that\nof uncertainty, as to the merit of a beloved object; an uncertainty,\nwhich she would not have suffered, had her confidence in her own\nopinions been greater.\n\nShe was awakened from her musing by the sound of horses' feet along\na road, that wound under the windows of the pavilion, and a gentleman\npassed on horseback, whose resemblance to Valancourt, in air and figure,\nfor the twilight did not permit a view of his features, immediately\nstruck her. She retired hastily from the lattice, fearing to be seen,\nyet wishing to observe further, while the stranger passed on without\nlooking up, and, when she returned to the lattice, she saw him faintly\nthrough the twilight, winding under the high trees, that led to\nTholouse. This little incident so much disturbed her spirits, that the\ntemple and its scenery were no longer interesting to her, and, after\nwalking awhile on the terrace, she returned to the chateau.\n\nMadame Cheron, whether she had seen a rival admired, had lost at play,\nor had witnessed an entertainment more splendid than her own, was\nreturned from her visit with a temper more than usually discomposed; and\nEmily was glad, when the hour arrived, in which she could retire to the\nsolitude of her own apartment.\n\nOn the following morning, she was summoned to Madame Cheron, whose\ncountenance was inflamed with resentment, and, as Emily advanced, she\nheld out a letter to her.\n\n'Do you know this hand?' said she, in a severe tone, and with a look\nthat was intended to search her heart, while Emily examined the letter\nattentively, and assured her, that she did not.\n\n'Do not provoke me,' said her aunt; 'you do know it, confess the truth\nimmediately. I insist upon your confessing the truth instantly.'\n\nEmily was silent, and turned to leave the room, but Madame called her\nback. 'O you are guilty, then,' said she, 'you do know the hand.' 'If\nyou was before in doubt of this, madam,' replied Emily calmly, 'why did\nyou accuse me of having told a falsehood.' Madame Cheron did not\nblush; but her niece did, a moment after, when she heard the name of\nValancourt. It was not, however, with the consciousness of deserving\nreproof, for, if she ever had seen his hand-writing, the present\ncharacters did not bring it to her recollection.\n\n'It is useless to deny it,' said Madame Cheron, 'I see in your\ncountenance, that you are no stranger to this letter; and, I dare say,\nyou have received many such from this impertinent young man, without my\nknowledge, in my own house.'\n\nEmily, shocked at the indelicacy of this accusation, still more than\nby the vulgarity of the former, instantly forgot the pride, that\nhad imposed silence, and endeavoured to vindicate herself from the\naspersion, but Madame Cheron was not to be convinced.\n\n'I cannot suppose,' she resumed, 'that this young man would have taken\nthe liberty of writing to me, if you had not encouraged him to do so,\nand I must now'--'You will allow me to remind you, madam,' said Emily\ntimidly, 'of some particulars of a conversation we had at La Vallee.\nI then told you truly, that I had only not forbade Monsieur Valancourt\nfrom addressing my family.'\n\n'I will not be interrupted,' said Madame Cheron, interrupting her niece,\n'I was going to say--I--I-have forgot what I was going to say. But\nhow happened it that you did not forbid him?' Emily was silent. 'How\nhappened it that you encouraged him to trouble me with this letter?--A\nyoung man that nobody knows;--an utter stranger in the place,--a young\nadventurer, no doubt, who is looking out for a good fortune. However, on\nthat point he has mistaken his aim.'\n\n'His family was known to my father,' said Emily modestly, and without\nappearing to be sensible of the last sentence.\n\n'O! that is no recommendation at all,' replied her aunt, with her usual\nreadiness upon this topic; 'he took such strange fancies to people! He\nwas always judging persons by their countenances, and was continually\ndeceived.' 'Yet it was but now, madam, that you judged me guilty by my\ncountenance,' said Emily, with a design of reproving Madame Cheron, to\nwhich she was induced by this disrespectful mention of her father.\n\n'I called you here,' resumed her aunt, colouring, 'to tell you, that\nI will not be disturbed in my own house by any letters, or visits from\nyoung men, who may take a fancy to flatter you. This M. de Valantine--I\nthink you call him, has the impertinence to beg I will permit him to\npay his respects to me! I shall send him a proper answer. And for you,\nEmily, I repeat it once for all--if you are not contented to conform\nto my directions, and to my way of live, I shall give up the task of\noverlooking your conduct--I shall no longer trouble myself with your\neducation, but shall send you to board in a convent.'\n\n'Dear madam,' said Emily, bursting into tears, and overcome by the rude\nsuspicions her aunt had expressed, 'how have I deserved these reproofs?'\nShe could say no more; and so very fearful was she of acting with any\ndegree of impropriety in the affair itself, that, at the present moment,\nMadame Cheron might perhaps have prevailed with her to bind herself by\na promise to renounce Valancourt for ever. Her mind, weakened by her\nterrors, would no longer suffer her to view him as she had formerly\ndone; she feared the error of her own judgment, not that of Madame\nCheron, and feared also, that, in her former conversation with him, at\nLa Vallee, she had not conducted herself with sufficient reserve. She\nknew, that she did not deserve the coarse suspicions, which her aunt had\nthrown out, but a thousand scruples rose to torment her, such as would\nnever have disturbed the peace of Madame Cheron. Thus rendered anxious\nto avoid every opportunity of erring, and willing to submit to any\nrestrictions, that her aunt should think proper, she expressed an\nobedience, to which Madame Cheron did not give much confidence, and\nwhich she seemed to consider as the consequence of either fear, or\nartifice.\n\n'Well, then,' said she, 'promise me that you will neither see this young\nman, nor write to him without my consent.' 'Dear madam,' replied Emily,\n'can you suppose I would do either, unknown to you!' 'I don't know\nwhat to suppose; there is no knowing how young women will act. It is\ndifficult to place any confidence in them, for they have seldom sense\nenough to wish for the respect of the world.'\n\n'Alas, madam!' said Emily, 'I am anxious for my own respect; my father\ntaught me the value of that; he said if I deserved my own esteem, that\nthe world would follow of course.'\n\n'My brother was a good kind of a man,' replied Madame Cheron, 'but he\ndid not know the world. I am sure I have always felt a proper respect\nfor myself, yet--' she stopped, but she might have added, that the world\nhad not always shewn respect to her, and this without impeaching its\njudgment.\n\n'Well!' resumed Madame Cheron, 'you have not give me the promise,\nthough, that I demand.' Emily readily gave it, and, being then suffered\nto withdraw, she walked in the garden; tried to compose her spirits,\nand, at length, arrived at her favourite pavilion at the end of the\nterrace, where, seating herself at one of the embowered windows, that\nopened upon a balcony, the stillness and seclusion of the scene allowed\nher to recollect her thoughts, and to arrange them so as to form a\nclearer judgment of her former conduct. She endeavoured to review with\nexactness all the particulars of her conversation with Valancourt at La\nVallee, had the satisfaction to observe nothing, that could alarm her\ndelicate pride, and thus to be confirmed in the self-esteem, which was\nso necessary to her peace. Her mind then became tranquil, and she saw\nValancourt amiable and intelligent, as he had formerly appeared, and\nMadame Cheron neither the one, or the other. The remembrance of her\nlover, however, brought with it many very painful emotions, for it by no\nmeans reconciled her to the thought of resigning him; and, Madame Cheron\nhaving already shewn how highly she disapproved of the attachment, she\nforesaw much suffering from the opposition of interests; yet with all\nthis was mingled a degree of delight, which, in spite of reason, partook\nof hope. She determined, however, that no consideration should induce\nher to permit a clandestine correspondence, and to observe in her\nconversation with Valancourt, should they ever meet again, the same\nnicety of reserve, which had hitherto marked her conduct. As she\nrepeated the words--'should we ever meet again!' she shrunk as if this\nwas a circumstance, which had never before occurred to her, and tears\ncame to her eyes, which she hastily dried, for she heard footsteps\napproaching, and then the door of the pavilion open, and, on turning,\nshe saw--Valancourt. An emotion of mingled pleasure, surprise and\napprehension pressed so suddenly upon her heart as almost to overcome\nher spirits; the colour left her cheeks, then returned brighter than\nbefore, and she was for a moment unable to speak, or to rise from her\nchair. His countenance was the mirror, in which she saw her own emotions\nreflected, and it roused her to self-command. The joy, which had\nanimated his features, when he entered the pavilion, was suddenly\nrepressed, as, approaching, he perceived her agitation, and, in a\ntremulous voice, enquired after her health. Recovered from her first\nsurprise, she answered him with a tempered smile; but a variety of\nopposite emotions still assailed her heart, and struggled to subdue\nthe mild dignity of her manner. It was difficult to tell which\npredominated--the joy of seeing Valancourt, or the terror of her aunt's\ndispleasure, when she should hear of this meeting. After some short and\nembarrassed conversation, she led him into the gardens, and enquired if\nhe had seen Madame Cheron. 'No,' said he, 'I have not yet seen her, for\nthey told me she was engaged, and as soon as I learned that you were in\nthe gardens, I came hither.' He paused a moment, in great agitation, and\nthen added, 'May I venture to tell you the purport of my visit, without\nincurring your displeasure, and to hope, that you will not accuse me of\nprecipitation in now availing myself of the permission you once gave\nme of addressing your family?' Emily, who knew not what to reply, was\nspared from further perplexity, and was sensible only of fear, when on\nraising her eyes, she saw Madame Cheron turn into the avenue. As the\nconsciousness of innocence returned, this fear was so far dissipated as\nto permit her to appear tranquil, and, instead of avoiding her aunt, she\nadvanced with Valancourt to meet her. The look of haughty and impatient\ndispleasure, with which Madame Cheron regarded them, made Emily shrink,\nwho understood from a single glance, that this meeting was believed to\nhave been more than accidental: having mentioned Valancourt's name, she\nbecame again too much agitated to remain with them, and returned into\nthe chateau; where she awaited long, in a state of trembling anxiety,\nthe conclusion of the conference. She knew not how to account for\nValancourt's visit to her aunt, before he had received the permission\nhe solicited, since she was ignorant of a circumstance, which would have\nrendered the request useless, even if Madame Cheron had been inclined to\ngrant it. Valancourt, in the agitation of his spirits, had forgotten to\ndate his letter, so that it was impossible for Madame Cheron to return\nan answer; and, when he recollected this circumstance, he was, perhaps,\nnot so sorry for the omission as glad of the excuse it allowed him for\nwaiting on her before she could send a refusal.\n\nMadame Cheron had a long conversation with Valancourt, and, when she\nreturned to the chateau, her countenance expressed ill-humour, but not\nthe degree of severity, which Emily had apprehended. 'I have dismissed\nthis young man, at last,' said she, 'and I hope my house will never\nagain be disturbed with similar visits. He assures me, that your\ninterview was not preconcerted.'\n\n'Dear madam!' said Emily in extreme emotion, 'you surely did not ask him\nthe question!' 'Most certainly I did; you could not suppose I should be\nso imprudent as to neglect it.'\n\n'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, 'what an opinion must he form of me, since\nyou, Madam, could express a suspicion of such ill conduct!'\n\n'It is of very little consequence what opinion he may form of you,'\nreplied her aunt, 'for I have put an end to the affair; but I believe\nhe will not form a worse opinion of me for my prudent conduct. I let him\nsee, that I was not to be trifled with, and that I had more delicacy,\nthan to permit any clandestine correspondence to be carried on in my\nhouse.'\n\nEmily had frequently heard Madame Cheron use the word delicacy, but she\nwas now more than usually perplexed to understand how she meant to apply\nit in this instance, in which her whole conduct appeared to merit the\nvery reverse of the term.\n\n'It was very inconsiderate of my brother,' resumed Madame Cheron, 'to\nleave the trouble of overlooking your conduct to me; I wish you was well\nsettled in life. But if I find, that I am to be further troubled with\nsuch visitors as this M. Valancourt, I shall place you in a convent at\nonce;--so remember the alternative. This young man has the impertinence\nto own to me,--he owns it! that his fortune is very small, and that he\nis chiefly dependent on an elder brother and on the profession he has\nchosen! He should have concealed these circumstances, at least, if he\nexpected to succeed with me. Had he the presumption to suppose I would\nmarry my niece to a person such as he describes himself!'\n\nEmily dried her tears when she heard of the candid confession of\nValancourt; and, though the circumstances it discovered were afflicting\nto her hopes, his artless conduct gave her a degree of pleasure, that\novercame every other emotion. But she was compelled, even thus early\nin life, to observe, that good sense and noble integrity are not always\nsufficient to cope with folly and narrow cunning; and her heart was pure\nenough to allow her, even at this trying moment, to look with more pride\non the defeat of the former, than with mortification on the conquests of\nthe latter.\n\nMadame Cheron pursued her triumph. 'He has also thought proper to tell\nme, that he will receive his dismission from no person but yourself;\nthis favour, however, I have absolutely refused him. He shall learn,\nthat it is quite sufficient, that I disapprove him. And I take this\nopportunity of repeating,--that if you concert any means of interview\nunknown to me, you shall leave my house immediately.'\n\n'How little do you know me, madam, that you should think such an\ninjunction necessary!' said Emily, trying to suppress her emotion, 'how\nlittle of the dear parents, who educated me!'\n\nMadame Cheron now went to dress for an engagement, which she had made\nfor the evening; and Emily, who would gladly have been excused from\nattending her aunt, did not ask to remain at home lest her request\nshould be attributed to an improper motive. When she retired to her own\nroom, the little fortitude, which had supported her in the presence of\nher relation, forsook her; she remembered only that Valancourt, whose\ncharacter appeared more amiable from every circumstance, that unfolded\nit, was banished from her presence, perhaps, for ever, and she passed\nthe time in weeping, which, according to her aunt's direction, she ought\nto have employed in dressing. This important duty was, however, quickly\ndispatched; though, when she joined Madame Cheron at table, her eyes\nbetrayed, that she had been in tears, and drew upon her a severe\nreproof.\n\nHer efforts to appear cheerful did not entirely fail when she joined the\ncompany at the house of Madame Clairval, an elderly widow lady, who had\nlately come to reside at Tholouse, on an estate of her late husband. She\nhad lived many years at Paris in a splendid style; had naturally a gay\ntemper, and, since her residence at Tholouse, had given some of the most\nmagnificent entertainments, that had been seen in that neighbourhood.\n\nThese excited not only the envy, but the trifling ambition of Madame\nCheron, who, since she could not rival the splendour of her festivities,\nwas desirous of being ranked in the number of her most intimate friends.\nFor this purpose she paid her the most obsequious attention, and made\na point of being disengaged, whenever she received an invitation from\nMadame Clairval, of whom she talked, wherever she went, and derived much\nself-consequence from impressing a belief on her general acquaintance,\nthat they were on the most familiar footing.\n\nThe entertainments of this evening consisted of a ball and supper; it\nwas a fancy ball, and the company danced in groups in the gardens,\nwhich were very extensive. The high and luxuriant trees, under which the\ngroups assembled, were illuminated with a profusion of lamps, disposed\nwith taste and fancy. The gay and various dresses of the company, some\nof whom were seated on the turf, conversing at their ease, observing\nthe cotillons, taking refreshments, and sometimes touching sportively a\nguitar; the gallant manners of the gentlemen, the exquisitely capricious\nair of the ladies; the light fantastic steps of their dances; the\nmusicians, with the lute, the hautboy, and the tabor, seated at the foot\nof an elm, and the sylvan scenery of woods around were circumstances,\nthat unitedly formed a characteristic and striking picture of French\nfestivity. Emily surveyed the gaiety of the scene with a melancholy kind\nof pleasure, and her emotion may be imagined when, as she stood with her\naunt, looking at one of the groups, she perceived Valancourt; saw him\ndancing with a young and beautiful lady, saw him conversing with her\nwith a mixture of attention and familiarity, such as she had seldom\nobserved in his manner. She turned hastily from the scene, and attempted\nto draw away Madame Cheron, who was conversing with Signor Cavigni,\nand neither perceived Valancourt, or was willing to be interrupted. A\nfaintness suddenly came over Emily, and, unable to support herself, she\nsat down on a turf bank beneath the trees, where several other persons\nwere seated. One of these, observing the extreme paleness of her\ncountenance, enquired if she was ill, and begged she would allow him to\nfetch her a glass of water, for which politeness she thanked him, but\ndid not accept it. Her apprehension lest Valancourt should observe her\nemotion made her anxious to overcome it, and she succeeded so far as\nto re-compose her countenance. Madame Cheron was still conversing with\nCavigni; and the Count Bauvillers, who had addressed Emily, made some\nobservations upon the scene, to which she answered almost unconsciously,\nfor her mind was still occupied with the idea of Valancourt, to whom\nit was with extreme uneasiness that she remained so near. Some remarks,\nhowever, which the Count made upon the dance obliged her to turn her\neyes towards it, and, at that moment, Valancourt's met hers. Her colour\nfaded again, she felt, that she was relapsing into faintness, and\ninstantly averted her looks, but not before she had observed the altered\ncountenance of Valancourt, on perceiving her. She would have left the\nspot immediately, had she not been conscious, that this conduct would\nhave shewn him more obviously the interest he held in her heart; and,\nhaving tried to attend to the Count's conversation, and to join in\nit, she, at length, recovered her spirits. But, when he made some\nobservation on Valancourt's partner, the fear of shewing that she was\ninterested in the remark, would have betrayed it to him, had not\nthe Count, while he spoke, looked towards the person of whom he was\nspeaking. 'The lady,' said he, 'dancing with that young Chevalier, who\nappears to be accomplished in every thing, but in dancing, is ranked\namong the beauties of Tholouse. She is handsome, and her fortune will be\nvery large. I hope she will make a better choice in a partner for life\nthan she has done in a partner for the dance, for I observe he has just\nput the set into great confusion; he does nothing but commit blunders. I\nam surprised, that, with his air and figure, he has not taken more care\nto accomplish himself in dancing.'\n\nEmily, whose heart trembled at every word, that was now uttered,\nendeavoured to turn the conversation from Valancourt, by enquiring\nthe name of the lady, with whom he danced; but, before the Count could\nreply, the dance concluded, and Emily, perceiving that Valancourt was\ncoming towards her, rose and joined Madame Cheron.\n\n'Here is the Chevalier Valancourt, madam,' said she in a whisper, 'pray\nlet us go.' Her aunt immediately moved on, but not before Valancourt had\nreached them, who bowed lowly to Madame Cheron, and with an earnest and\ndejected look to Emily, with whom, notwithstanding all her effort, an\nair of more than common reserve prevailed. The presence of Madame\nCheron prevented Valancourt from remaining, and he passed on with a\ncountenance, whose melancholy reproached her for having increased it.\nEmily was called from the musing fit, into which she had fallen, by the\nCount Bauvillers, who was known to her aunt.\n\n'I have your pardon to beg, ma'amselle,' said he, 'for a rudeness, which\nyou will readily believe was quite unintentional. I did not know, that\nthe Chevalier was your acquaintance, when I so freely criticised his\ndancing.' Emily blushed and smiled, and Madame Cheron spared her the\ndifficulty of replying. 'If you mean the person, who has just passed\nus,' said she, 'I can assure you he is no acquaintance of either mine,\nor ma'amselle St. Aubert's: I know nothing of him.'\n\n'O! that is the Chevalier Valancourt,' said Cavigni carelessly, and\nlooking back. 'You know him then?' said Madame Cheron. 'I am not\nacquainted with him,' replied Cavigni. 'You don't know, then, the reason\nI have to call him impertinent;--he has had the presumption to admire my\nniece!'\n\n'If every man deserves the title of impertinent, who admires\nma'amselle St. Aubert,' replied Cavigni, 'I fear there are a great many\nimpertinents, and I am willing to acknowledge myself one of the number.'\n\n'O Signor!' said Madame Cheron, with an affected smile, 'I perceive you\nhave learnt the art of complimenting, since you came into France. But it\nis cruel to compliment children, since they mistake flattery for truth.'\n\nCavigni turned away his face for a moment, and then said with a studied\nair, 'Whom then are we to compliment, madam? for it would be absurd to\ncompliment a woman of refined understanding; SHE is above all praise.'\nAs he finished the sentence he gave Emily a sly look, and the smile,\nthat had lurked in his eye, stole forth. She perfectly understood it,\nand blushed for Madame Cheron, who replied, 'You are perfectly right,\nsignor, no woman of understanding can endure compliment.'\n\n'I have heard Signor Montoni say,' rejoined Cavigni, 'that he never knew\nbut one woman who deserved it.'\n\n'Well!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, with a short laugh, and a smile of\nunutterable complacency, 'and who could she be?'\n\n'O!' replied Cavigni, 'it is impossible to mistake her, for certainly\nthere is not more than one woman in the world, who has both the merit to\ndeserve compliment and the wit to refuse it. Most women reverse the case\nentirely.' He looked again at Emily, who blushed deeper than before for\nher aunt, and turned from him with displeasure.\n\n'Well, signor!' said Madame Cheron, 'I protest you are a Frenchman; I\nnever heard a foreigner say any thing half so gallant as that!'\n\n'True, madam,' said the Count, who had been some time silent, and with a\nlow bow, 'but the gallantry of the compliment had been utterly lost, but\nfor the ingenuity that discovered the application.'\n\nMadame Cheron did not perceive the meaning of this too satirical\nsentence, and she, therefore, escaped the pain, which Emily felt on\nher account. 'O! here comes Signor Montoni himself,' said her aunt, 'I\nprotest I will tell him all the fine things you have been saying to me.'\nThe Signor, however, passed at this moment into another walk. 'Pray, who\nis it, that has so much engaged your friend this evening?' asked Madame\nCheron, with an air of chagrin, 'I have not seen him once.'\n\n'He had a very particular engagement with the Marquis La Riviere,'\nreplied Cavigni, 'which has detained him, I perceive, till this moment,\nor he would have done himself the honour of paying his respects to you,\nmadam, sooner, as he commissioned me to say. But, I know not how it\nis--your conversation is so fascinating--that it can charm even memory,\nI think, or I should certainly have delivered my friend's apology\nbefore.'\n\n'The apology, sir, would have been more satisfactory from himself,' said\nMadame Cheron, whose vanity was more mortified by Montoni's neglect,\nthan flattered by Cavigni's compliment. Her manner, at this moment, and\nCavigni's late conversation, now awakened a suspicion in Emily's mind,\nwhich, notwithstanding that some recollections served to confirm it,\nappeared preposterous. She thought she perceived, that Montoni was\npaying serious addresses to her aunt, and that she not only accepted\nthem, but was jealously watchful of any appearance of neglect on his\npart.--That Madame Cheron at her years should elect a second husband was\nridiculous, though her vanity made it not impossible; but that Montoni,\nwith his discernment, his figure, and pretensions, should make a choice\nof Madame Cheron--appeared most wonderful. Her thoughts, however, did\nnot dwell long on the subject; nearer interests pressed upon them;\nValancourt, rejected of her aunt, and Valancourt dancing with a gay and\nbeautiful partner, alternately tormented her mind. As she passed along\nthe gardens she looked timidly forward, half fearing and half hoping\nthat he might appear in the crowd; and the disappointment she felt on\nnot seeing him, told her, that she had hoped more than she had feared.\n\nMontoni soon after joined the party. He muttered over some short speech\nabout regret for having been so long detained elsewhere, when he knew\nhe should have the pleasure of seeing Madame Cheron here; and she,\nreceiving the apology with the air of a pettish girl, addressed herself\nentirely to Cavigni, who looked archly at Montoni, as if he would have\nsaid, 'I will not triumph over you too much; I will have the goodness to\nbear my honours meekly; but look sharp, Signor, or I shall certainly run\naway with your prize.'\n\nThe supper was served in different pavilions in the gardens, as well as\nin one large saloon of the chateau, and with more of taste, than either\nof splendour, or even of plenty. Madame Cheron and her party supped with\nMadame Clairval in the saloon, and Emily, with difficulty, disguised her\nemotion, when she saw Valancourt placed at the same table with herself.\nThere, Madame Cheron having surveyed him with high displeasure, said to\nsome person who sat next to her, 'Pray, who IS that young man?' 'It is\nthe Chevalier Valancourt,' was the answer. 'Yes, I am not ignorant\nof his name, but who is this Chevalier Valancourt that thus intrudes\nhimself at this table?' The attention of the person, who whom she spoke,\nwas called off before she received a second reply. The table, at which\nthey sat, was very long, and, Valancourt being seated, with his partner,\nnear the bottom, and Emily near the top, the distance between them may\naccount for his not immediately perceiving her. She avoided looking to\nthat end of the table, but whenever her eyes happened to glance towards\nit, she observed him conversing with his beautiful companion, and the\nobservation did not contribute to restore her peace, any more than the\naccounts she heard of the fortune and accomplishments of this same lady.\n\nMadame Cheron, to whom these remarks were sometimes addressed, because\nthey supported topics for trivial conversation, seemed indefatigable\nin her attempts to depreciate Valancourt, towards whom she felt all the\npetty resentment of a narrow pride. 'I admire the lady,' said she, 'but\nI must condemn her choice of a partner.' 'Oh, the Chevalier Valancourt\nis one of the most accomplished young men we have,' replied the lady,\nto whom this remark was addressed: 'it is whispered, that Mademoiselle\nD'Emery, and her large fortune, are to be his.'\n\n'Impossible!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, reddening with vexation, 'it is\nimpossible that she can be so destitute of taste; he has so little the\nair of a person of condition, that, if I did not see him at the table\nof Madame Clairval, I should never have suspected him to be one. I have\nbesides particular reasons for believing the report to be erroneous.'\n\n'I cannot doubt the truth of it,' replied the lady gravely, disgusted\nby the abrupt contradiction she had received, concerning her opinion of\nValancourt's merit. 'You will, perhaps, doubt it,' said Madame Cheron,\n'when I assure you, that it was only this morning that I rejected his\nsuit.' This was said without any intention of imposing the meaning it\nconveyed, but simply from a habit of considering herself to be the most\nimportant person in every affair that concerned her niece, and because\nliterally she had rejected Valancourt. 'Your reasons are indeed such as\ncannot be doubted,' replied the lady, with an ironical smile. 'Any more\nthan the discernment of the Chevalier Valancourt,' added Cavigni, who\nstood by the chair of Madame Cheron, and had heard her arrogate to\nherself, as he thought, a distinction which had been paid to her niece.\n'His discernment MAY be justly questioned, Signor,' said Madame Cheron,\nwho was not flattered by what she understood to be an encomium on Emily.\n\n'Alas!' exclaimed Cavigni, surveying Madame Cheron with affected\necstasy, 'how vain is that assertion, while that face--that shape--that\nair--combine to refute it! Unhappy Valancourt! his discernment has been\nhis destruction.'\n\nEmily looked surprised and embarrassed; the lady, who had lately\nspoke, astonished, and Madame Cheron, who, though she did not perfectly\nunderstand this speech, was very ready to believe herself complimented\nby it, said smilingly, 'O Signor! you are very gallant; but those, who\nhear you vindicate the Chevalier's discernment, will suppose that I am\nthe object of it.'\n\n'They cannot doubt it,' replied Cavigni, bowing low.\n\n'And would not that be very mortifying, Signor?'\n\n'Unquestionably it would,' said Cavigni.\n\n'I cannot endure the thought,' said Madame Cheron.\n\n'It is not to be endured,' replied Cavigni.\n\n'What can be done to prevent so humiliating a mistake?' rejoined Madame\nCheron.\n\n'Alas! I cannot assist you,' replied Cavigni, with a deliberating\nair. 'Your only chance of refuting the calumny, and of making people\nunderstand what you wish them to believe, is to persist in your\nfirst assertion; for, when they are told of the Chevalier's want of\ndiscernment, it is possible they may suppose he never presumed to\ndistress you with his admiration.--But then again--that diffidence,\nwhich renders you so insensible to your own perfections--they will\nconsider this, and Valancourt's taste will not be doubted, though you\narraign it. In short, they will, in spite of your endeavours, continue\nto believe, what might very naturally have occurred to them without any\nhint of mine--that the Chevalier has taste enough to admire a beautiful\nwoman.'\n\n'All this is very distressing!' said Madame Cheron, with a profound\nsigh.\n\n'May I be allowed to ask what is so distressing?' said Madame Clairval,\nwho was struck with the rueful countenance and doleful accent, with\nwhich this was delivered.\n\n'It is a delicate subject,' replied Madame Cheron, 'a very mortifying\none to me.' 'I am concerned to hear it,' said Madame Clairval, 'I hope\nnothing has occurred, this evening, particularly to distress you?'\n'Alas, yes! within this half hour; and I know not where the report may\nend;--my pride was never so shocked before, but I assure you the report\nis totally void of foundation.' 'Good God!' exclaimed Madame Clairval,'\nwhat can be done? Can you point out any way, by which I can assist, or\nconsole you?'\n\n'The only way, by which you can do either,' replied Madame Cheron, 'is\nto contradict the report wherever you go.'\n\n'Well! but pray inform me what I am to contradict.'\n\n'It is so very humiliating, that I know not how to mention it,'\ncontinued Madame Cheron, 'but you shall judge. Do you observe that\nyoung man seated near the bottom of the table, who is conversing with\nMademoiselle D'Emery?' 'Yes, I perceive whom you mean.' 'You observe how\nlittle he has the air of a person of condition; I was saying just now,\nthat I should not have thought him a gentleman, if I had not seen him\nat this table.' 'Well! but the report,' said Madame Clairval, 'let\nme understand the subject of your distress.' 'Ah! the subject of my\ndistress,' replied Madame Cheron; 'this person, whom nobody knows--(I\nbeg pardon, madam, I did not consider what I said)--this impertinent\nyoung man, having had the presumption to address my niece, has, I fear,\ngiven rise to a report, that he had declared himself my admirer. Now\nonly consider how very mortifying such a report must be! You, I\nknow, will feel for my situation. A woman of my condition!--think how\ndegrading even the rumour of such an alliance must be.'\n\n'Degrading indeed, my poor friend!' said Madame Clairval. 'You may rely\nupon it I will contradict the report wherever I go;' as she said which,\nshe turned her attention upon another part of the company; and Cavigni,\nwho had hitherto appeared a grave spectator of the scene, now fearing\nhe should be unable to smother the laugh, that convulsed him, walked\nabruptly away.\n\n'I perceive you do not know,' said the lady who sat near Madame Cheron,\n'that the gentleman you have been speaking of is Madame Clairval's\nnephew!' 'Impossible!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, who now began to\nperceive, that she had been totally mistaken in her judgment of\nValancourt, and to praise him aloud with as much servility, as she had\nbefore censured him with frivolous malignity.\n\nEmily, who, during the greater part of this conversation, had been so\nabsorbed in thought as to be spared the pain of hearing it, was now\nextremely surprised by her aunt's praise of Valancourt, with whose\nrelationship to Madame Clairval she was unacquainted; but she was\nnot sorry when Madame Cheron, who, though she now tried to appear\nunconcerned, was really much embarrassed, prepared to withdraw\nimmediately after supper. Montoni then came to hand Madame Cheron to her\ncarriage, and Cavigni, with an arch solemnity of countenance, followed\nwith Emily, who, as she wished them good night, and drew up the glass,\nsaw Valancourt among the crowd at the gates. Before the carriage drove\noff, he disappeared. Madame Cheron forbore to mention him to Emily, and,\nas soon as they reached the chateau, they separated for the night.\n\nOn the following morning, as Emily sat at breakfast with her aunt, a\nletter was brought to her, of which she knew the handwriting upon the\ncover; and, as she received it with a trembling hand, Madame Cheron\nhastily enquired from whom it came. Emily, with her leave, broke the\nseal, and, observing the signature of Valancourt, gave it unread to her\naunt, who received it with impatience; and, as she looked it over, Emily\nendeavoured to read on her countenance its contents. Having returned\nthe letter to her niece, whose eyes asked if she might examine it, 'Yes,\nread it, child,' said Madame Cheron, in a manner less severe than she\nhad expected, and Emily had, perhaps, never before so willingly obeyed\nher aunt. In this letter Valancourt said little of the interview of the\npreceding day, but concluded with declaring, that he would accept his\ndismission from Emily only, and with entreating, that she would allow\nhim to wait upon her, on the approaching evening. When she read this,\nshe was astonished at the moderation of Madame Cheron, and looked at\nher with timid expectation, as she said sorrowfully--'What am I to say,\nmadam?'\n\n'Why--we must see the young man, I believe,' replied her aunt, 'and hear\nwhat he has further to say for himself. You may tell him he may come.'\nEmily dared scarcely credit what she heard. 'Yet, stay,' added Madame\nCheron, 'I will tell him so myself.' She called for pen and ink; Emily\nstill not daring to trust the emotions she felt, and almost sinking\nbeneath them. Her surprise would have been less had she overheard,\non the preceding evening, what Madame Cheron had not forgotten--that\nValancourt was the nephew of Madame Clairval.\n\nWhat were the particulars of her aunt's note Emily did not learn, but\nthe result was a visit from Valancourt in the evening, whom Madame\nCheron received alone, and they had a long conversation before Emily\nwas called down. When she entered the room, her aunt was conversing with\ncomplacency, and she saw the eyes of Valancourt, as he impatiently rose,\nanimated with hope.\n\n'We have been talking over this affair,' said Madame Cheron, 'the\nchevalier has been telling me, that the late Monsieur Clairval was the\nbrother of the Countess de Duvarney, his mother. I only wish he had\nmentioned his relationship to Madame Clairval before; I certainly should\nhave considered that circumstance as a sufficient introduction to my\nhouse.' Valancourt bowed, and was going to address Emily, but her aunt\nprevented him. 'I have, therefore, consented that you shall receive his\nvisits; and, though I will not bind myself by any promise, or say, that\nI shall consider him as my nephew, yet I shall permit the intercourse,\nand shall look forward to any further connection as an event, which may\npossibly take place in a course of years, provided the chevalier rises\nin his profession, or any circumstance occurs, which may make it prudent\nfor him to take a wife. But Mons. Valancourt will observe, and you too,\nEmily, that, till that happens, I positively forbid any thoughts of\nmarrying.'\n\nEmily's countenance, during this coarse speech, varied every instant,\nand, towards its conclusion, her distress had so much increased,\nthat she was on the point of leaving the room. Valancourt, meanwhile,\nscarcely less embarrassed, did not dare to look at her, for whom he\nwas thus distressed; but, when Madame Cheron was silent, he said,\n'Flattering, madam, as your approbation is to me--highly as I am\nhonoured by it--I have yet so much to fear, that I scarcely dare to\nhope.' 'Pray, sir, explain yourself,' said Madame Cheron; an unexpected\nrequisition, which embarrassed Valancourt again, and almost overcame him\nwith confusion, at circumstances, on which, had he been only a spectator\nof the scene, he would have smiled.\n\n'Till I receive Mademoiselle St. Aubert's permission to accept your\nindulgence,' said he, falteringly--'till she allows me to hope--'\n\n'O! is that all?' interrupted Madame Cheron. 'Well, I will take upon me\nto answer for her. But at the same time, sir, give me leave to observe\nto you, that I am her guardian, and that I expect, in every instance,\nthat my will is hers.'\n\nAs she said this, she rose and quitted the room, leaving Emily and\nValancourt in a state of mutual embarrassment; and, when Valancourt's\nhopes enabled him to overcome his fears, and to address her with the\nzeal and sincerity so natural to him, it was a considerable time\nbefore she was sufficiently recovered to hear with distinctness his\nsolicitations and inquiries.\n\nThe conduct of Madame Cheron in this affair had been entirely governed\nby selfish vanity. Valancourt, in his first interview, had with great\ncandour laid open to her the true state of his present circumstances,\nand his future expectancies, and she, with more prudence than humanity,\nhad absolutely and abruptly rejected his suit. She wished her niece to\nmarry ambitiously, not because she desired to see her in possession of\nthe happiness, which rank and wealth are usually believed to bestow, but\nbecause she desired to partake the importance, which such an alliance\nwould give. When, therefore, she discovered that Valancourt was the\nnephew of a person of so much consequence as Madame Clairval, she became\nanxious for the connection, since the prospect it afforded of future\nfortune and distinction for Emily, promised the exaltation she coveted\nfor herself. Her calculations concerning fortune in this alliance were\nguided rather by her wishes, than by any hint of Valancourt, or strong\nappearance of probability; and, when she rested her expectation on the\nwealth of Madame Clairval, she seemed totally to have forgotten, that\nthe latter had a daughter. Valancourt, however, had not forgotten this\ncircumstance, and the consideration of it had made him so modest in\nhis expectations from Madame Clairval, that he had not even named the\nrelationship in his first conversation with Madame Cheron. But, whatever\nmight be the future fortune of Emily, the present distinction, which the\nconnection would afford for herself, was certain, since the splendour of\nMadame Clairval's establishment was such as to excite the general envy\nand partial imitation of the neighbourhood. Thus had she consented to\ninvolve her niece in an engagement, to which she saw only a distant and\nuncertain conclusion, with as little consideration of her happiness,\nas when she had so precipitately forbade it: for though she herself\npossessed the means of rendering this union not only certain, but\nprudent, yet to do so was no part of her present intention.\n\nFrom this period Valancourt made frequent visits to Madame Cheron, and\nEmily passed in his society the happiest hours she had known since the\ndeath of her father. They were both too much engaged by the present\nmoments to give serious consideration to the future. They loved and were\nbeloved, and saw not, that the very attachment, which formed the delight\nof their present days, might possibly occasion the sufferings of years.\nMeanwhile, Madame Cheron's intercourse with Madame Clairval became\nmore frequent than before, and her vanity was already gratified by\nthe opportunity of proclaiming, wherever she went, the attachment that\nsubsisted between their nephew and niece.\n\nMontoni was now also become a daily guest at the chateau, and Emily\nwas compelled to observe, that he really was a suitor, and a favoured\nsuitor, to her aunt.\n\nThus passed the winter months, not only in peace, but in happiness,\nto Valancourt and Emily; the station of his regiment being so near\nTholouse, as to allow this frequent intercourse. The pavilion on the\nterrace was the favourite scene of their interviews, and there Emily,\nwith Madame Cheron, would work, while Valancourt read aloud works of\ngenius and taste, listened to her enthusiasm, expressed his own, and\ncaught new opportunities of observing, that their minds were formed to\nconstitute the happiness of each other, the same taste, the same noble\nand benevolent sentiments animating each.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\n  As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-Isles,\n  Placed far amid the melancholy main,\n  (Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles,\n  Or that aerial beings sometimes deign\n  To stand embodied to our senses plain)\n  Sees on the naked hill, or valley low,\n  The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain,\n  A vast assembly moving to and fro,\n Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show.\n     CASTLE OF INDOLENCE\n\nMadame Cheron's avarice at length yielded to her vanity. Some very\nsplendid entertainments, which Madame Clairval had given, and the\ngeneral adulation, which was paid her, made the former more anxious than\nbefore to secure an alliance, that would so much exalt her in her own\nopinion and in that of the world. She proposed terms for the immediate\nmarriage of her niece, and offered to give Emily a dower, provided\nMadame Clairval observed equal terms, on the part of her nephew. Madame\nClairval listened to the proposal, and, considering that Emily was the\napparent heiress of her aunt's wealth, accepted it. Meanwhile, Emily\nknew nothing of the transaction, till Madame Cheron informed her, that\nshe must make preparation for the nuptials, which would be celebrated\nwithout further delay; then, astonished and wholly unable to account for\nthis sudden conclusion, which Valancourt had not solicited (for he was\nignorant of what had passed between the elder ladies, and had not\ndared to hope such good fortune), she decisively objected to it. Madame\nCheron, however, quite as jealous of contradiction now, as she had been\nformerly, contended for a speedy marriage with as much vehemence as she\nhad formerly opposed whatever had the most remote possibility of leading\nto it; and Emily's scruples disappeared, when she again saw Valancourt,\nwho was now informed of the happiness, designed for him, and came to\nclaim a promise of it from herself.\n\nWhile preparations were making for these nuptials, Montoni became the\nacknowledged lover of Madame Cheron; and, though Madame Clairval was\nmuch displeased, when she heard of the approaching connection, and was\nwilling to prevent that of Valancourt with Emily, her conscience told\nher, that she had no right thus to trifle with their peace, and Madame\nClairval, though a woman of fashion, was far less advanced than\nher friend in the art of deriving satisfaction from distinction and\nadmiration, rather than from conscience.\n\nEmily observed with concern the ascendancy, which Montoni had acquired\nover Madame Cheron, as well as the increasing frequency of his visits;\nand her own opinion of this Italian was confirmed by that of Valancourt,\nwho had always expressed a dislike of him. As she was, one morning,\nsitting at work in the pavilion, enjoying the pleasant freshness of\nspring, whose colours were now spread upon the landscape, and listening\nto Valancourt, who was reading, but who often laid aside the book to\nconverse, she received a summons to attend Madame Cheron immediately,\nand had scarcely entered the dressing-room, when she observed with\nsurprise the dejection of her aunt's countenance, and the contrasted\ngaiety of her dress. 'So, niece!'--said Madame, and she stopped under\nsome degree of embarrassment.--'I sent for you--I--I wished to see you;\nI have news to tell you. From this hour you must consider the Signor\nMontoni as your uncle--we were married this morning.'\n\nAstonished--not so much at the marriage, as at the secrecy with which\nit had been concluded, and the agitation with which it was announced,\nEmily, at length, attributed the privacy to the wish of Montoni, rather\nthan of her aunt. His wife, however, intended, that the contrary should\nbe believed, and therefore added, 'you see I wished to avoid a bustle;\nbut now the ceremony is over I shall do so no longer; and I wish to\nannounce to my servants that they must receive the Signor Montoni for\ntheir master.' Emily made a feeble attempt to congratulate her on these\napparently imprudent nuptials. 'I shall now celebrate my marriage with\nsome splendour,' continued Madame Montoni, 'and to save time I shall\navail myself of the preparation that has been made for yours, which\nwill, of course, be delayed a little while. Such of your wedding clothes\nas are ready I shall expect you will appear in, to do honour to this\nfestival. I also wish you to inform Monsieur Valancourt, that I have\nchanged my name, and he will acquaint Madame Clairval. In a few days\nI shall give a grand entertainment, at which I shall request their\npresence.'\n\nEmily was so lost in surprise and various thought, that she made Madame\nMontoni scarcely any reply, but, at her desire, she returned to inform\nValancourt of what had passed. Surprise was not his predominant emotion\non hearing of these hasty nuptials; and, when he learned, that they were\nto be the means of delaying his own, and that the very ornaments of the\nchateau, which had been prepared to grace the nuptial day of his Emily,\nwere to be degraded to the celebration of Madame Montoni's, grief and\nindignation agitated him alternately. He could conceal neither from the\nobservation of Emily, whose efforts to abstract him from these serious\nemotions, and to laugh at the apprehensive considerations, that assailed\nhim, were ineffectual; and, when, at length, he took leave, there was an\nearnest tenderness in his manner, that extremely affected her; she even\nshed tears, when he disappeared at the end of the terrace, yet knew not\nexactly why she should do so.\n\nMontoni now took possession of the chateau, and the command of its\ninhabitants, with the ease of a man, who had long considered it to be\nhis own. His friend Cavigni, who had been extremely serviceable,\nin having paid Madame Cheron the attention and flattery, which she\nrequired, but from which Montoni too often revolted, had apartments\nassigned to him, and received from the domestics an equal degree of\nobedience with the master of the mansion.\n\nWithin a few days, Madame Montoni, as she had promised, gave a\nmagnificent entertainment to a very numerous company, among whom was\nValancourt; but at which Madame Clairval excused herself from attending.\nThere was a concert, ball and supper. Valancourt was, of course, Emily's\npartner, and though, when he gave a look to the decorations of the\napartments, he could not but remember, that they were designed for\nother festivities, than those they now contributed to celebrate, he\nendeavoured to check his concern by considering, that a little\nwhile only would elapse before they would be given to their original\ndestination. During this evening, Madame Montoni danced, laughed\nand talked incessantly; while Montoni, silent, reserved and somewhat\nhaughty, seemed weary of the parade, and of the frivolous company it had\ndrawn together.\n\nThis was the first and the last entertainment, given in celebration\nof their nuptials. Montoni, though the severity of his temper and the\ngloominess of his pride prevented him from enjoying such festivities,\nwas extremely willing to promote them. It was seldom, that he could meet\nin any company a man of more address, and still seldomer one of more\nunderstanding, than himself; the balance of advantage in such parties,\nor in the connections, which might arise from them, must, therefore, be\non his side; and, knowing, as he did, the selfish purposes, for which\nthey are generally frequented, he had no objection to measure his\ntalents of dissimulation with those of any other competitor for\ndistinction and plunder. But his wife, who, when her own interest was\nimmediately concerned, had sometimes more discernment than vanity,\nacquired a consciousness of her inferiority to other women, in personal\nattractions, which, uniting with the jealousy natural to the discovery,\ncounteracted his readiness for mingling with all the parties Tholouse\ncould afford. Till she had, as she supposed, the affections of an\nhusband to lose, she had no motive for discovering the unwelcome truth,\nand it had never obtruded itself upon her; but, now that it influenced\nher policy, she opposed her husband's inclination for company, with the\nmore eagerness, because she believed him to be really as well received\nin the female society of the place, as, during his addresses to her, he\nhad affected to be.\n\nA few weeks only had elapsed, since the marriage, when Madame Montoni\ninformed Emily, that the Signor intended to return to Italy, as soon as\nthe necessary preparation could be made for so long a journey. 'We shall\ngo to Venice,' said she, 'where the Signor has a fine mansion, and from\nthence to his estate in Tuscany. Why do you look so grave, child?--You,\nwho are so fond of a romantic country and fine views, will doubtless be\ndelighted with this journey.'\n\n'Am I then to be of the party, madam?' said Emily, with extreme surprise\nand emotion. 'Most certainly,' replied her aunt, 'how could you imagine\nwe should leave you behind? But I see you are thinking of the Chevalier;\nhe is not yet, I believe, informed of the journey, but he very soon\nwill be so. Signor Montoni is gone to acquaint Madame Clairval of our\njourney, and to say, that the proposed connection between the families\nmust from this time be thought of no more.'\n\nThe unfeeling manner, in which Madame Montoni thus informed her niece,\nthat she must be separated, perhaps for ever, from the man, with whom\nshe was on the point of being united for life, added to the dismay,\nwhich she must otherwise have suffered at such intelligence. When\nshe could speak, she asked the cause of the sudden change in Madame's\nsentiments towards Valancourt, but the only reply she could obtain was,\nthat the Signor had forbade the connection, considering it to be greatly\ninferior to what Emily might reasonably expect.\n\n'I now leave the affair entirely to the Signor,' added Madame Montoni,\n'but I must say, that M. Valancourt never was a favourite with me, and\nI was overpersuaded, or I should not have given my consent to the\nconnection. I was weak enough--I am so foolish sometimes!--to suffer\nother people's uneasiness to affect me, and so my better judgment\nyielded to your affliction. But the Signor has very properly pointed out\nthe folly of this, and he shall not have to reprove me a second time. I\nam determined, that you shall submit to those, who know how to guide you\nbetter than yourself--I am determined, that you shall be conformable.'\n\nEmily would have been astonished at the assertions of this eloquent\nspeech, had not her mind been so overwhelmed by the sudden shock it had\nreceived, that she scarcely heard a word of what was latterly addressed\nto her. Whatever were the weaknesses of Madame Montoni, she might have\navoided to accuse herself with those of compassion and tenderness to the\nfeelings of others, and especially to those of Emily. It was the same\nambition, that lately prevailed upon her to solicit an alliance with\nMadame Clairval's family, which induced her to withdraw from it, now\nthat her marriage with Montoni had exalted her self-consequence, and,\nwith it, her views for her niece.\n\nEmily was, at this time, too much affected to employ either\nremonstrance, or entreaty on this topic; and when, at length, she\nattempted the latter, her emotion overcame her speech, and she retired\nto her apartment, to think, if in the present state of her mind to think\nwas possible, upon this sudden and overwhelming subject. It was very\nlong, before her spirits were sufficiently composed to permit the\nreflection, which, when it came, was dark and even terrible. She saw,\nthat Montoni sought to aggrandise himself in his disposal of her, and\nit occurred, that his friend Cavigni was the person, for whom he was\ninterested. The prospect of going to Italy was still rendered darker,\nwhen she considered the tumultuous situation of that country, then\ntorn by civil commotion, where every petty state was at war with its\nneighbour, and even every castle liable to the attack of an invader.\nShe considered the person, to whose immediate guidance she would\nbe committed, and the vast distance, that was to separate her from\nValancourt, and, at the recollection of him, every other image vanished\nfrom her mind, and every thought was again obscured by grief.\n\nIn this perturbed state she passed some hours, and, when she was\nsummoned to dinner, she entreated permission to remain in her own\napartment; but Madame Montoni was alone, and the request was refused.\nEmily and her aunt said little during the repast; the one occupied\nby her griefs, the other engrossed by the disappointment, which the\nunexpected absence of Montoni occasioned; for not only was her vanity\npiqued by the neglect, but her jealousy alarmed by what she considered\nas a mysterious engagement. When the cloth was drawn and they were\nalone, Emily renewed the mention of Valancourt; but her aunt, neither\nsoftened to pity, or awakened to remorse, became enraged, that her will\nshould be opposed, and the authority of Montoni questioned, though this\nwas done by Emily with her usual gentleness, who, after a long, and\ntorturing conversation, retired in tears.\n\nAs she crossed the hall, a person entered it by the great door, whom, as\nher eyes hastily glanced that way, she imagined to be Montoni, and she\nwas passing on with quicker steps, when she heard the well-known voice\nof Valancourt.\n\n'Emily, O! my Emily!' cried he in a tone faltering with impatience,\nwhile she turned, and, as he advanced, was alarmed at the expression of\nhis countenance and the eager desperation of his air. 'In tears, Emily!\nI would speak with you,' said he, 'I have much to say; conduct me to\nwhere we may converse. But you tremble--you are ill! Let me lead you to\na seat.'\n\nHe observed the open door of an apartment, and hastily took her hand\nto lead her thither; but she attempted to withdraw it, and said, with a\nlanguid smile, 'I am better already; if you wish to see my aunt she\nis in the dining-parlour.' 'I must speak with YOU, my Emily,' replied\nValancourt, 'Good God! is it already come to this? Are you indeed so\nwilling to resign me?' But this is an improper place--I am overheard.\nLet me entreat your attention, if only for a few minutes.'--'When you\nhave seen my aunt,' said Emily. 'I was wretched enough when I came\nhither,' exclaimed Valancourt, 'do not increase my misery by this\ncoldness--this cruel refusal.'\n\nThe despondency, with which he spoke this, affected her almost to tears,\nbut she persisted in refusing to hear him, till he had conversed with\nMadame Montoni. 'Where is her husband, where, then, is Montoni?' said\nValancourt, in an altered tone: 'it is he, to whom I must speak.'\n\nEmily, terrified for the consequence of the indignation, that flashed\nin his eyes, tremblingly assured him, that Montoni was not at home,\nand entreated he would endeavour to moderate his resentment. At the\ntremulous accents of her voice, his eyes softened instantly from\nwildness into tenderness. 'You are ill, Emily,' said he, 'they will\ndestroy us both! Forgive me, that I dared to doubt your affection.'\n\nEmily no longer opposed him, as he led her into an adjoining parlour;\nthe manner, in which he had named Montoni, had so much alarmed her\nfor his own safety, that she was now only anxious to prevent the\nconsequences of his just resentment. He listened to her entreaties,\nwith attention, but replied to them only with looks of despondency and\ntenderness, concealing, as much as possible, the sentiments he\nfelt towards Montoni, that he might soothe the apprehensions, which\ndistressed her. But she saw the veil he had spread over his resentment,\nand, his assumed tranquillity only alarming her more, she urged, at\nlength, the impolicy of forcing an interview with Montoni, and of\ntaking any measure, which might render their separation irremediable.\nValancourt yielded to these remonstrances, and her affecting entreaties\ndrew from him a promise, that, however Montoni might persist in his\ndesign of disuniting them, he would not seek to redress his wrongs by\nviolence. 'For my sake,' said Emily, 'let the consideration of what I\nshould suffer deter you from such a mode of revenge!' 'For your sake,\nEmily,' replied Valancourt, his eyes filling with tears of tenderness\nand grief, while he gazed upon her. 'Yes--yes--I shall subdue myself.\nBut, though I have given you my solemn promise to do this, do not\nexpect, that I can tamely submit to the authority of Montoni; if I\ncould, I should be unworthy of you. Yet, O Emily! how long may he\ncondemn me to live without you,--how long may it be before you return to\nFrance!'\n\nEmily endeavoured to sooth him with assurances of her unalterable\naffection, and by representing, that, in little more than a year, she\nshould be her own mistress, as far as related to her aunt, from whose\nguardianship her age would then release her; assurances, which gave\nlittle consolation to Valancourt, who considered, that she would then\nbe in Italy and in the power of those, whose dominion over her would not\ncease with their rights; but he affected to be consoled by them.\nEmily, comforted by the promise she had obtained, and by his apparent\ncomposure, was about to leave him, when her aunt entered the room.\nShe threw a glance of sharp reproof upon her niece, who immediately\nwithdrew, and of haughty displeasure upon Valancourt.\n\n'This is not the conduct I should have expected from you, sir;' said\nshe, 'I did not expect to see you in my house, after you had been\ninformed, that your visits were no longer agreeable, much less, that\nyou would seek a clandestine interview with my niece, and that she would\ngrant one.'\n\nValancourt, perceiving it necessary to vindicate Emily from such a\ndesign, explained, that the purpose of his own visit had been to request\nan interview with Montoni, and he then entered upon the subject of it,\nwith the tempered spirit which the sex, rather than the respectability,\nof Madame Montoni, demanded.\n\nHis expostulations were answered with severe rebuke; she lamented again,\nthat her prudence had ever yielded to what she termed compassion, and\nadded, that she was so sensible of the folly of her former consent,\nthat, to prevent the possibility of a repetition, she had committed the\naffair entirely to the conduct of Signor Montoni.\n\nThe feeling eloquence of Valancourt, however, at length, made her\nsensible in some measure of her unworthy conduct, and she became\nsusceptible to shame, but not remorse: she hated Valancourt, who\nawakened her to this painful sensation, and, in proportion as she grew\ndissatisfied with herself, her abhorrence of him increased. This was\nalso the more inveterate, because his tempered words and manner were\nsuch as, without accusing her, compelled her to accuse herself, and\nneither left her a hope, that the odious portrait was the caricature\nof his prejudice, or afforded her an excuse for expressing the violent\nresentment, with which she contemplated it. At length, her anger rose\nto such an height, that Valancourt was compelled to leave the house\nabruptly, lest he should forfeit his own esteem by an intemperate reply.\nHe was then convinced, that from Madame Montoni he had nothing to hope,\nfor what of either pity, or justice could be expected from a person, who\ncould feel the pain of guilt, without the humility of repentance?\n\nTo Montoni he looked with equal despondency, since it was nearly\nevident, that this plan of separation originated with him, and it was\nnot probable, that he would relinquish his own views to entreaties, or\nremonstrances, which he must have foreseen and have been prepared to\nresist. Yet, remembering his promise to Emily, and more solicitous,\nconcerning his love, than jealous of his consequence, Valancourt was\ncareful to do nothing that might unnecessarily irritate Montoni, he\nwrote to him, therefore, not to demand an interview, but to solicit one,\nand, having done this, he endeavoured to wait with calmness his reply.\n\nMadame Clairval was passive in the affair. When she gave her approbation\nto Valancourt's marriage, it was in the belief, that Emily would be the\nheiress of Madame Montoni's fortune; and, though, upon the nuptials\nof the latter, when she perceived the fallacy of this expectation, her\nconscience had withheld her from adopting any measure to prevent the\nunion, her benevolence was not sufficiently active to impel her towards\nany step, that might now promote it. She was, on the contrary, secretly\npleased, that Valancourt was released from an engagement, which she\nconsidered to be as inferior, in point of fortune, to his merit, as\nhis alliance was thought by Montoni to be humiliating to the beauty of\nEmily; and, though her pride was wounded by this rejection of a member\nof her family, she disdained to shew resentment otherwise, than by\nsilence.\n\nMontoni, in his reply to Valancourt, said, that as an interview could\nneither remove the objections of the one, or overcome the wishes of the\nother, it would serve only to produce useless altercation between them.\nHe, therefore, thought proper to refuse it.\n\nIn consideration of the policy, suggested by Emily, and of his promise\nto her, Valancourt restrained the impulse, that urged him to the house\nof Montoni, to demand what had been denied to his entreaties. He only\nrepeated his solicitations to see him; seconding them with all the\narguments his situation could suggest. Thus several days passed, in\nremonstrance, on one side, and inflexible denial, on the other; for,\nwhether it was fear, or shame, or the hatred, which results from both,\nthat made Montoni shun the man he had injured, he was peremptory in\nhis refusal, and was neither softened to pity by the agony, which\nValancourt's letters pourtrayed, or awakened to a repentance of his\nown injustice by the strong remonstrances he employed. At length,\nValancourt's letters were returned unopened, and then, in the first\nmoments of passionate despair, he forgot every promise to Emily, except\nthe solemn one, which bound him to avoid violence, and hastened to\nMontoni's chateau, determined to see him by whatever other means might\nbe necessary. Montoni was denied, and Valancourt, when he afterwards\nenquired for Madame, and Ma'amselle St. Aubert, was absolutely refused\nadmittance by the servants. Not choosing to submit himself to a contest\nwith these, he, at length, departed, and, returning home in a state of\nmind approaching to frenzy, wrote to Emily of what had passed, expressed\nwithout restraint all the agony of his heart, and entreated, that, since\nhe must not otherwise hope to see her immediately, she would allow him\nan interview unknown to Montoni. Soon after he had dispatched this, his\npassions becoming more temperate, he was sensible of the error he had\ncommitted in having given Emily a new subject of distress in the strong\nmention of his own suffering, and would have given half the world, had\nit been his, to recover the letter. Emily, however, was spared the\npain she must have received from it by the suspicious policy of Madame\nMontoni, who had ordered, that all letters, addressed to her niece,\nshould be delivered to herself, and who, after having perused this and\nindulged the expressions of resentment, which Valancourt's mention of\nMontoni provoked, had consigned it to the flames.\n\nMontoni, meanwhile, every day more impatient to leave France, gave\nrepeated orders for dispatch to the servants employed in preparations\nfor the journey, and to the persons, with whom he was transacting some\nparticular business. He preserved a steady silence to the letters in\nwhich Valancourt, despairing of greater good, and having subdued the\npassion, that had transgressed against his policy, solicited only the\nindulgence of being allowed to bid Emily farewell. But, when the latter\n[Valancourt] learned, that she was really to set out in a very few days,\nand that it was designed he should see her no more, forgetting every\nconsideration of prudence, he dared, in a second letter to Emily, to\npropose a clandestine marriage. This also was transmitted to Madame\nMontoni, and the last day of Emily's stay at Tholouse arrived, without\naffording Valancourt even a line to sooth his sufferings, or a hope,\nthat he should be allowed a parting interview.\n\nDuring this period of torturing suspense to Valancourt, Emily was sunk\ninto that kind of stupor, with which sudden and irremediable misfortune\nsometimes overwhelms the mind. Loving him with the tenderest affection,\nand having long been accustomed to consider him as the friend and\ncompanion of all her future days, she had no ideas of happiness, that\nwere not connected with him. What, then, must have been her suffering,\nwhen thus suddenly they were to be separated, perhaps, for ever,\ncertainly to be thrown into distant parts of the world, where they could\nscarcely hear of each other's existence; and all this in obedience to\nthe will of a stranger, for such as Montoni, and of a person, who had\nbut lately been anxious to hasten their nuptials! It was in vain, that\nshe endeavoured to subdue her grief, and resign herself to an event,\nwhich she could not avoid. The silence of Valancourt afflicted more than\nit surprised her, since she attributed it to its just occasion; but,\nwhen the day, preceding that, on which she was to quit Tholouse,\narrived, and she had heard no mention of his being permitted to take\nleave of her, grief overcame every consideration, that had made her\nreluctant to speak of him, and she enquired of Madame Montoni, whether\nthis consolation had been refused. Her aunt informed her that it had,\nadding, that, after the provocation she had herself received from\nValancourt, in their last interview, and the persecution, which the\nSignor had suffered from his letters, no entreaties should avail to\nprocure it.\n\n'If the Chevalier expected this favour from us,' said she, 'he should\nhave conducted himself in a very different manner; he should have waited\npatiently, till he knew whether we were disposed to grant it, and not\nhave come and reproved me, because I did not think proper to bestow\nmy niece upon him,--and then have persisted in troubling the Signor,\nbecause he did not think proper to enter into any dispute about\nso childish an affair. His behaviour throughout has been extremely\npresumptuous and impertinent, and I desire, that I may never hear his\nname repeated, and that you will get the better of those foolish sorrows\nand whims, and look like other people, and not appear with that dismal\ncountenance, as if you were ready to cry. For, though you say nothing,\nyou cannot conceal your grief from my penetration. I can see you are\nready to cry at this moment, though I am reproving you for it; aye, even\nnow, in spite of my commands.'\n\nEmily, having turned away to hide her tears, quitted the room to indulge\nthem, and the day was passed in an intensity of anguish, such as she\nhad, perhaps, never known before. When she withdrew to her chamber for\nthe night, she remained in the chair where she had placed herself, on\nentering the room, absorbed in her grief, till long after every member\nof the family, except herself, was retired to rest. She could not divest\nherself of a belief, that she had parted with Valancourt to meet no\nmore; a belief, which did not arise merely from foreseen circumstances,\nfor, though the length of the journey she was about to commence,\nthe uncertainty as to the period of her return, together with the\nprohibitions she had received, seemed to justify it, she yielded also to\nan impression, which she mistook for a pre-sentiment, that she was going\nfrom Valancourt for ever. How dreadful to her imagination, too, was the\ndistance that would separate them--the Alps, those tremendous barriers!\nwould rise, and whole countries extend between the regions where each\nmust exist! To live in adjoining provinces, to live even in the same\ncountry, though without seeing him, was comparative happiness to the\nconviction of this dreadful length of distance.\n\nHer mind was, at length, so much agitated by the consideration of her\nstate, and the belief, that she had seen Valancourt for the last time,\nthat she suddenly became very faint, and, looking round the chamber for\nsomething, that might revive her, she observed the casements, and had\njust strength to throw one open, near which she seated herself. The air\nrecalled her spirits, and the still moon-light, that fell upon the\nelms of a long avenue, fronting the window, somewhat soothed them,\nand determined her to try whether exercise and the open air would not\nrelieve the intense pain that bound her temples. In the chateau all was\nstill; and, passing down the great stair-case into the hall, from whence\na passage led immediately to the garden, she softly and unheard, as she\nthought, unlocked the door, and entered the avenue. Emily passed on with\nsteps now hurried, and now faltering, as, deceived by the shadows\namong the trees, she fancied she saw some person move in the distant\nperspective, and feared, that it was a spy of Madame Montoni. Her\ndesire, however, to re-visit the pavilion, where she had passed so many\nhappy hours with Valancourt, and had admired with him the extensive\nprospect over Languedoc and her native Gascony, overcame her\napprehension of being observed, and she moved on towards the terrace,\nwhich, running along the upper garden, commanded the whole of the\nlower one, and communicated with it by a flight of marble steps, that\nterminated the avenue.\n\nHaving reached these steps, she paused a moment to look round, for her\ndistance from the chateau now increased the fear, which the stillness\nand obscurity of the hour had awakened. But, perceiving nothing that\ncould justify it, she ascended to the terrace, where the moon-light\nshewed the long broad walk, with the pavilion at its extremity, while\nthe rays silvered the foliage of the high trees and shrubs, that\nbordered it on the right, and the tufted summits of those, that rose\nto a level with the balustrade on the left, from the garden below. Her\ndistance from the chateau again alarming her, she paused to listen; the\nnight was so calm, that no sound could have escaped her, but she heard\nonly the plaintive sweetness of the nightingale, with the light shiver\nof the leaves, and she pursued her way towards the pavilion, having\nreached which, its obscurity did not prevent the emotion, that a fuller\nview of its well-known scene would have excited. The lattices were\nthrown back, and shewed beyond their embowered arch the moon-light\nlandscape, shadowy and soft; its groves, and plains extending gradually\nand indistinctly to the eye, its distant mountains catching a stronger\ngleam, and the nearer river reflecting the moon, and trembling to her\nrays.\n\nEmily, as she approached the lattice, was sensible of the features of\nthis scene only as they served to bring Valancourt more immediately to\nher fancy. 'Ah!' said she, with a heavy sigh, as she threw herself\ninto a chair by the window, 'how often have we sat together in this\nspot--often have looked upon that landscape! Never, never more shall we\nview it together--never--never more, perhaps, shall we look upon each\nother!'\n\nHer tears were suddenly stopped by terror--a voice spoke near her in\nthe pavilion; she shrieked--it spoke again, and she distinguished the\nwell-known tones of Valancourt. It was indeed Valancourt who supported\nher in his arms! For some moments their emotion would not suffer either\nto speak. 'Emily,' said Valancourt at length, as he pressed her hand in\nhis. 'Emily!' and he was again silent, but the accent, in which he had\npronounced her name, expressed all his tenderness and sorrow.\n\n'O my Emily!' he resumed, after a long pause, 'I do then see you once\nagain, and hear again the sound of that voice! I have haunted this\nplace--these gardens, for many--many nights, with a faint, very faint\nhope of seeing you. This was the only chance that remained to me, and\nthank heaven! it has at length succeeded--I am not condemned to absolute\ndespair!'\n\nEmily said something, she scarcely knew what, expressive of her\nunalterable affection, and endeavoured to calm the agitation of\nhis mind; but Valancourt could for some time only utter incoherent\nexpressions of his emotions; and, when he was somewhat more composed, he\nsaid, 'I came hither, soon after sun-set, and have been watching in the\ngardens, and in this pavilion ever since; for, though I had now given up\nall hope of seeing you, I could not resolve to tear myself from a place\nso near to you, and should probably have lingered about the chateau till\nmorning dawned. O how heavily the moments have passed, yet with what\nvarious emotion have they been marked, as I sometimes thought I heard\nfootsteps, and fancied you were approaching, and then again--perceived\nonly a dead and dreary silence! But, when you opened the door of the\npavilion, and the darkness prevented my distinguishing with certainty,\nwhether it was my love--my heart beat so strongly with hopes and fears,\nthat I could not speak. The instant I heard the plaintive accents of\nyour voice, my doubts vanished, but not my fears, till you spoke of\nme; then, losing the apprehension of alarming you in the excess of my\nemotion, I could no longer be silent. O Emily! these are moments, in\nwhich joy and grief struggle so powerfully for pre-eminence, that the\nheart can scarcely support the contest!'\n\nEmily's heart acknowledged the truth of this assertion, but the joy\nshe felt on thus meeting Valancourt, at the very moment when she was\nlamenting, that they must probably meet no more, soon melted into grief,\nas reflection stole over her thoughts, and imagination prompted visions\nof the future. She struggled to recover the calm dignity of mind, which\nwas necessary to support her through this last interview, and which\nValancourt found it utterly impossible to attain, for the transports of\nhis joy changed abruptly into those of suffering, and he expressed in\nthe most impassioned language his horror of this separation, and his\ndespair of their ever meeting again. Emily wept silently as she listened\nto him, and then, trying to command her own distress, and to sooth his,\nshe suggested every circumstance that could lead to hope. But the energy\nof his fears led him instantly to detect the friendly fallacies, which\nshe endeavoured to impose on herself and him, and also to conjure up\nillusions too powerful for his reason.\n\n'You are going from me,' said he, 'to a distant country, O how\ndistant!--to new society, new friends, new admirers, with people too,\nwho will try to make you forget me, and to promote new connections! How\ncan I know this, and not know, that you will never return for me--never\ncan be mine.' His voice was stifled by sighs.\n\n'You believe, then,' said Emily, 'that the pangs I suffer proceed from a\ntrivial and temporary interest; you believe--'\n\n'Suffer!' interrupted Valancourt, 'suffer for me! O Emily--how\nsweet--how bitter are those words; what comfort, what anguish do they\ngive! I ought not to doubt the steadiness of your affection, yet such\nis the inconsistency of real love, that it is always awake to suspicion,\nhowever unreasonable; always requiring new assurances from the object\nof its interest, and thus it is, that I always feel revived, as by a\nnew conviction, when your words tell me I am dear to you; and, wanting\nthese, I relapse into doubt, and too often into despondency.' Then\nseeming to recollect himself, he exclaimed, 'But what a wretch am I,\nthus to torture you, and in these moments, too! I, who ought to support\nand comfort you!'\n\nThis reflection overcame Valancourt with tenderness, but, relapsing into\ndespondency, he again felt only for himself, and lamented again this\ncruel separation, in a voice and words so impassioned, that Emily\ncould no longer struggle to repress her own grief, or to sooth his.\nValancourt, between these emotions of love and pity, lost the power, and\nalmost the wish, of repressing his agitation; and, in the intervals of\nconvulsive sobs, he, at one moment, kissed away her tears, then told\nher cruelly, that possibly she might never again weep for him, and then\ntried to speak more calmly, but only exclaimed, 'O Emily--my heart will\nbreak!--I cannot--cannot leave you! Now--I gaze upon that countenance,\nnow I hold you in my arms! a little while, and all this will appear a\ndream. I shall look, and cannot see you; shall try to recollect your\nfeatures--and the impression will be fled from my imagination;--to hear\nthe tones of your voice, and even memory will be silent!--I cannot,\ncannot leave you! why should we confide the happiness of our whole lives\nto the will of people, who have no right to interrupt, and, except in\ngiving you to me, have no power to promote it? O Emily! venture to trust\nyour own heart, venture to be mine for ever!' His voice trembled, and\nhe was silent; Emily continued to weep, and was silent also, when\nValancourt proceeded to propose an immediate marriage, and that at an\nearly hour on the following morning, she should quit Madame Montoni's\nhouse, and be conducted by him to the church of the Augustines, where a\nfriar should await to unite them.\n\nThe silence, with which she listened to a proposal, dictated by love and\ndespair, and enforced at a moment, when it seemed scarcely possible\nfor her to oppose it;--when her heart was softened by the sorrows of\na separation, that might be eternal, and her reason obscured by the\nillusions of love and terror, encouraged him to hope, that it would not\nbe rejected. 'Speak, my Emily!' said Valancourt eagerly, 'let me hear\nyour voice, let me hear you confirm my fate.' she spoke not; her cheek\nwas cold, and her senses seemed to fail her, but she did not faint. To\nValancourt's terrified imagination she appeared to be dying; he called\nupon her name, rose to go to the chateau for assistance, and then,\nrecollecting her situation, feared to go, or to leave her for a moment.\n\nAfter a few minutes, she drew a deep sigh, and began to revive. The\nconflict she had suffered, between love and the duty she at present owed\nto her father's sister; her repugnance to a clandestine marriage,\nher fear of emerging on the world with embarrassments, such as\nmight ultimately involve the object of her affection in misery and\nrepentance;--all this various interest was too powerful for a mind,\nalready enervated by sorrow, and her reason had suffered a transient\nsuspension. But duty, and good sense, however hard the conflict, at\nlength, triumphed over affection and mournful presentiment; above all,\nshe dreaded to involve Valancourt in obscurity and vain regret, which\nshe saw, or thought she saw, must be the too certain consequence of a\nmarriage in their present circumstances; and she acted, perhaps, with\nsomewhat more than female fortitude, when she resolved to endure a\npresent, rather than provoke a distant misfortune.\n\nWith a candour, that proved how truly she esteemed and loved him,\nand which endeared her to him, if possible, more than ever, she told\nValancourt all her reasons for rejecting his proposals. Those, which\ninfluenced her concerning his future welfare, he instantly refuted, or\nrather contradicted; but they awakened tender considerations for her,\nwhich the frenzy of passion and despair had concealed before, and love,\nwhich had but lately prompted him to propose a clandestine and immediate\nmarriage, now induced him to renounce it. The triumph was almost too\nmuch for his heart; for Emily's sake, he endeavoured to stifle his\ngrief, but the swelling anguish would not be restrained. 'O Emily!' said\nhe, 'I must leave you--I MUST leave you, and I know it is for ever!'\n\nConvulsive sobs again interrupted his words, and they wept together in\nsilence, till Emily, recollecting the danger of being discovered, and\nthe impropriety of prolonging an interview, which might subject her to\ncensure, summoned all her fortitude to utter a last farewell.\n\n'Stay!' said Valancourt, 'I conjure you stay, for I have much to tell\nyou. The agitation of my mind has hitherto suffered me to speak only\non the subject that occupied it;--I have forborne to mention a doubt of\nmuch importance, partly, lest it should appear as if I told it with\nan ungenerous view of alarming you into a compliance with my late\nproposal.'\n\nEmily, much agitated, did not leave Valancourt, but she led him from the\npavilion, and, as they walked upon the terrace, he proceeded as follows:\n\n'This Montoni: I have heard some strange hints concerning him. Are you\ncertain he is of Madame Quesnel's family, and that his fortune is what\nit appears to be?'\n\n'I have no reason to doubt either,' replied Emily, in a voice of alarm.\n'Of the first, indeed, I cannot doubt, but I have no certain means\nof judging of the latter, and I entreat you will tell me all you have\nheard.'\n\n'That I certainly will, but it is very imperfect, and unsatisfactory\ninformation. I gathered it by accident from an Italian, who was speaking\nto another person of this Montoni. They were talking of his marriage;\nthe Italian said, that if he was the person he meant, he was not likely\nto make Madame Cheron happy. He proceeded to speak of him in general\nterms of dislike, and then gave some particular hints, concerning his\ncharacter, that excited my curiosity, and I ventured to ask him a few\nquestions. He was reserved in his replies, but, after hesitating for\nsome time, he owned, that he had understood abroad, that Montoni was a\nman of desperate fortune and character. He said something of a castle\nof Montoni's, situated among the Apennines, and of some strange\ncircumstances, that might be mentioned, as to his former mode of life.\nI pressed him to inform me further, but I believe the strong interest I\nfelt was visible in my manner, and alarmed him; for no entreaties could\nprevail with him to give any explanation of the circumstances he had\nalluded to, or to mention any thing further concerning Montoni. I\nobserved to him, that, if Montoni was possessed of a castle in the\nApennines, it appeared from such a circumstance, that he was of some\nfamily, and also seemed to contradict the report, that he was a man of\nentirely broken fortunes. He shook his head, and looked as if he could\nhave said a great deal, but made no reply.\n\n'A hope of learning something more satisfactory, or more positive,\ndetained me in his company a considerable time, and I renewed the\nsubject repeatedly, but the Italian wrapped himself up in reserve,\nsaid--that what he had mentioned he had caught only from a floating\nreport, and that reports frequently arose from personal malice, and were\nvery little to be depended upon. I forbore to press the subject farther,\nsince it was obvious that he was alarmed for the consequence of what\nhe had already said, and I was compelled to remain in uncertainty on a\npoint where suspense is almost intolerable. Think, Emily, what I must\nsuffer to see you depart for a foreign country, committed to the power\nof a man of such doubtful character as is this Montoni! But I will not\nalarm you unnecessarily;--it is possible, as the Italian said, at first,\nthat this is not the Montoni he alluded to. Yet, Emily, consider well\nbefore you resolve to commit yourself to him. O! I must not trust\nmyself to speak--or I shall renounce all the motives, which so lately\ninfluenced me to resign the hope of your becoming mine immediately.'\n\nValancourt walked upon the terrace with hurried steps, while Emily\nremained leaning on the balustrade in deep thought. The information she\nhad just received excited, perhaps, more alarm than it could justify,\nand raised once more the conflict of contrasted interests. She had never\nliked Montoni. The fire and keenness of his eye, its proud exultation,\nits bold fierceness, its sullen watchfulness, as occasion, and even\nslight occasion, had called forth the latent soul, she had often\nobserved with emotion; while from the usual expression of his\ncountenance she had always shrunk. From such observations she was the\nmore inclined to believe, that it was this Montoni, of whom the Italian\nhad uttered his suspicious hints. The thought of being solely in his\npower, in a foreign land, was terrifying to her, but it was not\nby terror alone that she was urged to an immediate marriage with\nValancourt. The tenderest love had already pleaded his cause, but had\nbeen unable to overcome her opinion, as to her duty, her disinterested\nconsiderations for Valancourt, and the delicacy, which made her revolt\nfrom a clandestine union. It was not to be expected, that a vague terror\nwould be more powerful, than the united influence of love and grief. But\nit recalled all their energy, and rendered a second conquest necessary.\n\nWith Valancourt, whose imagination was now awake to the suggestion of\nevery passion; whose apprehensions for Emily had acquired strength by\nthe mere mention of them, and became every instant more powerful, as\nhis mind brooded over them--with Valancourt no second conquest was\nattainable. He thought he saw in the clearest light, and love assisted\nthe fear, that this journey to Italy would involve Emily in misery; he\ndetermined, therefore, to persevere in opposing it, and in conjuring her\nto bestow upon him the title of her lawful protector.\n\n'Emily!' said he, with solemn earnestness, 'this is no time for\nscrupulous distinctions, for weighing the dubious and comparatively\ntrifling circumstances, that may affect our future comfort. I now see,\nmuch more clearly than before, the train of serious dangers you are\ngoing to encounter with a man of Montoni's character. Those dark\nhints of the Italian spoke much, but not more than the idea I have of\nMontoni's disposition, as exhibited even in his countenance. I think I\nsee at this moment all that could have been hinted, written there. He is\nthe Italian, whom I fear, and I conjure you for your own sake, as well\nas for mine, to prevent the evils I shudder to foresee. O Emily! let my\ntenderness, my arms withhold you from them--give me the right to defend\nyou!'\n\nEmily only sighed, while Valancourt proceeded to remonstrate and to\nentreat with all the energy that love and apprehension could inspire.\nBut, as his imagination magnified to her the possible evils she was\ngoing to meet, the mists of her own fancy began to dissipate, and\nallowed her to distinguish the exaggerated images, which imposed on his\nreason. She considered, that there was no proof of Montoni being the\nperson, whom the stranger had meant; that, even if he was so, the\nItalian had noticed his character and broken fortunes merely from\nreport; and that, though the countenance of Montoni seemed to give\nprobability to a part of the rumour, it was not by such circumstances\nthat an implicit belief of it could be justified. These considerations\nwould probably not have arisen so distinctly to her mind, at this\ntime, had not the terrors of Valancourt presented to her such obvious\nexaggerations of her danger, as incited her to distrust the fallacies of\npassion. But, while she endeavoured in the gentlest manner to convince\nhim of his error, she plunged him into a new one. His voice and\ncountenance changed to an expression of dark despair. 'Emily!' said\nhe, 'this, this moment is the bitterest that is yet come to me. You\ndo not--cannot love me!--It would be impossible for you to reason thus\ncoolly, thus deliberately, if you did. I, _I_ am torn with anguish at\nthe prospect of our separation, and of the evils that may await you in\nconsequence of it; I would encounter any hazards to prevent it--to save\nyou. No! Emily, no!--you cannot love me.'\n\n'We have now little time to waste in exclamation, or assertion,' said\nEmily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion: 'if you are yet to learn how\ndear you are, and ever must be, to my heart, no assurances of mine can\ngive you conviction.'\n\nThe last words faltered on her lips, and her tears flowed fast. These\nwords and tears brought, once more, and with instantaneous force,\nconviction of her love to Valancourt. He could only exclaim, 'Emily!\nEmily!' and weep over the hand he pressed to his lips; but she, after\nsome moments, again roused herself from the indulgence of sorrow, and\nsaid, 'I must leave you; it is late, and my absence from the chateau may\nbe discovered. Think of me--love me--when I am far away; the belief of\nthis will be my comfort!'\n\n'Think of you!--love you!' exclaimed Valancourt.\n\n'Try to moderate these transports,' said Emily, 'for my sake, try.'\n\n'For your sake!'\n\n'Yes, for my sake,' replied Emily, in a tremulous voice, 'I cannot leave\nyou thus!'\n\n'Then do not leave me!' said Valancourt, with quickness. 'Why should we\npart, or part for longer than till to-morrow?'\n\n'I am, indeed I am, unequal to these moments,' replied Emily, 'you tear\nmy heart, but I never can consent to this hasty, imprudent proposal!'\n\n'If we could command our time, my Emily, it should not be thus hasty; we\nmust submit to circumstances.'\n\n'We must indeed! I have already told you all my heart--my spirits are\ngone. You allowed the force of my objections, till your tenderness\ncalled up vague terrors, which have given us both unnecessary anguish.\nSpare me! do not oblige me to repeat the reasons I have already urged.'\n\n'Spare you!' cried Valancourt, 'I am a wretch--a very wretch, that have\nfelt only for myself!--I! who ought to have shewn the fortitude of a\nman, who ought to have supported you, I! have increased your sufferings\nby the conduct of a child! Forgive me, Emily! think of the distraction\nof my mind now that I am about to part with all that is dear to me--and\nforgive me! When you are gone, I shall recollect with bitter remorse\nwhat I have made you suffer, and shall wish in vain that I could see\nyou, if only for a moment, that I might sooth your grief.'\n\nTears again interrupted his voice, and Emily wept with him. 'I will shew\nmyself more worthy of your love,' said Valancourt, at length; 'I will\nnot prolong these moments. My Emily--my own Emily! never forget me! God\nknows when we shall meet again! I resign you to his care.--O God!--O\nGod!--protect and bless her!'\n\nHe pressed her hand to his heart. Emily sunk almost lifeless on his\nbosom, and neither wept, nor spoke. Valancourt, now commanding his own\ndistress, tried to comfort and re-assure her, but she appeared totally\nunaffected by what he said, and a sigh, which she uttered, now and then,\nwas all that proved she had not fainted.\n\nHe supported her slowly towards the chateau, weeping and speaking to\nher; but she answered only in sighs, till, having reached the gate, that\nterminated the avenue, she seemed to have recovered her consciousness,\nand, looking round, perceived how near they were to the chateau. 'We\nmust part here,' said she, stopping, 'Why prolong these moments? Teach\nme the fortitude I have forgot.'\n\nValancourt struggled to assume a composed air. 'Farewell, my love!' said\nhe, in a voice of solemn tenderness--'trust me we shall meet again--meet\nfor each other--meet to part no more!' His voice faltered, but,\nrecovering it, he proceeded in a firmer tone. 'You know not what I shall\nsuffer, till I hear from you; I shall omit no opportunity of conveying\nto you my letters, yet I tremble to think how few may occur. And trust\nme, love, for your dear sake, I will try to bear this absence with\nfortitude. O how little I have shewn to-night!'\n\n'Farewell!' said Emily faintly. 'When you are gone, I shall think of\nmany things I would have said to you.' 'And I of many--many!' said\nValancourt; 'I never left you yet, that I did not immediately remember\nsome question, or some entreaty, or some circumstance, concerning my\nlove, that I earnestly wished to mention, and feel wretched because I\ncould not. O Emily! this countenance, on which I now gaze--will, in a\nmoment, be gone from my eyes, and not all the efforts of fancy will be\nable to recall it with exactness. O! what an infinite difference between\nthis moment and the next! NOW, I am in your presence, can behold you!\nTHEN, all will be a dreary blank--and I shall be a wanderer, exiled from\nmy only home!'\n\nValancourt again pressed her to his heart, and held her there in\nsilence, weeping. Tears once again calmed her oppressed mind. They again\nbade each other farewell, lingered a moment, and then parted. Valancourt\nseemed to force himself from the spot; he passed hastily up the avenue,\nand Emily, as she moved slowly towards the chateau, heard his distant\nsteps. She listened to the sounds, as they sunk fainter and fainter,\ntill the melancholy stillness of night alone remained; and then\nhurried to her chamber, to seek repose, which, alas! was fled from her\nwretchedness.\n\n\n\n\nVOLUME 2\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\n Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see,\n My heart untravell'd still shall turn to thee.\n     GOLDSMITH\n\nThe carriages were at the gates at an early hour; the bustle of the\ndomestics, passing to and fro in the galleries, awakened Emily from\nharassing slumbers: her unquiet mind had, during the night, presented\nher with terrific images and obscure circumstances, concerning her\naffection and her future life. She now endeavoured to chase away the\nimpressions they had left on her fancy; but from imaginary evils she\nawoke to the consciousness of real ones. Recollecting that she had\nparted with Valancourt, perhaps for ever, her heart sickened as memory\nrevived. But she tried to dismiss the dismal forebodings that crowded on\nher mind, and to restrain the sorrow which she could not subdue;\nefforts which diffused over the settled melancholy of her countenance\nan expression of tempered resignation, as a thin veil, thrown over\nthe features of beauty, renders them more interesting by a partial\nconcealment. But Madame Montoni observed nothing in this countenance\nexcept its usual paleness, which attracted her censure. She told her\nniece, that she had been indulging in fanciful sorrows, and begged she\nwould have more regard for decorum, than to let the world see that she\ncould not renounce an improper attachment; at which Emily's pale cheek\nbecame flushed with crimson, but it was the blush of pride, and she made\nno answer. Soon after, Montoni entered the breakfast room, spoke little,\nand seemed impatient to be gone.\n\nThe windows of this room opened upon the garden. As Emily passed them,\nshe saw the spot where she had parted with Valancourt on the preceding\nnight: the remembrance pressed heavily on her heart, and she turned\nhastily away from the object that had awakened it.\n\nThe baggage being at length adjusted, the travellers entered their\ncarriages, and Emily would have left the chateau without one sigh of\nregret, had it not been situated in the neighbourhood of Valancourt's\nresidence.\n\nFrom a little eminence she looked back upon Tholouse, and the far-seen\nplains of Gascony, beyond which the broken summits of the Pyrenees\nappeared on the distant horizon, lighted up by a morning sun. 'Dear\npleasant mountains!' said she to herself, 'how long may it be ere I see\nye again, and how much may happen to make me miserable in the interval!\nOh, could I now be certain, that I should ever return to ye, and find\nthat Valancourt still lived for me, I should go in peace! He will still\ngaze on ye, gaze when I am far away!'\n\nThe trees, that impended over the high banks of the road and formed a\nline of perspective with the distant country, now threatened to exclude\nthe view of them; but the blueish mountains still appeared beyond the\ndark foliage, and Emily continued to lean from the coach window, till at\nlength the closing branches shut them from her sight.\n\nAnother object soon caught her attention. She had scarcely looked at\na person who walked along the bank, with his hat, in which was the\nmilitary feather, drawn over his eyes, before, at the sound of wheels,\nhe suddenly turned, and she perceived that it was Valancourt himself,\nwho waved his hand, sprung into the road, and through the window of the\ncarriage put a letter into her hand. He endeavoured to smile through\nthe despair that overspread his countenance as she passed on. The\nremembrance of that smile seemed impressed on Emily's mind for ever.\nShe leaned from the window, and saw him on a knoll of the broken bank,\nleaning against the high trees that waved over him, and pursuing the\ncarriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, and she continued to gaze\ntill distance confused his figure, and at length another turn of the\nroad entirely separated him from her sight.\n\nHaving stopped to take up Signor Cavigni at a chateau on the road,\nthe travellers, of whom Emily was disrespectfully seated with Madame\nMontoni's woman in a second carriage, pursued their way over the plains\nof Languedoc. The presence of this servant restrained Emily from reading\nValancourt's letter, for she did not choose to expose the emotions it\nmight occasion to the observation of any person. Yet such was her wish\nto read this his last communication, that her trembling hand was every\nmoment on the point of breaking the seal.\n\nAt length they reached the village, where they staid only to change\nhorses, without alighting, and it was not till they stopped to dine,\nthat Emily had an opportunity of reading the letter. Though she had\nnever doubted the sincerity of Valancourt's affection, the fresh\nassurances she now received of it revived her spirits; she wept over his\nletter in tenderness, laid it by to be referred to when they should be\nparticularly depressed, and then thought of him with much less anguish\nthan she had done since they parted. Among some other requests, which\nwere interesting to her, because expressive of his tenderness, and\nbecause a compliance with them seemed to annihilate for a while the pain\nof absence, he entreated she would always think of him at sunset. 'You\nwill then meet me in thought,' said he; 'I shall constantly watch the\nsun-set, and I shall be happy in the belief, that your eyes are fixed\nupon the same object with mine, and that our minds are conversing. You\nknow not, Emily, the comfort I promise myself from these moments; but I\ntrust you will experience it.'\n\nIt is unnecessary to say with what emotion Emily, on this evening,\nwatched the declining sun, over a long extent of plains, on which she\nsaw it set without interruption, and sink towards the province which\nValancourt inhabited. After this hour her mind became far more tranquil\nand resigned, than it had been since the marriage of Montoni and her\naunt.\n\nDuring several days the travellers journeyed over the plains of\nLanguedoc; and then entering Dauphiny, and winding for some time among\nthe mountains of that romantic province, they quitted their carriages\nand began to ascend the Alps. And here such scenes of sublimity opened\nupon them as no colours of language must dare to paint! Emily's mind was\neven so much engaged with new and wonderful images, that they sometimes\nbanished the idea of Valancourt, though they more frequently revived\nit. These brought to her recollection the prospects among the Pyrenees,\nwhich they had admired together, and had believed nothing could excel\nin grandeur. How often did she wish to express to him the new emotions\nwhich this astonishing scenery awakened, and that he could partake\nof them! Sometimes too she endeavoured to anticipate his remarks, and\nalmost imagined him present. She seemed to have arisen into another\nworld, and to have left every trifling thought, every trifling\nsentiment, in that below; those only of grandeur and sublimity now\ndilated her mind, and elevated the affections of her heart.\n\nWith what emotions of sublimity, softened by tenderness, did she meet\nValancourt in thought, at the customary hour of sun-set, when, wandering\namong the Alps, she watched the glorious orb sink amid their summits,\nhis last tints die away on their snowy points, and a solemn obscurity\nsteal over the scene! And when the last gleam had faded, she turned\nher eyes from the west with somewhat of the melancholy regret that is\nexperienced after the departure of a beloved friend; while these lonely\nfeelings were heightened by the spreading gloom, and by the low sounds,\nheard only when darkness confines attention, which make the general\nstillness more impressive--leaves shook by the air, the last sigh of the\nbreeze that lingers after sun-set, or the murmur of distant streams.\n\nDuring the first days of this journey among the Alps, the scenery\nexhibited a wonderful mixture of solitude and inhabitation, of\ncultivation and barrenness. On the edge of tremendous precipices, and\nwithin the hollow of the cliffs, below which the clouds often floated,\nwere seen villages, spires, and convent towers; while green pastures\nand vineyards spread their hues at the feet of perpendicular rocks\nof marble, or of granite, whose points, tufted with alpine shrubs, or\nexhibiting only massy crags, rose above each other, till they terminated\nin the snow-topt mountain, whence the torrent fell, that thundered along\nthe valley.\n\nThe snow was not yet melted on the summit of Mount Cenis, over which\nthe travellers passed; but Emily, as she looked upon its clear lake and\nextended plain, surrounded by broken cliffs, saw, in imagination, the\nverdant beauty it would exhibit when the snows should be gone, and the\nshepherds, leading up the midsummer flocks from Piedmont, to pasture on\nits flowery summit, should add Arcadian figures to Arcadian landscape.\n\nAs she descended on the Italian side, the precipices became still more\ntremendous, and the prospects still more wild and majestic, over which\nthe shifting lights threw all the pomp of colouring. Emily delighted to\nobserve the snowy tops of the mountains under the passing influence of\nthe day, blushing with morning, glowing with the brightness of noon, or\njust tinted with the purple evening. The haunt of man could now only be\ndiscovered by the simple hut of the shepherd and the hunter, or by the\nrough pine bridge thrown across the torrent, to assist the latter in his\nchase of the chamois over crags where, but for this vestige of man, it\nwould have been believed only the chamois or the wolf dared to venture.\nAs Emily gazed upon one of these perilous bridges, with the cataract\nfoaming beneath it, some images came to her mind, which she afterwards\ncombined in the following\n\n     STORIED SONNET\n\n The weary traveller, who, all night long,\n Has climb'd among the Alps' tremendous steeps,\n Skirting the pathless precipice, where throng\n Wild forms of danger; as he onward creeps\n If, chance, his anxious eye at distance sees\n The mountain-shepherd's solitary home,\n Peeping from forth the moon-illumin'd trees,\n What sudden transports to his bosom come!\n But, if between some hideous chasm yawn,\n Where the cleft pine a doubtful bridge displays,\n In dreadful silence, on the brink, forlorn\n He stands, and views in the faint rays\n Far, far below, the torrent's rising surge,\n And listens to the wild impetuous roar;\n Still eyes the depth, still shudders on the verge,\n Fears to return, nor dares to venture o'er.\n Desperate, at length the tottering plank he tries,\n His weak steps slide, he shrieks, he sinks--he dies!\n\nEmily, often as she travelled among the clouds, watched in silent awe\ntheir billowy surges rolling below; sometimes, wholly closing upon the\nscene, they appeared like a world of chaos, and, at others, spreading\nthinly, they opened and admitted partial catches of the landscape--the\ntorrent, whose astounding roar had never failed, tumbling down the rocky\nchasm, huge cliffs white with snow, or the dark summits of the pine\nforests, that stretched mid-way down the mountains. But who may describe\nher rapture, when, having passed through a sea of vapour, she caught\na first view of Italy; when, from the ridge of one of those tremendous\nprecipices that hang upon Mount Cenis and guard the entrance of that\nenchanting country, she looked down through the lower clouds, and, as\nthey floated away, saw the grassy vales of Piedmont at her feet, and,\nbeyond, the plains of Lombardy extending to the farthest distance, at\nwhich appeared, on the faint horizon, the doubtful towers of Turin?\n\nThe solitary grandeur of the objects that immediately surrounded her,\nthe mountain-region towering above, the deep precipices that fell\nbeneath, the waving blackness of the forests of pine and oak, which\nskirted their feet, or hung within their recesses, the headlong torrents\nthat, dashing among their cliffs, sometimes appeared like a cloud of\nmist, at others like a sheet of ice--these were features which received\na higher character of sublimity from the reposing beauty of the Italian\nlandscape below, stretching to the wide horizon, where the same melting\nblue tint seemed to unite earth and sky.\n\nMadame Montoni only shuddered as she looked down precipices near whose\nedge the chairmen trotted lightly and swiftly, almost, as the chamois\nbounded, and from which Emily too recoiled; but with her fears were\nmingled such various emotions of delight, such admiration, astonishment,\nand awe, as she had never experienced before.\n\nMeanwhile the carriers, having come to a landing-place, stopped to rest,\nand the travellers being seated on the point of a cliff, Montoni and\nCavigni renewed a dispute concerning Hannibal's passage over the Alps,\nMontoni contending that he entered Italy by way of Mount Cenis, and\nCavigni, that he passed over Mount St. Bernard. The subject brought\nto Emily's imagination the disasters he had suffered in this bold and\nperilous adventure. She saw his vast armies winding among the defiles,\nand over the tremendous cliffs of the mountains, which at night were\nlighted up by his fires, or by the torches which he caused to be carried\nwhen he pursued his indefatigable march. In the eye of fancy, she\nperceived the gleam of arms through the duskiness of night, the glitter\nof spears and helmets, and the banners floating dimly on the twilight;\nwhile now and then the blast of a distant trumpet echoed along the\ndefile, and the signal was answered by a momentary clash of arms. She\nlooked with horror upon the mountaineers, perched on the higher cliffs,\nassailing the troops below with broken fragments of the mountain; on\nsoldiers and elephants tumbling headlong down the lower precipices; and,\nas she listened to the rebounding rocks, that followed their fall,\nthe terrors of fancy yielded to those of reality, and she shuddered to\nbehold herself on the dizzy height, whence she had pictured the descent\nof others.\n\nMadame Montoni, meantime, as she looked upon Italy, was contemplating in\nimagination the splendour of palaces and the grandeur of castles, such\nas she believed she was going to be mistress of at Venice and in the\nApennine, and she became, in idea, little less than a princess. Being\nno longer under the alarms which had deterred her from giving\nentertainments to the beauties of Tholouse, whom Montoni had mentioned\nwith more eclat to his own vanity than credit to their discretion, or\nregard to truth, she determined to give concerts, though she had neither\near nor taste for music; conversazioni, though she had no talents for\nconversation; and to outvie, if possible, in the gaieties of her parties\nand the magnificence of her liveries, all the noblesse of Venice. This\nblissful reverie was somewhat obscured, when she recollected the Signor,\nher husband, who, though he was not averse to the profit which sometimes\nresults from such parties, had always shewn a contempt of the frivolous\nparade that sometimes attends them; till she considered that his pride\nmight be gratified by displaying, among his own friends, in his native\ncity, the wealth which he had neglected in France; and she courted again\nthe splendid illusions that had charmed her before.\n\nThe travellers, as they descended, gradually, exchanged the region of\nwinter for the genial warmth and beauty of spring. The sky began to\nassume that serene and beautiful tint peculiar to the climate of Italy;\npatches of young verdure, fragrant shrubs and flowers looked gaily among\nthe rocks, often fringing their rugged brows, or hanging in tufts\nfrom their broken sides; and the buds of the oak and mountain ash were\nexpanding into foliage. Descending lower, the orange and the myrtle,\nevery now and then, appeared in some sunny nook, with their yellow\nblossoms peeping from among the dark green of their leaves, and mingling\nwith the scarlet flowers of the pomegranate and the paler ones of the\narbutus, that ran mantling to the crags above; while, lower still,\nspread the pastures of Piedmont, where early flocks were cropping the\nluxuriant herbage of spring.\n\nThe river Doria, which, rising on the summit of Mount Cenis, had dashed\nfor many leagues over the precipices that bordered the road, now began\nto assume a less impetuous, though scarcely less romantic character, as\nit approached the green vallies of Piedmont, into which the travellers\ndescended with the evening sun; and Emily found herself once more amid\nthe tranquil beauty of pastoral scenery; among flocks and herds, and\nslopes tufted with woods of lively verdure and with beautiful shrubs,\nsuch as she had often seen waving luxuriantly over the alps above. The\nverdure of the pasturage, now varied with the hues of early flowers,\namong which were yellow ranunculuses and pansey violets of delicious\nfragrance, she had never seen excelled.--Emily almost wished to become\na peasant of Piedmont, to inhabit one of the pleasant embowered cottages\nwhich she saw peeping beneath the cliffs, and to pass her careless hours\namong these romantic landscapes. To the hours, the months, she was to\npass under the dominion of Montoni, she looked with apprehension; while\nthose which were departed she remembered with regret and sorrow.\n\nIn the present scenes her fancy often gave her the figure of Valancourt,\nwhom she saw on a point of the cliffs, gazing with awe and admiration\non the imagery around him; or wandering pensively along the vale\nbelow, frequently pausing to look back upon the scenery, and then,\nhis countenance glowing with the poet's fire, pursuing his way to some\noverhanging heights. When she again considered the time and the distance\nthat were to separate them, that every step she now took lengthened this\ndistance, her heart sunk, and the surrounding landscape charmed her no\nmore.\n\nThe travellers, passing Novalesa, reached, after the evening had closed,\nthe small and antient town of Susa, which had formerly guarded this pass\nof the Alps into Piedmont. The heights which command it had, since the\ninvention of artillery, rendered its fortifications useless; but these\nromantic heights, seen by moon-light, with the town below, surrounded\nby its walls and watchtowers, and partially illumined, exhibited an\ninteresting picture to Emily. Here they rested for the night at an inn,\nwhich had little accommodation to boast of; but the travellers brought\nwith them the hunger that gives delicious flavour to the coarsest\nviands, and the weariness that ensures repose; and here Emily first\ncaught a strain of Italian music, on Italian ground. As she sat after\nsupper at a little window, that opened upon the country, observing an\neffect of the moon-light on the broken surface of the mountains, and\nremembering that on such a night as this she once had sat with her\nfather and Valancourt, resting upon a cliff of the Pyrenees, she heard\nfrom below the long-drawn notes of a violin, of such tone and delicacy\nof expression, as harmonized exactly with the tender emotions she was\nindulging, and both charmed and surprised her. Cavigni, who approached\nthe window, smiled at her surprise. 'This is nothing extraordinary,'\nsaid he, 'you will hear the same, perhaps, at every inn on our way. It\nis one of our landlord's family who plays, I doubt not,' Emily, as she\nlistened, thought he could be scarcely less than a professor of music\nwhom she heard; and the sweet and plaintive strains soon lulled her into\na reverie, from which she was very unwillingly roused by the raillery\nof Cavigni, and by the voice of Montoni, who gave orders to a servant to\nhave the carriages ready at an early hour on the following morning; and\nadded, that he meant to dine at Turin.\n\nMadame Montoni was exceedingly rejoiced to be once more on level ground;\nand, after giving a long detail of the various terrors she had suffered,\nwhich she forgot that she was describing to the companions of her\ndangers, she added a hope, that she should soon be beyond the view of\nthese horrid mountains, 'which all the world,' said she, 'should not\ntempt me to cross again.' Complaining of fatigue she soon retired to\nrest, and Emily withdrew to her own room, when she understood from\nAnnette, her aunt's woman, that Cavigni was nearly right in his\nconjecture concerning the musician, who had awakened the violin with\nso much taste, for that he was the son of a peasant inhabiting the\nneighbouring valley. 'He is going to the Carnival at Venice,' added\nAnnette, 'for they say he has a fine hand at playing, and will get a\nworld of money; and the Carnival is just going to begin: but for my\npart, I should like to live among these pleasant woods and hills, better\nthan in a town; and they say Ma'moiselle, we shall see no woods, or\nhills, or fields, at Venice, for that it is built in the very middle of\nthe sea.'\n\nEmily agreed with the talkative Annette, that this young man was making\na change for the worse, and could not forbear silently lamenting, that\nhe should be drawn from the innocence and beauty of these scenes, to the\ncorrupt ones of that voluptuous city.\n\nWhen she was alone, unable to sleep, the landscapes of her native home,\nwith Valancourt, and the circumstances of her departure, haunted her\nfancy; she drew pictures of social happiness amidst the grand simplicity\nof nature, such as she feared she had bade farewel to for ever; and\nthen, the idea of this young Piedmontese, thus ignorantly sporting with\nhis happiness, returned to her thoughts, and, glad to escape awhile from\nthe pressure of nearer interests, she indulged her fancy in composing\nthe following lines.\n\n     THE PIEDMONTESE\n\n Ah, merry swain, who laugh'd along the vales,\n And with your gay pipe made the mountains ring,\n Why leave your cot, your woods, and thymy gales,\n And friends belov'd, for aught that wealth can bring?\n He goes to wake o'er moon-light seas the string,\n Venetian gold his untaught fancy hails!\n Yet oft of home his simple carols sing,\n And his steps pause, as the last Alp he scales.\n Once more he turns to view his native scene--\n Far, far below, as roll the clouds away,\n He spies his cabin 'mid the pine-tops green,\n The well-known woods, clear brook, and pastures gay;\n And thinks of friends and parents left behind,\n Of sylvan revels, dance, and festive song;\n And hears the faint reed swelling in the wind;\n And his sad sighs the distant notes prolong!\n Thus went the swain, till mountain-shadows fell,\n And dimm'd the landscape to his aching sight;\n And must he leave the vales he loves so well!\n Can foreign wealth, and shows, his heart delight?\n No, happy vales! your wild rocks still shall hear\n His pipe, light sounding on the morning breeze;\n Still shall he lead the flocks to streamlet clear,\n And watch at eve beneath the western trees.\n Away, Venetian gold--your charm is o'er!\n And now his swift step seeks the lowland bow'rs,\n Where, through the leaves, his cottage light ONCE MORE\n Guides him to happy friends, and jocund hours.\n Ah, merry swain! that laugh along the vales,\n And with your gay pipe make the mountains ring,\n Your cot, your woods, your thymy-scented gales--\n And friends belov'd--more joy than wealth can bring!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\n TITANIA.  If you will patiently dance in our round,\n  And see our moon-light revels, go with us.\n     MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM\n\nEarly on the following morning, the travellers set out for Turin.\nThe luxuriant plain, that extends from the feet of the Alps to that\nmagnificent city, was not then, as now, shaded by an avenue of trees\nnine miles in length; but plantations of olives, mulberry and palms,\nfestooned with vines, mingled with the pastoral scenery, through with\nthe rapid Po, after its descent from the mountains, wandered to meet\nthe humble Doria at Turin. As they advanced towards this city, the Alps,\nseen at some distance, began to appear in all their awful sublimity;\nchain rising over chain in long succession, their higher points darkened\nby the hovering clouds, sometimes hid, and at others seen shooting up\nfar above them; while their lower steeps, broken into fantastic forms,\nwere touched with blue and purplish tints, which, as they changed in\nlight and shade, seemed to open new scenes to the eye. To the east\nstretched the plains of Lombardy, with the towers of Turin rising at a\ndistance; and beyond, the Apennines, bounding the horizon.\n\nThe general magnificence of that city, with its vistas of churches and\npalaces, branching from the grand square, each opening to a landscape of\nthe distant Alps or Apennines, was not only such as Emily had never seen\nin France, but such as she had never imagined.\n\nMontoni, who had been often at Turin, and cared little about views of\nany kind, did not comply with his wife's request, that they might survey\nsome of the palaces; but staying only till the necessary refreshments\ncould be obtained, they set forward for Venice with all possible\nrapidity. Montoni's manner, during this journey, was grave, and even\nhaughty; and towards Madame Montoni he was more especially reserved; but\nit was not the reserve of respect so much as of pride and discontent.\nOf Emily he took little notice. With Cavigni his conversations were\ncommonly on political or military topics, such as the convulsed state\nof their country rendered at this time particularly interesting, Emily\nobserved, that, at the mention of any daring exploit, Montoni's eyes\nlost their sullenness, and seemed instantaneously to gleam with fire;\nyet they still retained somewhat of a lurking cunning, and she sometimes\nthought that their fire partook more of the glare of malice than the\nbrightness of valour, though the latter would well have harmonized with\nthe high chivalric air of his figure, in which Cavigni, with all his gay\nand gallant manners, was his inferior.\n\nOn entering the Milanese, the gentlemen exchanged their French hats for\nthe Italian cap of scarlet cloth, embroidered; and Emily was somewhat\nsurprised to observe, that Montoni added to his the military plume,\nwhile Cavigni retained only the feather: which was usually worn with\nsuch caps: but she at length concluded, that Montoni assumed this ensign\nof a soldier for convenience, as a means of passing with more safety\nthrough a country over-run with parties of the military.\n\nOver the beautiful plains of this country the devastations of war\nwere frequently visible. Where the lands had not been suffered to lie\nuncultivated, they were often tracked with the steps of the spoiler;\nthe vines were torn down from the branches that had supported them, the\nolives trampled upon the ground, and even the groves of mulberry trees\nhad been hewn by the enemy to light fires that destroyed the hamlets and\nvillages of their owners. Emily turned her eyes with a sigh from\nthese painful vestiges of contention, to the Alps of the Grison, that\noverlooked them to the north, whose awful solitudes seemed to offer to\npersecuted man a secure asylum.\n\nThe travellers frequently distinguished troops of soldiers moving at\na distance; and they experienced, at the little inns on the road, the\nscarcity of provision and other inconveniences, which are a part of\nthe consequence of intestine war; but they had never reason to be much\nalarmed for their immediate safety, and they passed on to Milan with\nlittle interruption of any kind, where they staid not to survey the\ngrandeur of the city, or even to view its vast cathedral, which was then\nbuilding.\n\nBeyond Milan, the country wore the aspect of a ruder devastation; and\nthough every thing seemed now quiet, the repose was like that of\ndeath, spread over features, which retain the impression of the last\nconvulsions.\n\nIt was not till they had passed the eastern limits of the Milanese, that\nthe travellers saw any troops since they had left Milan, when, as the\nevening was drawing to a close, they descried what appeared to be an\narmy winding onward along the distant plains, whose spears and other\narms caught the last rays of the sun. As the column advanced through\na part of the road, contracted between two hillocks, some of the\ncommanders, on horseback, were distinguished on a small eminence,\npointing and making signals for the march; while several of the officers\nwere riding along the line directing its progress, according to the\nsigns communicated by those above; and others, separating from the\nvanguard, which had emerged from the pass, were riding carelessly along\nthe plains at some distance to the right of the army.\n\nAs they drew nearer, Montoni, distinguishing the feathers that waved\nin their caps, and the banners and liveries of the bands that followed\nthem, thought he knew this to be the small army commanded by the famous\ncaptain Utaldo, with whom, as well as with some of the other chiefs, he\nwas personally acquainted. He, therefore, gave orders that the carriages\nshould draw up by the side of the road, to await their arrival, and\ngive them the pass. A faint strain of martial music now stole by, and,\ngradually strengthening as the troops approached, Emily distinguished\nthe drums and trumpets, with the clash of cymbals and of arms, that were\nstruck by a small party, in time to the march.\n\nMontoni being now certain that these were the bands of the victorious\nUtaldo, leaned from the carriage window, and hailed their general\nby waving his cap in the air; which compliment the chief returned by\nraising his spear, and then letting it down again suddenly, while some\nof his officers, who were riding at a distance from the troops, came up\nto the carriage, and saluted Montoni as an old acquaintance. The captain\nhimself soon after arriving, his bands halted while he conversed with\nMontoni, whom he appeared much rejoiced to see; and from what he said,\nEmily understood that this was a victorious army, returning into their\nown principality; while the numerous waggons, that accompanied them,\ncontained the rich spoils of the enemy, their own wounded soldiers, and\nthe prisoners they had taken in battle, who were to be ransomed when\nthe peace, then negociating between the neighbouring states, should be\nratified. The chiefs on the following day were to separate, and each,\ntaking his share of the spoil, was to return with his own band to his\ncastle. This was therefore to be an evening of uncommon and general\nfestivity, in commemoration of the victory they had accomplished\ntogether, and of the farewell which the commanders were about to take of\neach other.\n\nEmily, as these officers conversed with Montoni, observed with\nadmiration, tinctured with awe, their high martial air, mingled with\nthe haughtiness of the nobless of those days, and heightened by the\ngallantry of their dress, by the plumes towering on their caps, the\narmorial coat, Persian sash, and ancient Spanish cloak. Utaldo, telling\nMontoni that his army were going to encamp for the night near a village\nat only a few miles distance, invited him to turn back and partake\nof their festivity, assuring the ladies also, that they should be\npleasantly accommodated; but Montoni excused himself, adding, that\nit was his design to reach Verona that evening; and, after some\nconversation concerning the state of the country towards that city, they\nparted.\n\nThe travellers proceeded without any interruption; but it was some hours\nafter sun-set before they arrived at Verona, whose beautiful environs\nwere therefore not seen by Emily till the following morning; when,\nleaving that pleasant town at an early hour, they set off for Padua,\nwhere they embarked on the Brenta for Venice. Here the scene was\nentirely changed; no vestiges of war, such as had deformed the plains of\nthe Milanese, appeared; on the contrary, all was peace and elegance. The\nverdant banks of the Brenta exhibited a continued landscape of beauty,\ngaiety, and splendour. Emily gazed with admiration on the villas of the\nVenetian noblesse, with their cool porticos and colonnades, overhung\nwith poplars and cypresses of majestic height and lively verdure; on\ntheir rich orangeries, whose blossoms perfumed the air, and on the\nluxuriant willows, that dipped their light leaves in the wave, and\nsheltered from the sun the gay parties whose music came at intervals on\nthe breeze. The Carnival did, indeed, appear to extend from Venice along\nthe whole line of these enchanting shores; the river was gay with boats\npassing to that city, exhibiting the fantastic diversity of a masquerade\nin the dresses of the people within them; and, towards evening, groups\nof dancers frequently were seen beneath the trees.\n\nCavigni, meanwhile, informed her of the names of the noblemen to whom\nthe several villas they passed belonged, adding light sketches of their\ncharacters, such as served to amuse rather than to inform, exhibiting\nhis own wit instead of the delineation of truth. Emily was sometimes\ndiverted by his conversation; but his gaiety did not entertain Madame\nMontoni, as it had formerly done; she was frequently grave, and Montoni\nretained his usual reserve.\n\nNothing could exceed Emily's admiration on her first view of Venice,\nwith its islets, palaces, and towers rising out of the sea, whose clear\nsurface reflected the tremulous picture in all its colours. The sun,\nsinking in the west, tinted the waves and the lofty mountains of Friuli,\nwhich skirt the northern shores of the Adriatic, with a saffron glow,\nwhile on the marble porticos and colonnades of St. Mark were thrown\nthe rich lights and shades of evening. As they glided on, the grander\nfeatures of this city appeared more distinctly: its terraces, crowned\nwith airy yet majestic fabrics, touched, as they now were, with the\nsplendour of the setting sun, appeared as if they had been called up\nfrom the ocean by the wand of an enchanter, rather than reared by mortal\nhands.\n\nThe sun, soon after, sinking to the lower world, the shadow of the earth\nstole gradually over the waves, and then up the towering sides of the\nmountains of Friuli, till it extinguished even the last upward beams\nthat had lingered on their summits, and the melancholy purple of evening\ndrew over them, like a thin veil. How deep, how beautiful was the\ntranquillity that wrapped the scene! All nature seemed to repose; the\nfinest emotions of the soul were alone awake. Emily's eyes filled with\ntears of admiration and sublime devotion, as she raised them over the\nsleeping world to the vast heavens, and heard the notes of solemn\nmusic, that stole over the waters from a distance. She listened in still\nrapture, and no person of the party broke the charm by an enquiry. The\nsounds seemed to grow on the air; for so smoothly did the barge glide\nalong, that its motion was not perceivable, and the fairy city appeared\napproaching to welcome the strangers. They now distinguished a female\nvoice, accompanied by a few instruments, singing a soft and mournful\nair; and its fine expression, as sometimes it seemed pleading with the\nimpassioned tenderness of love, and then languishing into the cadence\nof hopeless grief, declared, that it flowed from no feigned sensibility.\nAh! thought Emily, as she sighed and remembered Valancourt, those\nstrains come from the heart!\n\nShe looked round, with anxious enquiry; the deep twilight, that had\nfallen over the scene, admitted only imperfect images to the eye, but,\nat some distance on the sea, she thought she perceived a gondola: a\nchorus of voices and instruments now swelled on the air--so sweet, so\nsolemn! it seemed like the hymn of angels descending through the silence\nof night! Now it died away, and fancy almost beheld the holy choir\nreascending towards heaven; then again it swelled with the breeze,\ntrembled awhile, and again died into silence. It brought to Emily's\nrecollection some lines of her late father, and she repeated in a low\nvoice,\n\n     Oft I hear,\n Upon the silence of the midnight air,\n Celestial voices swell in holy chorus\n That bears the soul to heaven!\n\nThe deep stillness, that succeeded, was as expressive as the strain\nthat had just ceased. It was uninterrupted for several minutes, till\na general sigh seemed to release the company from their enchantment.\nEmily, however, long indulged the pleasing sadness, that had stolen\nupon her spirits; but the gay and busy scene that appeared, as the barge\napproached St. Mark's Place, at length roused her attention. The rising\nmoon, which threw a shadowy light upon the terraces, and illumined\nthe porticos and magnificent arcades that crowned them, discovered the\nvarious company, whose light steps, soft guitars, and softer voices,\nechoed through the colonnades.\n\nThe music they heard before now passed Montoni's barge, in one of the\ngondolas, of which several were seen skimming along the moon-light sea,\nfull of gay parties, catching the cool breeze. Most of these had music,\nmade sweeter by the waves over which it floated, and by the measured\nsound of oars, as they dashed the sparkling tide. Emily gazed, and\nlistened, and thought herself in a fairy scene; even Madame Montoni was\npleased; Montoni congratulated himself on his return to Venice, which\nhe called the first city in the world, and Cavigni was more gay and\nanimated than ever.\n\nThe barge passed on to the grand canal, where Montoni's mansion was\nsituated. And here, other forms of beauty and of grandeur, such as her\nimagination had never painted, were unfolded to Emily in the palaces of\nSansovino and Palladio, as she glided along the waves. The air bore no\nsounds, but those of sweetness, echoing along each margin of the canal,\nand from gondolas on its surface, while groups of masks were seen\ndancing on the moon-light terraces, and seemed almost to realize the\nromance of fairyland.\n\nThe barge stopped before the portico of a large house, from whence\na servant of Montoni crossed the terrace, and immediately the party\ndisembarked. From the portico they passed a noble hall to a stair-case\nof marble, which led to a saloon, fitted up in a style of magnificence\nthat surprised Emily. The walls and ceilings were adorned with\nhistorical and allegorical paintings, in fresco; silver tripods,\ndepending from chains of the same metal, illumined the apartment, the\nfloor of which was covered with Indian mats painted in a variety of\ncolours and devices; the couches and drapery of the lattices were of\npale green silk, embroidered and fringed with green and gold. Balcony\nlattices opened upon the grand canal, whence rose a confusion of voices\nand of musical instruments, and the breeze that gave freshness to the\napartment. Emily, considering the gloomy temper of Montoni, looked upon\nthe splendid furniture of this house with surprise, and remembered the\nreport of his being a man of broken fortune, with astonishment. 'Ah!'\nsaid she to herself, 'if Valancourt could but see this mansion, what\npeace would it give him! He would then be convinced that the report was\ngroundless.'\n\nMadame Montoni seemed to assume the air of a princess; but Montoni was\nrestless and discontented, and did not even observe the civility of\nbidding her welcome to her home.\n\nSoon after his arrival, he ordered his gondola, and, with Cavigni, went\nout to mingle in the scenes of the evening. Madame then became serious\nand thoughtful. Emily, who was charmed with every thing she saw,\nendeavoured to enliven her; but reflection had not, with Madame Montoni,\nsubdued caprice and ill-humour, and her answers discovered so much of\nboth, that Emily gave up the attempt of diverting her, and withdrew to\na lattice, to amuse herself with the scene without, so new and so\nenchanting.\n\nThe first object that attracted her notice was a group of dancers on the\nterrace below, led by a guitar and some other instruments. The girl, who\nstruck the guitar, and another, who flourished a tambourine, passed\non in a dancing step, and with a light grace and gaiety of heart, that\nwould have subdued the goddess of spleen in her worst humour. After\nthese came a group of fantastic figures, some dressed as gondolieri,\nothers as minstrels, while others seemed to defy all description. They\nsung in parts, their voices accompanied by a few soft instruments. At a\nlittle distance from the portico they stopped, and Emily distinguished\nthe verses of Ariosto. They sung of the wars of the Moors against\nCharlemagne, and then of the woes of Orlando: afterwards the measure\nchanged, and the melancholy sweetness of Petrarch succeeded. The\nmagic of his grief was assisted by all that Italian music and Italian\nexpression, heightened by the enchantments of Venetian moonlight, could\ngive.\n\nEmily, as she listened, caught the pensive enthusiasm; her tears flowed\nsilently, while her fancy bore her far away to France and to Valancourt.\nEach succeeding sonnet, more full of charming sadness than the last,\nseemed to bind the spell of melancholy: with extreme regret she saw the\nmusicians move on, and her attention followed the strain till the\nlast faint warble died in air. She then remained sunk in that pensive\ntranquillity which soft music leaves on the mind--a state like that\nproduced by the view of a beautiful landscape by moon-light, or by the\nrecollection of scenes marked with the tenderness of friends lost for\never, and with sorrows, which time has mellowed into mild regret. Such\nscenes are indeed, to the mind, like 'those faint traces which the\nmemory bears of music that is past'.\n\nOther sounds soon awakened her attention: it was the solemn harmony of\nhorns, that swelled from a distance; and, observing the gondolas arrange\nthemselves along the margin of the terraces, she threw on her veil, and,\nstepping into the balcony, discerned, in the distant perspective of the\ncanal, something like a procession, floating on the light surface of\nthe water: as it approached, the horns and other instruments mingled\nsweetly, and soon after the fabled deities of the city seemed to have\narisen from the ocean; for Neptune, with Venice personified as\nhis queen, came on the undulating waves, surrounded by tritons and\nsea-nymphs. The fantastic splendour of this spectacle, together with the\ngrandeur of the surrounding palaces, appeared like the vision of a poet\nsuddenly embodied, and the fanciful images, which it awakened in Emily's\nmind, lingered there long after the procession had passed away. She\nindulged herself in imagining what might be the manners and delights of\na sea-nymph, till she almost wished to throw off the habit of mortality,\nand plunge into the green wave to participate them.\n\n'How delightful,' said she, 'to live amidst the coral bowers and crystal\ncaverns of the ocean, with my sister nymphs, and listen to the sounding\nwaters above, and to the soft shells of the tritons! and then, after\nsun-set, to skim on the surface of the waves round wild rocks and along\nsequestered shores, where, perhaps, some pensive wanderer comes to weep!\nThen would I soothe his sorrows with my sweet music, and offer him from\na shell some of the delicious fruit that hangs round Neptune's palace.'\n\nShe was recalled from her reverie to a mere mortal supper, and could\nnot forbear smiling at the fancies she had been indulging, and at her\nconviction of the serious displeasure, which Madame Montoni would have\nexpressed, could she have been made acquainted with them.\n\nAfter supper, her aunt sat late, but Montoni did not return, and she\nat length retired to rest. If Emily had admired the magnificence of the\nsaloon, she was not less surprised, on observing the half-furnished\nand forlorn appearance of the apartments she passed in the way to her\nchamber, whither she went through long suites of noble rooms, that\nseemed, from their desolate aspect, to have been unoccupied for many\nyears. On the walls of some were the faded remains of tapestry; from\nothers, painted in fresco, the damps had almost withdrawn both colours\nand design. At length she reached her own chamber, spacious, desolate,\nand lofty, like the rest, with high lattices that opened towards the\nAdriatic. It brought gloomy images to her mind, but the view of the\nAdriatic soon gave her others more airy, among which was that of the\nsea-nymph, whose delights she had before amused herself with picturing;\nand, anxious to escape from serious reflections, she now endeavoured\nto throw her fanciful ideas into a train, and concluded the hour with\ncomposing the following lines:\n\n     THE SEA-NYMPH\n\n Down, down a thousand fathom deep,\n Among the sounding seas I go;\n Play round the foot of ev'ry steep\n Whose cliffs above the ocean grow.\n\n There, within their secret cares,\n I hear the mighty rivers roar;\n And guide their streams through Neptune's waves\n To bless the green earth's inmost shore:\n\n And bid the freshen'd waters glide,\n For fern-crown'd nymphs of lake, or brook,\n Through winding woods and pastures wide,\n And many a wild, romantic nook.\n\n For this the nymphs, at fall of eave,\n Oft dance upon the flow'ry banks,\n And sing my name, and garlands weave\n To bear beneath the wave their thanks.\n\n In coral bow'rs I love to lie,\n And hear the surges roll above,\n And through the waters view on high\n The proud ships sail, and gay clouds move.\n\n And oft at midnight's stillest hour,\n When summer seas the vessel lave,\n I love to prove my charmful pow'r\n While floating on the moon-light wave.\n\n And when deep sleep the crew has bound,\n And the sad lover musing leans\n O'er the ship's side, I breathe around\n Such strains as speak no mortal means!\n\n O'er the dim waves his searching eye\n Sees but the vessel's lengthen'd shade;\n Above--the moon and azure sky;\n Entranc'd he hears, and half afraid!\n\n Sometimes, a single note I swell,\n That, softly sweet, at distance dies;\n Then wake the magic of my shell,\n And choral voices round me rise!\n\n The trembling youth, charm'd by my strain,\n Calls up the crew, who, silent, bend\n O'er the high deck, but list in vain;\n My song is hush'd, my wonders end!\n\n Within the mountain's woody bay,\n Where the tall bark at anchor rides,\n At twilight hour, with tritons gay,\n I dance upon the lapsing tides:\n\n And with my sister-nymphs I sport,\n Till the broad sun looks o'er the floods;\n Then, swift we seek our crystal court,\n Deep in the wave, 'mid Neptune's woods.\n\n In cool arcades and glassy halls\n We pass the sultry hours of noon,\n Beyond wherever sun-beam falls,\n Weaving sea-flowers in gay festoon.\n\n The while we chant our ditties sweet\n To some soft shell that warbles near;\n Join'd by the murmuring currents, fleet,\n That glide along our halls so clear.\n\n There, the pale pearl and sapphire blue,\n And ruby red, and em'rald green,\n Dart from the domes a changing hue,\n And sparry columns deck the scene.\n\n When the dark storm scowls o'er the deep,\n And long, long peals of thunder sound,\n On some high cliff my watch I keep\n O'er all the restless seas around:\n\n Till on the ridgy wave afar\n Comes the lone vessel, labouring slow,\n Spreading the white foam in the air,\n With sail and top-mast bending low.\n\n Then, plunge I 'mid the ocean's roar,\n My way by quiv'ring lightnings shewn,\n To guide the bark to peaceful shore,\n And hush the sailor's fearful groan.\n\n And if too late I reach its side\n To save it from the 'whelming surge,\n I call my dolphins o'er the tide,\n To bear the crew where isles emerge.\n\n Their mournful spirits soon I cheer,\n While round the desert coast I go,\n With warbled songs they faintly hear,\n Oft as the stormy gust sinks low.\n\n My music leads to lofty groves,\n That wild upon the sea-bank wave;\n Where sweet fruits bloom, and fresh spring roves,\n And closing boughs the tempest brave.\n\n Then, from the air spirits obey\n My potent voice they love so well,\n And, on the clouds, paint visions gay,\n While strains more sweet at distance swell.\n\n And thus the lonely hours I cheat,\n Soothing the ship-wreck'd sailor's heart,\n Till from the waves the storms retreat,\n And o'er the east the day-beams dart.\n\n Neptune for this oft binds me fast\n To rocks below, with coral chain,\n Till all the tempest's over-past,\n And drowning seamen cry in vain.\n\n Whoe'er ye are that love my lay,\n Come, when red sun-set tints the wave,\n To the still sands, where fairies play;\n There, in cool seas, I love to lave.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\n He is a great observer, and he looks\n Quite through the deeds of men:  he loves no plays,\n     he hears no music;\n Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,\n As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit\n that could be mov'd to smile at any thing.\n Such men as he be never at heart's ease,\n While they behold a greater than themselves.\n     JULIUS CAESAR\n\nMontoni and his companion did not return home, till many hours after the\ndawn had blushed upon the Adriatic. The airy groups, which had danced\nall night along the colonnade of St. Mark, dispersed before the morning,\nlike so many spirits. Montoni had been otherwise engaged; his soul was\nlittle susceptible of light pleasures. He delighted in the energies of\nthe passions; the difficulties and tempests of life, which wreck the\nhappiness of others, roused and strengthened all the powers of his\nmind, and afforded him the highest enjoyments, of which his nature was\ncapable. Without some object of strong interest, life was to him little\nmore than a sleep; and, when pursuits of real interest failed, he\nsubstituted artificial ones, till habit changed their nature, and they\nceased to be unreal. Of this kind was the habit of gaming, which he had\nadopted, first, for the purpose of relieving him from the languor of\ninaction, but had since pursued with the ardour of passion. In this\noccupation he had passed the night with Cavigni and a party of young\nmen, who had more money than rank, and more vice than either. Montoni\ndespised the greater part of these for the inferiority of their talents,\nrather than for their vicious inclinations, and associated with them\nonly to make them the instruments of his purposes. Among these, however,\nwere some of superior abilities, and a few whom Montoni admitted to\nhis intimacy, but even towards these he still preserved a decisive and\nhaughty air, which, while it imposed submission on weak and timid minds,\nroused the fierce hatred of strong ones. He had, of course, many and\nbitter enemies; but the rancour of their hatred proved the degree of his\npower; and, as power was his chief aim, he gloried more in such hatred,\nthan it was possible he could in being esteemed. A feeling so tempered\nas that of esteem, he despised, and would have despised himself also had\nhe thought himself capable of being flattered by it.\n\nAmong the few whom he distinguished, were the Signors Bertolini,\nOrsino, and Verezzi. The first was a man of gay temper, strong passions,\ndissipated, and of unbounded extravagance, but generous, brave, and\nunsuspicious. Orsino was reserved, and haughty; loving power more than\nostentation; of a cruel and suspicious temper; quick to feel an injury,\nand relentless in avenging it; cunning and unsearchable in contrivance,\npatient and indefatigable in the execution of his schemes. He had a\nperfect command of feature and of his passions, of which he had scarcely\nany, but pride, revenge and avarice; and, in the gratification of these,\nfew considerations had power to restrain him, few obstacles to withstand\nthe depth of his stratagems. This man was the chief favourite of\nMontoni. Verezzi was a man of some talent, of fiery imagination, and the\nslave of alternate passions. He was gay, voluptuous, and daring; yet had\nneither perseverance or true courage, and was meanly selfish in all his\naims. Quick to form schemes, and sanguine in his hope of success, he\nwas the first to undertake, and to abandon, not only his own plans,\nbut those adopted from other persons. Proud and impetuous, he revolted\nagainst all subordination; yet those who were acquainted with his\ncharacter, and watched the turn of his passions, could lead him like a\nchild.\n\nSuch were the friends whom Montoni introduced to his family and his\ntable, on the day after his arrival at Venice. There were also of the\nparty a Venetian nobleman, Count Morano, and a Signora Livona, whom\nMontoni had introduced to his wife, as a lady of distinguished merit,\nand who, having called in the morning to welcome her to Venice, had been\nrequested to be of the dinner party.\n\nMadame Montoni received with a very ill grace, the compliments of\nthe Signors. She disliked them, because they were the friends of her\nhusband; hated them, because she believed they had contributed to detain\nhim abroad till so late an hour of the preceding morning; and envied\nthem, since, conscious of her own want of influence, she was convinced,\nthat he preferred their society to her own. The rank of Count Morano\nprocured him that distinction which she refused to the rest of the\ncompany. The haughty sullenness of her countenance and manner, and the\nostentatious extravagance of her dress, for she had not yet adopted\nthe Venetian habit, were strikingly contrasted by the beauty, modesty,\nsweetness and simplicity of Emily, who observed, with more attention\nthan pleasure, the party around her. The beauty and fascinating manners\nof Signora Livona, however, won her involuntary regard; while the\nsweetness of her accents and her air of gentle kindness awakened with\nEmily those pleasing affections, which so long had slumbered.\n\nIn the cool of the evening the party embarked in Montoni's gondola, and\nrowed out upon the sea. The red glow of sun-set still touched the waves,\nand lingered in the west, where the melancholy gleam seemed slowly\nexpiring, while the dark blue of the upper aether began to twinkle with\nstars. Emily sat, given up to pensive and sweet emotions. The smoothness\nof the water, over which she glided, its reflected images--a new heaven\nand trembling stars below the waves, with shadowy outlines of towers and\nporticos, conspired with the stillness of the hour, interrupted only by\nthe passing wave, or the notes of distant music, to raise those emotions\nto enthusiasm. As she listened to the measured sound of the oars, and to\nthe remote warblings that came in the breeze, her softened mind returned\nto the memory of St. Aubert and to Valancourt, and tears stole to her\neyes. The rays of the moon, strengthening as the shadows deepened,\nsoon after threw a silvery gleam upon her countenance, which was partly\nshaded by a thin black veil, and touched it with inimitable softness.\nHers was the CONTOUR of a Madona, with the sensibility of a Magdalen;\nand the pensive uplifted eye, with the tear that glittered on her cheek,\nconfirmed the expression of the character.\n\nThe last strain of distant music now died in air, for the gondola was\nfar upon the waves, and the party determined to have music of their own.\nThe Count Morano, who sat next to Emily, and who had been observing her\nfor some time in silence, snatched up a lute, and struck the chords\nwith the finger of harmony herself, while his voice, a fine tenor,\naccompanied them in a rondeau full of tender sadness. To him, indeed,\nmight have been applied that beautiful exhortation of an English poet,\nhad it then existed:\n\n     Strike up, my master,\n But touch the strings with a religious softness!\n Teach sounds to languish through the night's dull ear\n Till Melancholy starts from off her couch,\n And Carelessness grows concert to attention!\n\nWith such powers of expression the Count sung the following\n\n     RONDEAU\n\n Soft as yon silver ray, that sleeps\n Upon the ocean's trembling tide;\n Soft as the air, that lightly sweeps\n Yon sad, that swells in stately pride:\n\n Soft as the surge's stealing note,\n That dies along the distant shores,\n Or warbled strain, that sinks remote--\n So soft the sigh my bosom pours!\n\n True as the wave to Cynthia's ray,\n True as the vessel to the breeze,\n True as the soul to music's sway,\n Or music to Venetian seas:\n\n Soft as yon silver beams, that sleep\n Upon the ocean's trembling breast;\n So soft, so true, fond Love shall weep,\n So soft, so true, with THEE shall rest.\n\nThe cadence with which he returned from the last stanza to a repetition\nof the first; the fine modulation in which his voice stole upon the\nfirst line, and the pathetic energy with which it pronounced the last,\nwere such as only exquisite taste could give. When he had concluded,\nhe gave the lute with a sigh to Emily, who, to avoid any appearance of\naffectation, immediately began to play. She sung a melancholy little\nair, one of the popular songs of her native province, with a simplicity\nand pathos that made it enchanting. But its well-known melody brought\nso forcibly to her fancy the scenes and the persons, among which she had\noften heard it, that her spirits were overcome, her voice trembled and\nceased--and the strings of the lute were struck with a disordered hand;\ntill, ashamed of the emotion she had betrayed, she suddenly passed on\nto a song so gay and airy, that the steps of the dance seemed almost\nto echo to the notes. BRAVISSIMO! burst instantly from the lips of her\ndelighted auditors, and she was compelled to repeat the air. Among\nthe compliments that followed, those of the Count were not the least\naudible, and they had not concluded, when Emily gave the instrument to\nSignora Livona, whose voice accompanied it with true Italian taste.\n\nAfterwards, the Count, Emily, Cavigni, and the Signora, sung\ncanzonettes, accompanied by a couple of lutes and a few other\ninstruments. Sometimes the instruments suddenly ceased, and the voices\ndropped from the full swell of harmony into a low chant; then, after a\ndeep pause, they rose by degrees, the instruments one by one striking\nup, till the loud and full chorus soared again to heaven!\n\nMeanwhile, Montoni, who was weary of this harmony, was considering how\nhe might disengage himself from his party, or withdraw with such of it\nas would be willing to play, to a Casino. In a pause of the music, he\nproposed returning to shore, a proposal which Orsino eagerly seconded,\nbut which the Count and the other gentlemen as warmly opposed.\n\nMontoni still meditated how he might excuse himself from longer\nattendance upon the Count, for to him only he thought excuse necessary,\nand how he might get to land, till the gondolieri of an empty boat,\nreturning to Venice, hailed his people. Without troubling himself longer\nabout an excuse, he seized this opportunity of going thither, and,\ncommitting the ladies to the care of his friends, departed with Orsino,\nwhile Emily, for the first time, saw him go with regret; for she\nconsidered his presence a protection, though she knew not what she\nshould fear. He landed at St. Mark's, and, hurrying to a Casino, was\nsoon lost amidst a crowd of gamesters.\n\nMeanwhile, the Count having secretly dispatched a servant in Montoni's\nboat, for his own gondola and musicians, Emily heard, without knowing\nhis project, the gay song of gondolieri approaching, as they sat on the\nstern of the boat, and saw the tremulous gleam of the moon-light\nwave, which their oars disturbed. Presently she heard the sound of\ninstruments, and then a full symphony swelled on the air, and, the boats\nmeeting, the gondolieri hailed each other. The count then explaining\nhimself, the party removed into his gondola, which was embellished with\nall that taste could bestow.\n\nWhile they partook of a collation of fruits and ice, the whole band,\nfollowing at a distance in the other boat, played the most sweet and\nenchanting strains, and the Count, who had again seated himself by\nEmily, paid her unremitted attention, and sometimes, in a low\nbut impassioned voice, uttered compliments which she could not\nmisunderstand. To avoid them she conversed with Signora Livona, and her\nmanner to the Count assumed a mild reserve, which, though dignified, was\ntoo gentle to repress his assiduities: he could see, hear, speak to no\nperson, but Emily while Cavigni observed him now and then, with a look\nof displeasure, and Emily, with one of uneasiness. She now wished for\nnothing so much as to return to Venice, but it was near mid-night before\nthe gondolas approached St. Mark's Place, where the voice of gaiety\nand song was loud. The busy hum of mingling sounds was heard at a\nconsiderable distance on the water, and, had not a bright moon-light\ndiscovered the city, with its terraces and towers, a stranger would\nalmost have credited the fabled wonders of Neptune's court, and\nbelieved, that the tumult arose from beneath the waves.\n\nThey landed at St. Mark's, where the gaiety of the colonnades and the\nbeauty of the night, made Madame Montoni willingly submit to the Count's\nsolicitations to join the promenade, and afterwards to take a supper\nwith the rest of the party, at his Casino. If any thing could have\ndissipated Emily's uneasiness, it would have been the grandeur, gaiety,\nand novelty of the surrounding scene, adorned with Palladio's palaces,\nand busy with parties of masqueraders.\n\nAt length they withdrew to the Casino, which was fitted up with infinite\ntaste, and where a splendid banquet was prepared; but here Emily's\nreserve made the Count perceive, that it was necessary for his interest\nto win the favour of Madame Montoni, which, from the condescension she\nhad already shewn to him, appeared to be an achievement of no great\ndifficulty. He transferred, therefore, part of his attention from Emily\nto her aunt, who felt too much flattered by the distinction even to\ndisguise her emotion; and before the party broke up, he had entirely\nengaged the esteem of Madame Montoni. Whenever he addressed her, her\nungracious countenance relaxed into smiles, and to whatever he proposed\nshe assented. He invited her, with the rest of the party, to take\ncoffee, in his box at the opera, on the following evening, and Emily\nheard the invitation accepted, with strong anxiety, concerning the means\nof excusing herself from attending Madame Montoni thither.\n\nIt was very late before their gondola was ordered, and Emily's surprise\nwas extreme, when, on quitting the Casino, she beheld the broad sun\nrising out of the Adriatic, while St. Mark's Place was yet crowded with\ncompany. Sleep had long weighed heavily on her eyes, but now the fresh\nsea-breeze revived her, and she would have quitted the scene with\nregret, had not the Count been present, performing the duty, which he\nhad imposed upon himself, of escorting them home. There they heard that\nMontoni was not yet returned; and his wife, retiring in displeasure\nto her apartment, at length released Emily from the fatigue of further\nattendance.\n\nMontoni came home late in the morning, in a very ill humour, having lost\nconsiderably at play, and, before he withdrew to rest, had a private\nconference with Cavigni, whose manner, on the following day, seemed to\ntell, that the subject of it had not been pleasing to him.\n\nIn the evening, Madame Montoni, who, during the day, had observed a\nsullen silence towards her husband, received visits from some Venetian\nladies, with whose sweet manners Emily was particularly charmed. They\nhad an air of ease and kindness towards the strangers, as if they had\nbeen their familiar friends for years; and their conversation was by\nturns tender, sentimental and gay. Madame, though she had no taste\nfor such conversation, and whose coarseness and selfishness sometimes\nexhibited a ludicrous contrast to their excessive refinement, could not\nremain wholly insensible to the captivations of their manner.\n\nIn a pause of conversation, a lady who was called Signora Herminia took\nup a lute, and began to play and sing, with as much easy gaiety, as if\nshe had been alone. Her voice was uncommonly rich in tone, and various\nin expression; yet she appeared to be entirely unconscious of its\npowers, and meant nothing less than to display them. She sung from the\ngaiety of her heart, as she sat with her veil half thrown back, holding\ngracefully the lute, under the spreading foliage and flowers of some\nplants, that rose from baskets, and interlaced one of the lattices of\nthe saloon. Emily, retiring a little from the company, sketched\nher figure, with the miniature scenery around her, and drew a very\ninteresting picture, which, though it would not, perhaps, have borne\ncriticism, had spirit and taste enough to awaken both the fancy and\nthe heart. When she had finished it, she presented it to the beautiful\noriginal, who was delighted with the offering, as well as the sentiment\nit conveyed, and assured Emily, with a smile of captivating sweetness,\nthat she should preserve it as a pledge of her friendship.\n\nIn the evening Cavigni joined the ladies, but Montoni had other\nengagements; and they embarked in the gondola for St. Mark's, where the\nsame gay company seemed to flutter as on the preceding night. The cool\nbreeze, the glassy sea, the gentle sound of its waves, and the sweeter\nmurmur of distant music; the lofty porticos and arcades, and the happy\ngroups that sauntered beneath them; these, with every feature and\ncircumstance of the scene, united to charm Emily, no longer teased by\nthe officious attentions of Count Morano. But, as she looked upon the\nmoon-light sea, undulating along the walls of St. Mark, and, lingering\nfor a moment over those walls, caught the sweet and melancholy song of\nsome gondolier as he sat in his boat below, waiting for his master, her\nsoftened mind returned to the memory of her home, of her friends, and of\nall that was dear in her native country.\n\nAfter walking some time, they sat down at the door of a Casino, and,\nwhile Cavigni was accommodating them with coffee and ice, were joined\nby Count Morano. He sought Emily with a look of impatient delight, who,\nremembering all the attention he had shewn her on the preceding evening,\nwas compelled, as before, to shrink from his assiduities into a timid\nreserve, except when she conversed with Signora Herminia and the other\nladies of her party.\n\nIt was near midnight before they withdrew to the opera, where Emily\nwas not so charmed but that, when she remembered the scene she had just\nquitted, she felt how infinitely inferior all the splendour of art is\nto the sublimity of nature. Her heart was not now affected, tears\nof admiration did not start to her eyes, as when she viewed the vast\nexpanse of ocean, the grandeur of the heavens, and listened to the\nrolling waters, and to the faint music that, at intervals, mingled\nwith their roar. Remembering these, the scene before her faded into\ninsignificance.\n\nOf the evening, which passed on without any particular incident, she\nwished the conclusion, that she might escape from the attentions of the\nCount; and, as opposite qualities frequently attract each other in\nour thoughts, thus Emily, when she looked on Count Morano, remembered\nValancourt, and a sigh sometimes followed the recollection.\n\nSeveral weeks passed in the course of customary visits, during which\nnothing remarkable occurred. Emily was amused by the manners and scenes\nthat surrounded her, so different from those of France, but where Count\nMorano, too frequently for her comfort, contrived to introduce himself.\nHis manner, figure and accomplishments, which were generally admired,\nEmily would, perhaps, have admired also, had her heart been disengaged\nfrom Valancourt, and had the Count forborne to persecute her with\nofficious attentions, during which she observed some traits in his\ncharacter, that prejudiced her against whatever might otherwise be good\nin it.\n\nSoon after his arrival at Venice, Montoni received a packet from M.\nQuesnel, in which the latter mentioned the death of his wife's uncle,\nat his villa on the Brenta; and that, in consequence of this event, he\nshould hasten to take possession of that estate and of other effects\nbequeathed to him. This uncle was the brother of Madame Quesnel's late\nmother; Montoni was related to her by the father's side, and though\nhe could have had neither claim nor expectation concerning these\npossessions, he could scarcely conceal the envy which M. Quesnel's\nletter excited.\n\nEmily had observed with concern, that, since they left France, Montoni\nhad not even affected kindness towards her aunt, and that, after\ntreating her, at first, with neglect, he now met her with uniform\nill-humour and reserve. She had never supposed, that her aunt's foibles\ncould have escaped the discernment of Montoni, or that her mind or\nfigure were of a kind to deserve his attention. Her surprise, therefore,\nat this match, had been extreme; but since he had made the choice, she\ndid not suspect that he would so openly have discovered his contempt of\nit. But Montoni, who had been allured by the seeming wealth of Madame\nCheron, was now severely disappointed by her comparative poverty, and\nhighly exasperated by the deceit she had employed to conceal it, till\nconcealment was no longer necessary. He had been deceived in an affair,\nwherein he meant to be the deceiver; out-witted by the superior\ncunning of a woman, whose understanding he despised, and to whom he had\nsacrificed his pride and his liberty, without saving himself from the\nruin, which had impended over his head. Madame Montoni had contrived\nto have the greatest part of what she really did possess, settled upon\nherself: what remained, though it was totally inadequate both to her\nhusband's expectations, and to his necessities, he had converted into\nmoney, and brought with him to Venice, that he might a little longer\ndelude society, and make a last effort to regain the fortunes he had\nlost.\n\nThe hints which had been thrown out to Valancourt, concerning Montoni's\ncharacter and condition, were too true; but it was now left to time and\noccasion, to unfold the circumstances, both of what had, and of what had\nnot been hinted, and to time and occasion we commit them.\n\nMadame Montoni was not of a nature to bear injuries with meekness, or to\nresent them with dignity: her exasperated pride displayed itself in all\nthe violence and acrimony of a little, or at least of an ill-regulated\nmind. She would not acknowledge, even to herself, that she had in any\ndegree provoked contempt by her duplicity, but weakly persisted in\nbelieving, that she alone was to be pitied, and Montoni alone to be\ncensured; for, as her mind had naturally little perception of moral\nobligation, she seldom understood its force but when it happened to be\nviolated towards herself: her vanity had already been severely shocked\nby a discovery of Montoni's contempt; it remained to be farther reproved\nby a discovery of his circumstances. His mansion at Venice, though its\nfurniture discovered a part of the truth to unprejudiced persons, told\nnothing to those who were blinded by a resolution to believe whatever\nthey wished. Madame Montoni still thought herself little less than\na princess, possessing a palace at Venice, and a castle among the\nApennines. To the castle di Udolpho, indeed, Montoni sometimes talked of\ngoing for a few weeks to examine into its condition, and to receive some\nrents; for it appeared that he had not been there for two years, and\nthat, during this period, it had been inhabited only by an old servant,\nwhom he called his steward.\n\nEmily listened to the mention of this journey with pleasure, for she\nnot only expected from it new ideas, but a release from the persevering\nassiduities of Count Morano. In the country, too, she would have leisure\nto think of Valancourt, and to indulge the melancholy, which his image,\nand a recollection of the scenes of La Vallee, always blessed with the\nmemory of her parents, awakened. The ideal scenes were dearer, and more\nsoothing to her heart, than all the splendour of gay assemblies; they\nwere a kind of talisman that expelled the poison of temporary evils,\nand supported her hopes of happy days: they appeared like a beautiful\nlandscape, lighted up by a gleam of sun-shine, and seen through a\nperspective of dark and rugged rocks.\n\nBut Count Morano did not long confine himself to silent assiduities;\nhe declared his passion to Emily, and made proposals to Montoni, who\nencouraged, though Emily rejected, him: with Montoni for his friend,\nand an abundance of vanity to delude him, he did not despair of success.\nEmily was astonished and highly disgusted at his perseverance, after she\nhad explained her sentiments with a frankness that would not allow him\nto misunderstand them.\n\nHe now passed the greater part of his time at Montoni's, dining there\nalmost daily, and attending Madame and Emily wherever they went; and all\nthis, notwithstanding the uniform reserve of Emily, whose aunt seemed\nas anxious as Montoni to promote this marriage; and would never dispense\nwith her attendance at any assembly where the Count proposed to be\npresent.\n\nMontoni now said nothing of his intended journey, of which Emily waited\nimpatiently to hear; and he was seldom at home but when the Count, or\nSignor Orsino, was there, for between himself and Cavigni a coolness\nseemed to subsist, though the latter remained in his house. With Orsino,\nMontoni was frequently closeted for hours together, and, whatever\nmight be the business, upon which they consulted, it appeared to be of\nconsequence, since Montoni often sacrificed to it his favourite passion\nfor play, and remained at home the whole night. There was somewhat of\nprivacy, too, in the manner of Orsino's visits, which had never before\noccurred, and which excited not only surprise, but some degree of alarm\nin Emily's mind, who had unwillingly discovered much of his character\nwhen he had most endeavoured to disguise it. After these visits, Montoni\nwas often more thoughtful than usual; sometimes the deep workings of his\nmind entirely abstracted him from surrounding objects, and threw a gloom\nover his visage that rendered it terrible; at others, his eyes seemed\nalmost to flash fire, and all the energies of his soul appeared to\nbe roused for some great enterprise. Emily observed these written\ncharacters of his thoughts with deep interest, and not without some\ndegree of awe, when she considered that she was entirely in his power;\nbut forbore even to hint her fears, or her observations, to Madame\nMontoni, who discerned nothing in her husband, at these times, but his\nusual sternness.\n\nA second letter from M. Quesnel announced the arrival of himself and\nhis lady at the Villa Miarenti; stated several circumstances of his\ngood fortune, respecting the affair that had brought him into Italy; and\nconcluded with an earnest request to see Montoni, his wife and niece, at\nhis new estate.\n\nEmily received, about the same period, a much more interesting letter,\nand which soothed for a while every anxiety of her heart. Valancourt,\nhoping she might be still at Venice, had trusted a letter to the\nordinary post, that told her of his health, and of his unceasing and\nanxious affection. He had lingered at Tholouse for some time after her\ndeparture, that he might indulge the melancholy pleasure of wandering\nthrough the scenes where he had been accustomed to behold her, and had\nthence gone to his brother's chateau, which was in the neighbourhood of\nLa Vallee. Having mentioned this, he added, 'If the duty of attending\nmy regiment did not require my departure, I know not when I should have\nresolution enough to quit the neighbourhood of a place which is endeared\nby the remembrance of you. The vicinity to La Vallee has alone detained\nme thus long at Estuviere: I frequently ride thither early in the\nmorning, that I may wander, at leisure, through the day, among scenes,\nwhich were once your home, where I have been accustomed to see you, and\nto hear you converse. I have renewed my acquaintance with the good old\nTheresa, who rejoiced to see me, that she might talk of you: I need\nnot say how much this circumstance attached me to her, or how eagerly\nI listened to her upon her favourite subject. You will guess the motive\nthat first induced me to make myself known to Theresa: it was, indeed,\nno other than that of gaining admittance into the chateau and gardens,\nwhich my Emily had so lately inhabited: here, then, I wander, and meet\nyour image under every shade: but chiefly I love to sit beneath the\nspreading branches of your favourite plane, where once, Emily, we sat\ntogether; where I first ventured to tell you, that I loved. O Emily!\nthe remembrance of those moments overcomes me--I sit lost in reverie--I\nendeavour to see you dimly through my tears, in all the heaven of\npeace and innocence, such as you then appeared to me; to hear again the\naccents of that voice, which then thrilled my heart with tenderness and\nhope. I lean on the wall of the terrace, where we together watched the\nrapid current of the Garonne below, while I described the wild scenery\nabout its source, but thought only of you. O Emily! are these moments\npassed for ever--will they never more return?'\n\nIn another part of his letter he wrote thus. 'You see my letter is dated\non many different days, and, if you look back to the first, you will\nperceive, that I began to write soon after your departure from France.\nTo write was, indeed, the only employment that withdrew me from my own\nmelancholy, and rendered your absence supportable, or rather, it seemed\nto destroy absence; for, when I was conversing with you on paper,\nand telling you every sentiment and affection of my heart, you almost\nappeared to be present. This employment has been from time to time my\nchief consolation, and I have deferred sending off my packet, merely\nfor the comfort of prolonging it, though it was certain, that what I\nhad written, was written to no purpose till you received it. Whenever my\nmind has been more than usually depressed I have come to pour forth its\nsorrows to you, and have always found consolation; and, when any little\noccurrence has interested my heart, and given a gleam of joy to my\nspirits, I have hastened to communicate it to you, and have received\nreflected satisfaction. Thus, my letter is a kind of picture of my life\nand of my thoughts for the last month, and thus, though it has been\ndeeply interesting to me, while I wrote it, and I dare hope will, for\nthe same reason, be not indifferent to you, yet to other readers it\nwould seem to abound only in frivolities. Thus it is always, when we\nattempt to describe the finer movements of the heart, for they are too\nfine to be discerned, they can only be experienced, and are therefore\npassed over by the indifferent observer, while the interested one feels,\nthat all description is imperfect and unnecessary, except as it may\nprove the sincerity of the writer, and sooth his own sufferings. You\nwill pardon all this egotism--for I am a lover.'\n\n'I have just heard of a circumstance, which entirely destroys all my\nfairy paradise of ideal delight, and which will reconcile me to the\nnecessity of returning to my regiment, for I must no longer wander\nbeneath the beloved shades, where I have been accustomed to meet you\nin thought.--La Vallee is let! I have reason to believe this is without\nyour knowledge, from what Theresa told me this morning, and, therefore,\nI mention the circumstance. She shed tears, while she related, that she\nwas going to leave the service of her dear mistress, and the chateau\nwhere she had lived so many happy years; and all this, added she,\nwithout even a letter from Mademoiselle to soften the news; but it is\nall Mons. Quesnel's doings, and I dare say she does not even know what\nis going forward.'\n\n'Theresa added, That she had received a letter from him, informing\nher the chateau was let, and that, as her services would no longer be\nrequired, she must quit the place, on that day week, when the new tenant\nwould arrive.'\n\n'Theresa had been surprised by a visit from M. Quesnel, some time before\nthe receipt of this letter, who was accompanied by a stranger that\nviewed the premises with much curiosity.'\n\nTowards the conclusion of his letter, which is dated a week after this\nsentence, Valancourt adds, 'I have received a summons from my regiment,\nand I join it without regret, since I am shut out from the scenes that\nare so interesting to my heart. I rode to La Vallee this morning, and\nheard that the new tenant was arrived, and that Theresa was gone. I\nshould not treat the subject thus familiarly if I did not believe you\nto be uninformed of this disposal of your house; for your satisfaction I\nhave endeavoured to learn something of the character and fortune of your\ntenant, but without success. He is a gentleman, they say, and this is\nall I can hear. The place, as I wandered round the boundaries, appeared\nmore melancholy to my imagination, than I had ever seen it. I wished\nearnestly to have got admittance, that I might have taken another leave\nof your favourite plane-tree, and thought of you once more beneath\nits shade: but I forbore to tempt the curiosity of strangers: the\nfishing-house in the woods, however, was still open to me; thither I\nwent, and passed an hour, which I cannot even look back upon without\nemotion. O Emily! surely we are not separated for ever--surely we shall\nlive for each other!'\n\nThis letter brought many tears to Emily's eyes; tears of tenderness and\nsatisfaction on learning that Valancourt was well, and that time and\nabsence had in no degree effaced her image from his heart. There were\npassages in this letter which particularly affected her, such as those\ndescribing his visits to La Vallee, and the sentiments of delicate\naffection that its scenes had awakened. It was a considerable time\nbefore her mind was sufficiently abstracted from Valancourt to feel\nthe force of his intelligence concerning La Vallee. That Mons. Quesnel\nshould let it, without even consulting her on the measure, both\nsurprised and shocked her, particularly as it proved the absolute\nauthority he thought himself entitled to exercise in her affairs. It is\ntrue, he had proposed, before she left France, that the chateau should\nbe let, during her absence, and to the oeconomical prudence of this she\nhad nothing to object; but the committing what had been her father's\nvilla to the power and caprice of strangers, and the depriving herself\nof a sure home, should any unhappy circumstances make her look back to\nher home as an asylum, were considerations that made her, even then,\nstrongly oppose the measure. Her father, too, in his last hour, had\nreceived from her a solemn promise never to dispose of La Vallee; and\nthis she considered as in some degree violated if she suffered the place\nto be let. But it was now evident with how little respect M. Quesnel\nhad regarded these objections, and how insignificant he considered every\nobstacle to pecuniary advantage. It appeared, also, that he had not even\ncondescended to inform Montoni of the step he had taken, since no motive\nwas evident for Montoni's concealing the circumstance from her, if it\nhad been made known to him: this both displeased and surprised her; but\nthe chief subjects of her uneasiness were--the temporary disposal of\nLa Vallee, and the dismission of her father's old and faithful\nservant.--'Poor Theresa,' said Emily, 'thou hadst not saved much in thy\nservitude, for thou wast always tender towards the poor, and believd'st\nthou shouldst die in the family, where thy best years had been spent.\nPoor Theresa!--now thou art turned out in thy old age to seek thy\nbread!'\n\nEmily wept bitterly as these thoughts passed over her mind, and she\ndetermined to consider what could be done for Theresa, and to talk very\nexplicitly to M. Quesnel on the subject; but she much feared that his\ncold heart could feel only for itself. She determined also to enquire\nwhether he had made any mention of her affairs, in his letter to\nMontoni, who soon gave her the opportunity she sought, by desiring\nthat she would attend him in his study. She had little doubt, that the\ninterview was intended for the purpose of communicating to her a part\nof M. Quesnel's letter concerning the transactions at La Vallee, and she\nobeyed him immediately. Montoni was alone.\n\n'I have just been writing to Mons. Quesnel,' said he when Emily\nappeared, 'in reply to the letter I received from him a few days ago,\nand I wished to talk to you upon a subject that occupied part of it.'\n\n'I also wished to speak with you on this topic, sir,' said Emily.\n\n'It is a subject of some interest to you, undoubtedly,' rejoined\nMontoni, 'and I think you must see it in the light that I do; indeed\nit will not bear any other. I trust you will agree with me, that any\nobjection founded on sentiment, as they call it, ought to yield to\ncircumstances of solid advantage.'\n\n'Granting this, sir,' replied Emily, modestly, 'those of humanity ought\nsurely to be attended to. But I fear it is now too late to deliberate\nupon this plan, and I must regret, that it is no longer in my power to\nreject it.'\n\n'It is too late,' said Montoni; 'but since it is so, I am pleased to\nobserve, that you submit to reason and necessity without indulging\nuseless complaint. I applaud this conduct exceedingly, the more,\nperhaps, since it discovers a strength of mind seldom observable in your\nsex. When you are older you will look back with gratitude to the friends\nwho assisted in rescuing you from the romantic illusions of sentiment,\nand will perceive, that they are only the snares of childhood, and\nshould be vanquished the moment you escape from the nursery. I have not\nclosed my letter, and you may add a few lines to inform your uncle of\nyour acquiescence. You will soon see him, for it is my intention to take\nyou, with Madame Montoni, in a few days to Miarenti, and you can then\ntalk over the affair.'\n\nEmily wrote on the opposite page of the paper as follows:\n\n'It is now useless, sir, for me to remonstrate upon the circumstances\nof which Signor Montoni informs me that he has written. I could\nhave wished, at least, that the affair had been concluded with\nless precipitation, that I might have taught myself to subdue some\nprejudices, as the Signor calls them, which still linger in my heart. As\nit is, I submit. In point of prudence nothing certainly can be objected;\nbut, though I submit, I have yet much to say on some other points of the\nsubject, when I shall have the honour of seeing you. In the meantime I\nentreat you will take care of Theresa, for the sake of,     Sir,\n     Your affectionate niece,\n     EMILY ST. AUBERT.'\n\nMontoni smiled satirically at what Emily had written, but did not object\nto it, and she withdrew to her own apartment, where she sat down to\nbegin a letter to Valancourt, in which she related the particulars\nof her journey, and her arrival at Venice, described some of the most\nstriking scenes in the passage over the Alps; her emotions on her first\nview of Italy; the manners and characters of the people around her, and\nsome few circumstances of Montoni's conduct. But she avoided even naming\nCount Morano, much more the declaration he had made, since she well knew\nhow tremblingly alive to fear is real love, how jealously watchful of\nevery circumstance that may affect its interest; and she scrupulously\navoided to give Valancourt even the slightest reason for believing he\nhad a rival.\n\nOn the following day Count Morano dined again at Montoni's. He was in\nan uncommon flow of spirits, and Emily thought there was somewhat of\nexultation in his manner of addressing her, which she had never observed\nbefore. She endeavoured to repress this by more than her usual reserve,\nbut the cold civility of her air now seemed rather to encourage than to\ndepress him. He appeared watchful of an opportunity of speaking with her\nalone, and more than once solicited this; but Emily always replied, that\nshe could hear nothing from him which he would be unwilling to repeat\nbefore the whole company.\n\nIn the evening, Madame Montoni and her party went out upon the sea, and\nas the Count led Emily to his zendaletto, he carried her hand to his\nlips, and thanked her for the condescension she had shown him. Emily,\nin extreme surprise and displeasure, hastily withdrew her hand, and\nconcluded that he had spoken ironically; but, on reaching the steps\nof the terrace, and observing by the livery, that it was the Count's\nzendaletto which waited below, while the rest of the party, having\narranged themselves in the gondolas, were moving on, she determined\nnot to permit a separate conversation, and, wishing him a good evening,\nreturned to the portico. The Count followed to expostulate and entreat,\nand Montoni, who then came out, rendered solicitation unnecessary, for,\nwithout condescending to speak, he took her hand, and led her to the\nzendaletto. Emily was not silent; she entreated Montoni, in a low voice,\nto consider the impropriety of these circumstances, and that he would\nspare her the mortification of submitting to them; he, however, was\ninflexible.\n\n'This caprice is intolerable,' said he, 'and shall not be indulged:\nthere is no impropriety in the case.'\n\nAt this moment, Emily's dislike of Count Morano rose to abhorrence. That\nhe should, with undaunted assurance, thus pursue her, notwithstanding\nall she had expressed on the subject of his addresses, and think, as it\nwas evident he did, that her opinion of him was of no consequence, so\nlong as his pretensions were sanctioned by Montoni, added indignation to\nthe disgust which she had felt towards him. She was somewhat relieved by\nobserving that Montoni was to be of the party, who seated himself on one\nside of her, while Morano placed himself on the other. There was a\npause for some moments as the gondolieri prepared their oars, and Emily\ntrembled from apprehension of the discourse that might follow this\nsilence. At length she collected courage to break it herself, in the\nhope of preventing fine speeches from Morano, and reproof from Montoni.\nTo some trivial remark which she made, the latter returned a short\nand disobliging reply; but Morano immediately followed with a general\nobservation, which he contrived to end with a particular compliment,\nand, though Emily passed it without even the notice of a smile, he was\nnot discouraged.\n\n'I have been impatient,' said he, addressing Emily, 'to express my\ngratitude; to thank you for your goodness; but I must also thank Signor\nMontoni, who has allowed me this opportunity of doing so.'\n\nEmily regarded the Count with a look of mingled astonishment and\ndispleasure.\n\n'Why,' continued he, 'should you wish to diminish the delight of this\nmoment by that air of cruel reserve?--Why seek to throw me again into\nthe perplexities of doubt, by teaching your eyes to contradict the\nkindness of your late declaration? You cannot doubt the sincerity,\nthe ardour of my passion; it is therefore unnecessary, charming\nEmily! surely unnecessary, any longer to attempt a disguise of your\nsentiments.'\n\n'If I ever had disguised them, sir,' said Emily, with recollected\nspirit, 'it would certainly be unnecessary any longer to do so. I had\nhoped, sir, that you would have spared me any farther necessity of\nalluding to them; but, since you do not grant this, hear me declare, and\nfor the last time, that your perseverance has deprived you even of the\nesteem, which I was inclined to believe you merited.'\n\n'Astonishing!' exclaimed Montoni: 'this is beyond even my expectation,\nthough I have hitherto done justice to the caprice of the sex! But\nyou will observe, Mademoiselle Emily, that I am no lover, though Count\nMorano is, and that I will not be made the amusement of your capricious\nmoments. Here is the offer of an alliance, which would do honour to any\nfamily; yours, you will recollect, is not noble; you long resisted my\nremonstrances, but my honour is now engaged, and it shall not be trifled\nwith.--You shall adhere to the declaration, which you have made me an\nagent to convey to the Count.'\n\n'I must certainly mistake you, sir,' said Emily; 'my answers on the\nsubject have been uniform; it is unworthy of you to accuse me of\ncaprice. If you have condescended to be my agent, it is an honour I\ndid not solicit. I myself have constantly assured Count Morano, and you\nalso, sir, that I never can accept the honour he offers me, and I now\nrepeat the declaration.'\n\nThe Count looked with an air of surprise and enquiry at Montoni, whose\ncountenance also was marked with surprise, but it was surprise mingled\nwith indignation.\n\n'Here is confidence, as well as caprice!' said the latter. 'Will you\ndeny your own words, Madam?'\n\n'Such a question is unworthy of an answer, sir;' said Emily blushing;\n'you will recollect yourself, and be sorry that you have asked it.'\n\n'Speak to the point,' rejoined Montoni, in a voice of increasing\nvehemence. 'Will you deny your own words; will you deny, that you\nacknowledged, only a few hours ago, that it was too late to recede from\nyour engagements, and that you accepted the Count's hand?'\n\n'I will deny all this, for no words of mine ever imported it.'\n\n'Astonishing! Will you deny what you wrote to Mons. Quesnel, your uncle?\nif you do, your own hand will bear testimony against you. What have you\nnow to say?' continued Montoni, observing the silence and confusion of\nEmily.\n\n'I now perceive, sir, that you are under a very great error, and that I\nhave been equally mistaken.'\n\n'No more duplicity, I entreat; be open and candid, if it be possible.'\n\n'I have always been so, sir; and can claim no merit in such conduct, for\nI have had nothing to conceal.'\n\n'How is this, Signor?' cried Morano, with trembling emotion.\n\n'Suspend your judgment, Count,' replied Montoni, 'the wiles of a female\nheart are unsearchable. Now, Madame, your EXPLANATION.'\n\n'Excuse me, sir, if I withhold my explanation till you appear willing\nto give me your confidence; assertion as present can only subject me to\ninsult.'\n\n'Your explanation, I entreat you!' said Morano.\n\n'Well, well,' rejoined Montoni, 'I give you my confidence; let us hear\nthis explanation.'\n\n'Let me lead to it then, by asking a question.'\n\n'As many as you please,' said Montoni, contemptuously.\n\n'What, then, was the subject of your letter to Mons. Quesnel?'\n\n'The same that was the subject of your note to him, certainly. You did\nwell to stipulate for my confidence before you demanded that question.'\n\n'I must beg you will be more explicit, sir; what was that subject?'\n\n'What could it be, but the noble offer of Count Morano,' said Montoni.\n\n'Then, sir, we entirely misunderstood each other,' replied Emily.\n\n'We entirely misunderstood each other too, I suppose,' rejoined Montoni,\n'in the conversation which preceded the writing of that note? I must do\nyou the justice to own, that you are very ingenious at this same art of\nmisunderstanding.'\n\nEmily tried to restrain the tears that came to her eyes, and to answer\nwith becoming firmness. 'Allow me, sir, to explain myself fully, or to\nbe wholly silent.'\n\n'The explanation may now be dispensed with; it is anticipated. If Count\nMorano still thinks one necessary, I will give him an honest one--You\nhave changed your intention since our last conversation; and, if he\ncan have patience and humility enough to wait till to-morrow, he will\nprobably find it changed again: but as I have neither the patience or\nthe humility, which you expect from a lover, I warn you of the effect of\nmy displeasure!'\n\n'Montoni, you are too precipitate,' said the Count, who had listened\nto this conversation in extreme agitation and impatience;--'Signora, I\nentreat your own explanation of this affair!'\n\n'Signor Montoni has said justly,' replied Emily, 'that all explanation\nmay now be dispensed with; after what has passed I cannot suffer myself\nto give one. It is sufficient for me, and for you, sir, that I repeat my\nlate declaration; let me hope this is the last time it will be necessary\nfor me to repeat it--I never can accept the honour of your alliance.'\n\n'Charming Emily!' exclaimed the Count in an impassioned tone, 'let\nnot resentment make you unjust; let me not suffer for the offence of\nMontoni!--Revoke--'\n\n'Offence!' interrupted Montoni--'Count, this language is ridiculous,\nthis submission is childish!--speak as becomes a man, not as the slave\nof a pretty tyrant.'\n\n'You distract me, Signor; suffer me to plead my own cause; you have\nalready proved insufficient to it.'\n\n'All conversation on this subject, sir,' said Emily, 'is worse than\nuseless, since it can bring only pain to each of us: if you would oblige\nme, pursue it no farther.'\n\n'It is impossible, Madam, that I can thus easily resign the object of\na passion, which is the delight and torment of my life.--I must still\nlove--still pursue you with unremitting ardour;--when you shall be\nconvinced of the strength and constancy of my passion, your heart must\nsoften into pity and repentance.'\n\n'Is this generous, sir? is this manly? can it either deserve or obtain\nthe esteem you solicit, thus to continue a persecution from which I have\nno present means of escaping?'\n\nA gleam of moonlight that fell upon Morano's countenance, revealed the\nstrong emotions of his soul; and, glancing on Montoni discovered the\ndark resentment, which contrasted his features.\n\n'By heaven this is too much!' suddenly exclaimed the Count; 'Signor\nMontoni, you treat me ill; it is from you that I shall look for\nexplanation.'\n\n'From me, sir! you shall have it;' muttered Montoni, 'if your\ndiscernment is indeed so far obscured by passion, as to make explanation\nnecessary. And for you, Madam, you should learn, that a man of honour is\nnot to be trifled with, though you may, perhaps, with impunity, treat a\nBOY like a puppet.'\n\nThis sarcasm roused the pride of Morano, and the resentment which he\nhad felt at the indifference of Emily, being lost in indignation of the\ninsolence of Montoni, he determined to mortify him, by defending her.\n\n'This also,' said he, replying to Montoni's last words, 'this also,\nshall not pass unnoticed. I bid you learn, sir, that you have a stronger\nenemy than a woman to contend with: I will protect Signora St. Aubert\nfrom your threatened resentment. You have misled me, and would revenge\nyour disappointed views upon the innocent.'\n\n'Misled you!' retorted Montoni with quickness, 'is my conduct--my\nword'--then pausing, while he seemed endeavouring to restrain the\nresentment, that flashed in his eyes, in the next moment he added, in a\nsubdued voice, 'Count Morano, this is a language, a sort of conduct to\nwhich I am not accustomed: it is the conduct of a passionate boy--as\nsuch, I pass it over in contempt.'\n\n'In contempt, Signor?'\n\n'The respect I owe myself,' rejoined Montoni, 'requires, that I should\nconverse more largely with you upon some points of the subject in\ndispute. Return with me to Venice, and I will condescend to convince you\nof your error.'\n\n'Condescend, sir! but I will not condescend to be so conversed with.'\n\nMontoni smiled contemptuously; and Emily, now terrified for the\nconsequences of what she saw and heard, could no longer be silent. She\nexplained the whole subject upon which she had mistaken Montoni in the\nmorning, declaring, that she understood him to have consulted her solely\nconcerning the disposal of La Vallee, and concluding with entreating,\nthat he would write immediately to M. Quesnel, and rectify the mistake.\n\nBut Montoni either was, or affected to be, still incredulous; and\nCount Morano was still entangled in perplexity. While she was speaking,\nhowever, the attention of her auditors had been diverted from the\nimmediate occasion of their resentment, and their passion consequently\nbecame less. Montoni desired the Count would order his servants to row\nback to Venice, that he might have some private conversation with him;\nand Morano, somewhat soothed by his softened voice and manner, and eager\nto examine into the full extent of his difficulties, complied.\n\nEmily, comforted by this prospect of release, employed the present\nmoments in endeavouring, with conciliating care, to prevent any fatal\nmischief between the persons who so lately had persecuted and insulted\nher.\n\nHer spirits revived, when she heard once more the voice of song and\nlaughter, resounding from the grand canal, and at length entered\nagain between its stately piazzas. The zendaletto stopped at Montoni's\nmansion, and the Count hastily led her into the hall, where Montoni took\nhis arm, and said something in a low voice, on which Morano kissed\nthe hand he held, notwithstanding Emily's effort to disengage it,\nand, wishing her a good evening, with an accent and look she could not\nmisunderstand, returned to his zendaletto with Montoni.\n\nEmily, in her own apartment, considered with intense anxiety all the\nunjust and tyrannical conduct of Montoni, the dauntless perseverance\nof Morano, and her own desolate situation, removed from her friends and\ncountry. She looked in vain to Valancourt, confined by his profession\nto a distant kingdom, as her protector; but it gave her comfort to know,\nthat there was, at least, one person in the world, who would sympathize\nin her afflictions, and whose wishes would fly eagerly to release her.\nYet she determined not to give him unavailing pain by relating the\nreasons she had to regret the having rejected his better judgment\nconcerning Montoni; reasons, however, which could not induce her to\nlament the delicacy and disinterested affection that had made her reject\nhis proposal for a clandestine marriage. The approaching interview with\nher uncle she regarded with some degree of hope, for she determined to\nrepresent to him the distresses of her situation, and to entreat that he\nwould allow her to return to France with him and Madame Quesnel. Then,\nsuddenly remembering that her beloved La Vallee, her only home, was no\nlonger at her command, her tears flowed anew, and she feared that she\nhad little pity to expect from a man who, like M. Quesnel, could dispose\nof it without deigning to consult with her, and could dismiss an aged\nand faithful servant, destitute of either support or asylum. But, though\nit was certain, that she had herself no longer a home in France, and\nfew, very few friends there, she determined to return, if possible,\nthat she might be released from the power of Montoni, whose particularly\noppressive conduct towards herself, and general character as to others,\nwere justly terrible to her imagination. She had no wish to reside with\nher uncle, M. Quesnel, since his behaviour to her late father and to\nherself, had been uniformly such as to convince her, that in flying to\nhim she could only obtain an exchange of oppressors; neither had she the\nslightest intention of consenting to the proposal of Valancourt for an\nimmediate marriage, though this would give her a lawful and a generous\nprotector, for the chief reasons, which had formerly influenced her\nconduct, still existed against it, while others, which seemed to justify\nthe step, would not be done away; and his interest, his fame were at all\ntimes too dear to her, to suffer her to consent to a union, which, at\nthis early period of their lives, would probably defeat both. One sure,\nand proper asylum, however, would still be open to her in France.\nShe knew that she could board in the convent, where she had formerly\nexperienced so much kindness, and which had an affecting and solemn\nclaim upon her heart, since it contained the remains of her late father.\nHere she could remain in safety and tranquillity, till the term, for\nwhich La Vallee might be let, should expire; or, till the arrangement\nof M. Motteville's affairs enabled her so far to estimate the remains of\nher fortune, as to judge whether it would be prudent for her to reside\nthere.\n\nConcerning Montoni's conduct with respect to his letters to M. Quesnel,\nshe had many doubts; however he might be at first mistaken on the\nsubject, she much suspected that he wilfully persevered in his error, as\na means of intimidating her into a compliance with his wishes of uniting\nher to Count Morano. Whether this was or was not the fact, she was\nextremely anxious to explain the affair to M. Quesnel, and looked\nforward with a mixture of impatience, hope and fear, to her approaching\nvisit.\n\nOn the following day, Madame Montoni, being alone with Emily, introduced\nthe mention of Count Morano, by expressing her surprise, that she had\nnot joined the party on the water the preceding evening, and at\nher abrupt departure to Venice. Emily then related what had passed,\nexpressed her concern for the mutual mistake that had occurred between\nMontoni and herself, and solicited her aunt's kind offices in urging him\nto give a decisive denial to the count's further addresses; but she\nsoon perceived, that Madame Montoni had not been ignorant of the late\nconversation, when she introduced the present.\n\n'You have no encouragement to expect from me,' said her aunt, 'in these\nnotions. I have already given my opinion on the subject, and think\nSignor Montoni right in enforcing, by any means, your consent. If young\npersons will be blind to their interest, and obstinately oppose it, why,\nthe greatest blessings they can have are friends, who will oppose their\nfolly. Pray what pretensions of any kind do you think you have to such a\nmatch as is now offered you?'\n\n'Not any whatever, Madam,' replied Emily, 'and, therefore, at least,\nsuffer me to be happy in my humility.'\n\n'Nay, niece, it cannot be denied, that you have pride enough; my poor\nbrother, your father, had his share of pride too; though, let me add,\nhis fortune did not justify it.'\n\nEmily, somewhat embarrassed by the indignation, which this malevolent\nallusion to her father excited, and by the difficulty of rendering her\nanswer as temperate as it should be reprehensive, hesitated for some\nmoments, in a confusion, which highly gratified her aunt. At length she\nsaid, 'My father's pride, Madam, had a noble object--the happiness which\nhe knew could be derived only from goodness, knowledge and charity.\nAs it never consisted in his superiority, in point of fortune, to some\npersons, it was not humbled by his inferiority, in that respect, to\nothers. He never disdained those, who were wretched by poverty\nand misfortune; he did sometimes despise persons, who, with many\nopportunities of happiness, rendered themselves miserable by vanity,\nignorance and cruelty. I shall think it my highest glory to emulate such\npride.'\n\n'I do not pretend to understand any thing of these high-flown\nsentiments, niece; you have all that glory to yourself: I would teach\nyou a little plain sense, and not have you so wise as to despise\nhappiness.'\n\n'That would indeed not be wisdom, but folly,' said Emily, 'for wisdom\ncan boast no higher attainment than happiness; but you will allow,\nMadam, that our ideas of happiness may differ. I cannot doubt, that you\nwish me to be happy, but I must fear you are mistaken in the means of\nmaking me so.'\n\n'I cannot boast of a learned education, niece, such as your father\nthought proper to give you, and, therefore, do not pretend to understand\nall these fine speeches about happiness. I must be contented to\nunderstand only common sense, and happy would it have been for you and\nyour father, if that had been included in his education.'\n\nEmily was too much shocked by these reflections on her father's memory,\nto despise this speech as it deserved.\n\nMadame Montoni was about to speak, but Emily quitted the room, and\nretired to her own, where the little spirit she had lately exerted\nyielded to grief and vexation, and left her only to her tears. From\nevery review of her situation she could derive, indeed, only new sorrow.\nTo the discovery, which had just been forced upon her, of Montoni's\nunworthiness, she had now to add, that of the cruel vanity, for the\ngratification of which her aunt was about to sacrifice her; of the\neffrontery and cunning, with which, at the time that she meditated the\nsacrifice, she boasted of her tenderness, or insulted her victim; and of\nthe venomous envy, which, as it did not scruple to attack her father's\ncharacter, could scarcely be expected to withhold from her own.\n\nDuring the few days that intervened between this conversation and the\ndeparture for Miarenti, Montoni did not once address himself to Emily.\nHis looks sufficiently declared his resentment; but that he should\nforbear to renew a mention of the subject of it, exceedingly surprised\nher, who was no less astonished, that, during three days, Count Morano\nneither visited Montoni, or was named by him. Several conjectures arose\nin her mind. Sometimes she feared that the dispute between them had been\nrevived, and had ended fatally to the Count. Sometimes she was inclined\nto hope, that weariness, or disgust at her firm rejection of his suit\nhad induced him to relinquish it; and, at others, she suspected that\nhe had now recourse to stratagem, and forbore his visits, and prevailed\nwith Montoni to forbear the repetition of his name, in the expectation\nthat gratitude and generosity would prevail with her to give him the\nconsent, which he could not hope from love.\n\nThus passed the time in vain conjecture, and alternate hopes and fears,\ntill the day arrived when Montoni was to set out for the villa of\nMiarenti, which, like the preceding ones, neither brought the Count, or\nthe mention of him.\n\nMontoni having determined not to leave Venice, till towards evening,\nthat he might avoid the heats, and catch the cool breezes of night,\nembarked about an hour before sun-set, with his family, in a barge, for\nthe Brenta. Emily sat alone near the stern of the vessel, and, as it\nfloated slowly on, watched the gay and lofty city lessening from her\nview, till its palaces seemed to sink in the distant waves, while its\nloftier towers and domes, illumined by the declining sun, appeared on\nthe horizon, like those far-seen clouds which, in more northern climes,\noften linger on the western verge, and catch the last light of a\nsummer's evening. Soon after, even these grew dim, and faded in distance\nfrom her sight; but she still sat gazing on the vast scene of\ncloudless sky, and mighty waters, and listening in pleasing awe to\nthe deep-sounding waves, while, as her eyes glanced over the Adriatic,\ntowards the opposite shores, which were, however, far beyond the reach\nof sight, she thought of Greece, and, a thousand classical remembrances\nstealing to her mind, she experienced that pensive luxury which is felt\non viewing the scenes of ancient story, and on comparing their present\nstate of silence and solitude with that of their former grandeur and\nanimation. The scenes of the Illiad illapsed in glowing colours to her\nfancy--scenes, once the haunt of heroes--now lonely, and in ruins;\nbut which still shone, in the poet's strain, in all their youthful\nsplendour.\n\nAs her imagination painted with melancholy touches, the deserted plains\nof Troy, such as they appeared in this after-day, she reanimated the\nlandscape with the following little story.\n\n     STANZAS\n\n O'er Ilion's plains, where once the warrior bled,\n And once the poet rais'd his deathless strain,\n O'er Ilion's plains a weary driver led\n His stately camels:  For the ruin'd fane\n\n Wide round the lonely scene his glance he threw,\n For now the red cloud faded in the west,\n And twilight o'er the silent landscape drew\n Her deep'ning veil; eastward his course he prest:\n\n There, on the grey horizon's glimm'ring bound,\n Rose the proud columns of deserted Troy,\n And wandering shepherds now a shelter found\n Within those walls, where princes wont to joy.\n\n Beneath a lofty porch the driver pass'd,\n Then, from his camels heav'd the heavy load;\n Partook with them the simple, cool repast,\n And in short vesper gave himself to God.\n\n From distant lands with merchandise he came,\n His all of wealth his patient servants bore;\n Oft deep-drawn sighs his anxious wish proclaim\n To reach, again, his happy cottage door;\n\n For there, his wife, his little children, dwell;\n Their smiles shall pay the toil of many an hour:\n Ev'n now warm tears to expectation swell,\n As fancy o'er his mind extends her pow'r.\n\n A death-like stillness reign'd, where once the song,\n The song of heroes, wak'd the midnight air,\n Save, when a solemn murmur roll'd along,\n That seem'd to say--'for future worlds prepare.'\n\n For Time's imperious voice was frequent heard\n Shaking the marble temple to its fall,\n (By hands he long had conquer'd, vainly rear'd),\n And distant ruins answer'd to his call.\n\n While Hamet slept, his camels round him lay,\n Beneath him, all his store of wealth was piled;\n And here, his cruse and empty wallet lay,\n And there, the flute that chear'd him in the wild.\n\n The robber Tartar on his slumber stole,\n For o'er the waste, at eve, he watch'd his train;\n Ah! who his thirst of plunder shall control?\n Who calls on him for mercy--calls in vain!\n\n A poison'd poignard in his belt he wore,\n A crescent sword depended at his side,\n The deathful quiver at his back he bore,\n And infants--at his very look had died!\n\n The moon's cold beam athwart the temple fell,\n And to his sleeping prey the Tartar led;\n But soft!--a startled camel shook his bell,\n Then stretch'd his limbs, and rear'd his drowsy head.\n\n Hamet awoke! the poignard glitter'd high!\n Swift from his couch he sprung, and 'scap'd the blow;\n When from an unknown hand the arrows fly,\n That lay the ruffian, in his vengeance, low.\n\n He groan'd, he died! from forth a column'd gate\n A fearful shepherd, pale and silent, crept,\n Who, as he watch'd his folded flock star-late,\n Had mark'd the robber steal where Hamet slept.\n\n He fear'd his own, and sav'd a stranger's life!\n Poor Hamet clasp'd him to his grateful heart;\n Then, rous'd his camels for the dusty strife,\n And, with the shepherd, hasten'd to depart.\n\n And now, aurora breathes her fresh'ning gale,\n And faintly trembles on the eastern cloud;\n And now, the sun, from under twilight's veil,\n Looks gaily forth, and melts her airy shroud.\n\n Wide o'er the level plains, his slanting beams\n Dart their long lines on Ilion's tower'd site;\n The distant Hellespont with morning gleams,\n And old Scamander winds his waves in light.\n\n All merry sound the camel bells, so gay,\n And merry beats fond Hamet's heart, for he,\n E'er the dim evening steals upon the day,\n His children, wife and happy home shall see.\n\nAs Emily approached the shores of Italy she began to discriminate the\nrich features and varied colouring of the landscape--the purple hills,\ngroves of orange pine and cypress, shading magnificent villas, and towns\nrising among vineyards and plantations. The noble Brenta, pouring its\nbroad waves into the sea, now appeared, and, when she reached its mouth,\nthe barge stopped, that the horses might be fastened which were now to\ntow it up the stream. This done, Emily gave a last look to the Adriatic,\nand to the dim sail,\n\n     that from the sky-mix'd wave\n Dawns on the sight,\n\nand the barge slowly glided between the green and luxuriant slopes\nof the river. The grandeur of the Palladian villas, that adorn these\nshores, was considerably heightened by the setting rays, which threw\nstrong contrasts of light and shade upon the porticos and long arcades,\nand beamed a mellow lustre upon the orangeries and the tall groves of\npine and cypress, that overhung the buildings. The scent of oranges, of\nflowering myrtles, and other odoriferous plants was diffused upon the\nair, and often, from these embowered retreats, a strain of music stole\non the calm, and 'softened into silence.'\n\nThe sun now sunk below the horizon, twilight fell over the landscape,\nand Emily, wrapt in musing silence, continued to watch its features\ngradually vanishing into obscurity. She remembered her many happy\nevenings, when with St. Aubert she had observed the shades of twilight\nsteal over a scene as beautiful as this, from the gardens of La Vallee,\nand a tear fell to the memory of her father. Her spirits were softened\ninto melancholy by the influence of the hour, by the low murmur of\nthe wave passing under the vessel, and the stillness of the air, that\ntrembled only at intervals with distant music:--why else should she, at\nthese moments, have looked on her attachment to Valancourt with presages\nso very afflicting, since she had but lately received letters from him,\nthat had soothed for a while all her anxieties? It now seemed to her\noppressed mind, that she had taken leave of him for ever, and that the\ncountries, which separated them, would never more be re-traced by her.\nShe looked upon Count Morano with horror, as in some degree the cause\nof this; but apart from him, a conviction, if such that may be called,\nwhich arises from no proof, and which she knew not how to account for,\nseized her mind--that she should never see Valancourt again. Though she\nknew, that neither Morano's solicitations, nor Montoni's commands\nhad lawful power to enforce her obedience, she regarded both with a\nsuperstitious dread, that they would finally prevail.\n\nLost in this melancholy reverie, and shedding frequent tears, Emily was\nat length roused by Montoni, and she followed him to the cabin, where\nrefreshments were spread, and her aunt was seated alone. The countenance\nof Madame Montoni was inflamed with resentment, that appeared to be\nthe consequence of some conversation she had held with her husband, who\nregarded her with a kind of sullen disdain, and both preserved, for some\ntime, a haughty silence. Montoni then spoke to Emily of Mons. Quesnel:\n'You will not, I hope, persist in disclaiming your knowledge of the\nsubject of my letter to him?'\n\n'I had hoped, sir, that it was no longer necessary for me to disclaim\nit,' said Emily, 'I had hoped, from your silence, that you was convinced\nof your error.'\n\n'You have hoped impossibilities then,' replied Montoni; 'I might as\nreasonably have expected to find sincerity and uniformity of conduct in\none of your sex, as you to convict me of error in this affair.'\n\nEmily blushed, and was silent; she now perceived too clearly, that she\nhad hoped an impossibility, for, where no mistake had been committed no\nconviction could follow; and it was evident, that Montoni's conduct had\nnot been the consequence of mistake, but of design.\n\nAnxious to escape from conversation, which was both afflicting and\nhumiliating to her, she soon returned to the deck, and resumed her\nstation near the stern, without apprehension of cold, for no vapour rose\nfrom the water, and the air was dry and tranquil; here, at least, the\nbenevolence of nature allowed her the quiet which Montoni had denied her\nelsewhere. It was now past midnight. The stars shed a kind of twilight,\nthat served to shew the dark outline of the shores on either hand, and\nthe grey surface of the river; till the moon rose from behind a high\npalm grove, and shed her mellow lustre over the scene. The vessel glided\nsmoothly on: amid the stillness of the hour Emily heard, now and then,\nthe solitary voice of the barge-men on the bank, as they spoke to their\nhorses; while, from a remote part of the vessel, with melancholy song,\n\n     The sailor sooth'd,\n Beneath the trembling moon, the midnight wave.\n\nEmily, meanwhile, anticipated her reception by Mons, and Madame Quesnel;\nconsidered what she should say on the subject of La Vallee; and then, to\nwith-hold her mind from more anxious topics, tried to amuse herself by\ndiscriminating the faint-drawn features of the landscape, reposing in\nthe moon-light. While her fancy thus wandered, she saw, at a distance,\na building peeping between the moon-light trees, and, as the barge\napproached, heard voices speaking, and soon distinguished the lofty\nportico of a villa, overshadowed by groves of pine and sycamore, which\nshe recollected to be the same, that had formerly been pointed out to\nher, as belonging to Madame Quesnel's relative.\n\nThe barge stopped at a flight of marble steps, which led up the bank to\na lawn. Lights appeared between some pillars beyond the portico. Montoni\nsent forward his servant, and then disembarked with his family. They\nfound Mons. and Madame Quesnel, with a few friends, seated on sofas in\nthe portico, enjoying the cool breeze of the night, and eating fruits\nand ices, while some of their servants at a little distance, on\nthe river's bank, were performing a simple serenade. Emily was now\naccustomed to the way of living in this warm country, and was not\nsurprised to find Mons. and Madame Quesnel in their portico, two hours\nafter midnight.\n\nThe usual salutations being over, the company seated themselves in the\nportico, and refreshments were brought them from the adjoining hall,\nwhere a banquet was spread, and servants attended. When the bustle\nof this meeting had subsided, and Emily had recovered from the little\nflutter into which it had thrown her spirits, she was struck with the\nsingular beauty of the hall, so perfectly accommodated to the luxuries\nof the season. It was of white marble, and the roof, rising into an\nopen cupola, was supported by columns of the same material. Two opposite\nsides of the apartment, terminating in open porticos, admitted to the\nhall a full view of the gardens, and of the river scenery; in the centre\na fountain continually refreshed the air, and seemed to heighten the\nfragrance, that breathed from the surrounding orangeries, while its\ndashing waters gave an agreeable and soothing sound. Etruscan lamps,\nsuspended from the pillars, diffused a brilliant light over the interior\npart of the hall, leaving the remoter porticos to the softer lustre of\nthe moon.\n\nMons. Quesnel talked apart to Montoni of his own affairs, in his usual\nstrain of self-importance; boasted of his new acquisitions, and\nthen affected to pity some disappointments, which Montoni had lately\nsustained. Meanwhile, the latter, whose pride at least enabled him to\ndespise such vanity as this, and whose discernment at once detected\nunder this assumed pity, the frivolous malignity of Quesnel's mind,\nlistened to him in contemptuous silence, till he named his niece, and\nthen they left the portico, and walked away into the gardens.\n\nEmily, however, still attended to Madame Quesnel, who spoke of France\n(for even the name of her native country was dear to her) and she found\nsome pleasure in looking at a person, who had lately been in it. That\ncountry, too, was inhabited by Valancourt, and she listened to the\nmention of it, with a faint hope, that he also would be named. Madame\nQuesnel, who, when she was in France, had talked with rapture of Italy,\nnow, that she was in Italy, talked with equal praise of France, and\nendeavoured to excite the wonder and the envy of her auditors by\naccounts of places, which they had not been happy enough to see. In\nthese descriptions she not only imposed upon them, but upon herself, for\nshe never thought a present pleasure equal to one, that was passed;\nand thus the delicious climate, the fragrant orangeries and all the\nluxuries, which surrounded her, slept unnoticed, while her fancy\nwandered over the distant scenes of a northern country.\n\nEmily listened in vain for the name of Valancourt. Madame Montoni spoke\nin her turn of the delights of Venice, and of the pleasure she expected\nfrom visiting the fine castle of Montoni, on the Apennine; which latter\nmention, at least, was merely a retaliating boast, for Emily well knew,\nthat her aunt had no taste for solitary grandeur, and, particularly,\nfor such as the castle of Udolpho promised. Thus the party continued to\nconverse, and, as far as civility would permit, to torture each other\nby mutual boasts, while they reclined on sofas in the portico, and were\nenvironed with delights both from nature and art, by which any honest\nminds would have been tempered to benevolence, and happy imaginations\nwould have been soothed into enchantment.\n\nThe dawn, soon after, trembled in the eastern horizon, and the light\ntints of morning, gradually expanding, shewed the beautifully declining\nforms of the Italian mountains and the gleaming landscapes, stretched\nat their feet. Then the sun-beams, shooting up from behind the hills,\nspread over the scene that fine saffron tinge, which seems to impart\nrepose to all it touches. The landscape no longer gleamed; all its\nglowing colours were revealed, except that its remoter features were\nstill softened and united in the mist of distance, whose sweet effect\nwas heightened to Emily by the dark verdure of the pines and cypresses,\nthat over-arched the foreground of the river.\n\nThe market people, passing with their boats to Venice, now formed a\nmoving picture on the Brenta. Most of these had little painted awnings,\nto shelter their owners from the sun-beams, which, together with\nthe piles of fruit and flowers, displayed beneath, and the tasteful\nsimplicity of the peasant girls, who watched the rural treasures,\nrendered them gay and striking objects. The swift movement of the boats\ndown the current, the quick glance of oars in the water, and now and\nthen the passing chorus of peasants, who reclined under the sail of\ntheir little bark, or the tones of some rustic instrument, played by\na girl, as she sat near her sylvan cargo, heightened the animation and\nfestivity of the scene.\n\nWhen Montoni and M. Quesnel had joined the ladies, the party left\nthe portico for the gardens, where the charming scenery soon withdrew\nEmily's thoughts from painful subjects. The majestic forms and rich\nverdure of cypresses she had never seen so perfect before: groves of\ncedar, lemon, and orange, the spiry clusters of the pine and poplar, the\nluxuriant chesnut and oriental plane, threw all their pomp of shade over\nthese gardens; while bowers of flowering myrtle and other spicy shrubs\nmingled their fragrance with that of flowers, whose vivid and various\ncolouring glowed with increased effect beneath the contrasted umbrage of\nthe groves. The air also was continually refreshed by rivulets, which,\nwith more taste than fashion, had been suffered to wander among the\ngreen recesses.\n\nEmily often lingered behind the party, to contemplate the distant\nlandscape, that closed a vista, or that gleamed beneath the dark foliage\nof the foreground;--the spiral summits of the mountains, touched with\na purple tint, broken and steep above, but shelving gradually to their\nbase; the open valley, marked by no formal lines of art; and the tall\ngroves of cypress, pine and poplar, sometimes embellished by a ruined\nvilla, whose broken columns appeared between the branches of a pine,\nthat seemed to droop over their fall.\n\nFrom other parts of the gardens, the character of the view was entirely\nchanged, and the fine solitary beauty of the landscape shifted for the\ncrowded features and varied colouring of inhabitation.\n\nThe sun was now gaining fast upon the sky, and the party quitted the\ngardens, and retired to repose.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\n And poor Misfortune feels the lash of Vice.\n     THOMSON\n\nEmily seized the first opportunity of conversing alone with Mons.\nQuesnel, concerning La Vallee. His answers to her enquiries were\nconcise, and delivered with the air of a man, who is conscious of\npossessing absolute power and impatient of hearing it questioned. He\ndeclared, that the disposal of the place was a necessary measure; and\nthat she might consider herself indebted to his prudence for even the\nsmall income that remained for her. 'But, however,' added he, 'when\nthis Venetian Count (I have forgot his name) marries you, your present\ndisagreeable state of dependence will cease. As a relation to you I\nrejoice in the circumstance, which is so fortunate for you, and, I may\nadd, so unexpected by your friends.' For some moments Emily was chilled\ninto silence by this speech; and, when she attempted to undeceive him,\nconcerning the purport of the note she had inclosed in Montoni's letter,\nhe appeared to have some private reason for disbelieving her assertion,\nand, for a considerable time, persevered in accusing her of capricious\nconduct. Being, at length, however, convinced that she really disliked\nMorano and had positively rejected his suit, his resentment was\nextravagant, and he expressed it in terms equally pointed and inhuman;\nfor, secretly flattered by the prospect of a connection with a nobleman,\nwhose title he had affected to forget, he was incapable of feeling\npity for whatever sufferings of his niece might stand in the way of his\nambition.\n\nEmily saw at once in his manner all the difficulties, that awaited\nher, and, though no oppression could have power to make her renounce\nValancourt for Morano, her fortitude now trembled at an encounter with\nthe violent passions of her uncle.\n\nShe opposed his turbulence and indignation only by the mild dignity of\na superior mind; but the gentle firmness of her conduct served to\nexasperate still more his resentment, since it compelled him to feel\nhis own inferiority, and, when he left her, he declared, that, if she\npersisted in her folly, both himself and Montoni would abandon her to\nthe contempt of the world.\n\nThe calmness she had assumed in his presence failed Emily, when alone,\nand she wept bitterly, and called frequently upon the name of her\ndeparted father, whose advice to her from his death-bed she then\nremembered. 'Alas!' said she, 'I do indeed perceive how much more\nvaluable is the strength of fortitude than the grace of sensibility,\nand I will also endeavour to fulfil the promise I then made; I will\nnot indulge in unavailing lamentation, but will try to endure, with\nfirmness, the oppression I cannot elude.'\n\nSomewhat soothed by the consciousness of performing a part of St.\nAubert's last request, and of endeavouring to pursue the conduct which\nhe would have approved, she overcame her tears, and, when the company\nmet at dinner, had recovered her usual serenity of countenance.\n\nIn the cool of the evening, the ladies took the FRESCO along the bank of\nthe Brenta in Madame Quesnel's carriage. The state of Emily's mind was\nin melancholy contrast with the gay groups assembled beneath the shades\nthat overhung this enchanting stream. Some were dancing under the trees,\nand others reclining on the grass, taking ices and coffee and calmly\nenjoying the effect of a beautiful evening, on a luxuriant landscape.\nEmily, when she looked at the snow-capt Apennines, ascending in the\ndistance, thought of Montoni's castle, and suffered some terror, lest he\nshould convey her thither, for the purpose of enforcing her obedience;\nbut the thought vanished, when she considered, that she was as much in\nhis power at Venice as she could be elsewhere.\n\nIt was moonlight before the party returned to the villa, where supper\nwas spread in the airy hall, which had so much enchanted Emily's fancy,\non the preceding night. The ladies seated themselves in the portico,\ntill Mons. Quesnel, Montoni, and other gentlemen should join them at\ntable, and Emily endeavoured to resign herself to the tranquillity of\nthe hour. Presently, a barge stopped at the steps that led into the\ngardens, and, soon after, she distinguished the voices of Montoni and\nQuesnel, and then that of Morano, who, in the next moment, appeared. His\ncompliments she received in silence, and her cold air seemed at first to\ndiscompose him; but he soon recovered his usual gaiety of manner,\nthough the officious kindness of M. and Madame Quesnel Emily perceived\ndisgusted him. Such a degree of attention she had scarcely believed\ncould be shewn by M. Quesnel, for she had never before seen him\notherwise than in the presence of his inferiors or equals.\n\nWhen she could retire to her own apartment, her mind almost\ninvoluntarily dwelt on the most probable means of prevailing with the\nCount to withdraw his suit, and to her liberal mind none appeared more\nprobable, than that of acknowledging to him a prior attachment and\nthrowing herself upon his generosity for a release. When, however,\non the following day, he renewed his addresses, she shrunk from the\nadoption of the plan she had formed. There was something so repugnant to\nher just pride, in laying open the secret of her heart to such a man\nas Morano, and in suing to him for compassion, that she impatiently\nrejected this design and wondered, that she could have paused upon\nit for a moment. The rejection of his suit she repeated in the most\ndecisive terms she could select, mingling with it a severe censure\nof his conduct; but, though the Count appeared mortified by this, he\npersevered in the most ardent professions of admiration, till he was\ninterrupted and Emily released by the presence of Madame Quesnel.\n\nDuring her stay at this pleasant villa, Emily was thus rendered\nmiserable by the assiduities of Morano, together with the cruelly\nexerted authority of M. Quesnel and Montoni, who, with her aunt, seemed\nnow more resolutely determined upon this marriage than they had even\nappeared to be at Venice. M. Quesnel, finding, that both argument and\nmenace were ineffectual in enforcing an immediate conclusion to it, at\nlength relinquished his endeavours, and trusted to the power of Montoni\nand to the course of events at Venice. Emily, indeed, looked to Venice\nwith hope, for there she would be relieved in some measure from the\npersecution of Morano, who would no longer be an inhabitant of the same\nhouse with herself, and from that of Montoni, whose engagements would\nnot permit him to be continually at home. But amidst the pressure of her\nown misfortunes, she did not forget those of poor Theresa, for whom she\npleaded with courageous tenderness to Quesnel, who promised, in slight\nand general terms, that she should not be forgotten.\n\nMontoni, in a long conversation with M. Quesnel, arranged the plan to\nbe pursued respecting Emily, and M. Quesnel proposed to be at Venice, as\nsoon as he should be informed, that the nuptials were concluded.\n\nIt was new to Emily to part with any person, with whom she was\nconnected, without feeling of regret; the moment, however, in which she\ntook leave of M. and Madame Quesnel, was, perhaps, the only satisfactory\none she had known in their presence.\n\nMorano returned in Montoni's barge, and Emily, as she watched her\ngradual approach to that magic city, saw at her side the only person,\nwho occasioned her to view it with less than perfect delight. They\narrived there about midnight, when Emily was released from the presence\nof the Count, who, with Montoni, went to a Casino, and she was suffered\nto retire to her own apartment.\n\nOn the following day, Montoni, in a short conversation, which he held\nwith Emily, informed her, that he would no longer be TRIFLED with, and\nthat, since her marriage with the Count would be so highly advantageous\nto her, that folly only could object to it, and folly of such extent\nas was incapable of conviction, it should be celebrated without further\ndelay, and, if that was necessary, without her consent.\n\nEmily, who had hitherto tried remonstrance, had now recourse to\nsupplication, for distress prevented her from foreseeing, that, with a\nman of Montoni's disposition, supplication would be equally useless. She\nafterwards enquired by what right he exerted this unlimited authority\nover her? a question, which her better judgment would have with-held\nher, in a calmer moment, from making, since it could avail her nothing,\nand would afford Montoni another opportunity of triumphing over her\ndefenceless condition.\n\n'By what right!' cried Montoni, with a malicious smile, 'by the right of\nmy will; if you can elude that, I will not inquire by what right you do\nso. I now remind you, for the last time, that you are a stranger, in a\nforeign country, and that it is your interest to make me your friend;\nyou know the means; if you compel me to become your enemy--I will\nventure to tell you, that the punishment shall exceed your expectation.\nYou may know _I_ am not to be trifled with.'\n\nEmily continued, for some time after Montoni had left her, in a state of\ndespair, or rather stupefaction; a consciousness of misery was all that\nremained in her mind. In this situation Madame Montoni found her, at the\nsound of whose voice Emily looked up, and her aunt, somewhat softened by\nthe expression of despair, that fixed her countenance, spoke in a manner\nmore kind than she had ever yet done. Emily's heart was touched; she\nshed tears, and, after weeping for some time, recovered sufficient\ncomposure to speak on the subject of her distress, and to endeavour to\ninterest Madame Montoni in her behalf. But, though the compassion of her\naunt had been surprised, her ambition was not to be overcome, and\nher present object was to be the aunt of a Countess. Emily's efforts,\ntherefore, were as unsuccessful as they had been with Montoni, and she\nwithdrew to her apartment to think and weep alone. How often did she\nremember the parting scene with Valancourt, and wish, that the Italian\nhad mentioned Montoni's character with less reserve! When her mind,\nhowever, had recovered from the first shock of this behaviour, she\nconsidered, that it would be impossible for him to compel her alliance\nwith Morano, if she persisted in refusing to repeat any part of the\nmarriage ceremony; and she persevered in her resolution to await\nMontoni's threatened vengeance rather than give herself for life to a\nman, whom she must have despised for his present conduct, had she never\neven loved Valancourt; yet she trembled at the revenge she thus resolved\nto brave.\n\nAn affair, however, soon after occurred, which somewhat called off\nMontoni's attention from Emily. The mysterious visits of Orsino were\nrenewed with more frequency since the return of the former to Venice.\nThere were others, also, besides Orsino, admitted to these midnight\ncouncils, and among them Cavigni and Verezzi. Montoni became more\nreserved and austere in his manner than ever; and Emily, if her own\ninterests had not made her regardless of his, might have perceived, that\nsomething extraordinary was working in his mind.\n\nOne night, on which a council was not held, Orsino came in great\nagitation of spirits, and dispatched his confidential servant to\nMontoni, who was at a Casino, desiring that he would return home\nimmediately; but charging the servant not to mention his name. Montoni\nobeyed the summons, and, on meeting Orsino, was informed of the\ncircumstances, that occasioned his visit and his visible alarm, with a\npart of which he was already acquainted.\n\nA Venetian nobleman, who had, on some late occasion, provoked the hatred\nof Orsino, had been way-laid and poniarded by hired assassins: and, as\nthe murdered person was of the first connections, the Senate had\ntaken up the affair. One of the assassins was now apprehended, who had\nconfessed, that Orsino was his employer in the atrocious deed; and the\nlatter, informed of his danger, had now come to Montoni to consult on\nthe measures necessary to favour his escape. He knew, that, at this\ntime, the officers of the police were upon the watch for him, all over\nthe city; to leave it, at present, therefore, was impracticable, and\nMontoni consented to secrete him for a few days till the vigilance of\njustice should relax, and then to assist him in quitting Venice. He knew\nthe danger he himself incurred by permitting Orsino to remain in his\nhouse, but such was the nature of his obligations to this man, that he\ndid not think it prudent to refuse him an asylum.\n\nSuch was the person whom Montoni had admitted to his confidence, and for\nwhom he felt as much friendship as was compatible with his character.\n\nWhile Orsino remained concealed in his house, Montoni was unwilling to\nattract public observation by the nuptials of Count Morano; but this\nobstacle was, in a few days, overcome by the departure of his criminal\nvisitor, and he then informed Emily, that her marriage was to be\ncelebrated on the following morning. To her repeated assurances, that\nit should not take place, he replied only by a malignant smile; and,\ntelling her that the Count and a priest would be at his house, early\nin the morning, he advised her no further to dare his resentment, by\nopposition to his will and to her own interest. 'I am now going out for\nthe evening,' said he, 'remember, that I shall give your hand to Count\nMorano in the morning.' Emily, having, ever since his late threats,\nexpected, that her trials would at length arrive to this crisis, was\nless shocked by the declaration, that she otherwise would have been,\nand she endeavoured to support herself by the belief, that the marriage\ncould not be valid, so long as she refused before the priest to repeat\nany part of the ceremony. Yet, as the moment of trial approached, her\nlong-harassed spirits shrunk almost equally from the encounter of his\nvengeance, and from the hand of Count Morano. She was not even perfectly\ncertain of the consequence of her steady refusal at the altar, and\nshe trembled, more than ever, at the power of Montoni, which seemed\nunlimited as his will, for she saw, that he would not scruple to\ntransgress any law, if, by so doing, he could accomplish his project.\n\nWhile her mind was thus suffering and in a state little short of\ndistraction, she was informed that Morano asked permission to see\nher, and the servant had scarcely departed with an excuse, before she\nrepented that she had sent one. In the next moment, reverting to\nher former design, and determining to try, whether expostulation and\nentreaty would not succeed, where a refusal and a just disdain had\nfailed, she recalled the servant, and, sending a different message,\nprepared to go down to the Count.\n\nThe dignity and assumed composure with which she met him, and the\nkind of pensive resignation, that softened her countenance, were\ncircumstances not likely to induce him to relinquish her, serving,\nas they did, to heighten a passion, which had already intoxicated his\njudgment. He listened to all she said with an appearance of complacency\nand of a wish to oblige her; but his resolution remained invariably the\nsame, and he endeavoured to win her admiration by every insinuating art\nhe so well knew how to practise. Being, at length, assured, that she\nhad nothing to hope from his justice, she repeated, in a solemn and\nimpressive manner, her absolute rejection of his suit, and quitted him\nwith an assurance, that her refusal would be effectually maintained\nagainst every circumstance, that could be imagined for subduing it. A\njust pride had restrained her tears in his presence, but now they flowed\nfrom the fulness of her heart. She often called upon the name of her\nlate father, and often dwelt with unutterable anguish on the idea of\nValancourt.\n\nShe did not go down to supper, but remained alone in her apartment,\nsometimes yielding to the influence of grief and terror, and, at others,\nendeavouring to fortify her mind against them, and to prepare herself\nto meet, with composed courage, the scene of the following morning, when\nall the stratagem of Morano and the violence of Montoni would be united\nagainst her.\n\nThe evening was far advanced, when Madame Montoni came to her chamber\nwith some bridal ornaments, which the Count had sent to Emily. She\nhad, this day, purposely avoided her niece; perhaps, because her usual\ninsensibility failed her, and she feared to trust herself with a view of\nEmily's distress; or possibly, though her conscience was seldom audible,\nit now reproached her with her conduct to her brother's orphan child,\nwhose happiness had been entrusted to her care by a dying father.\n\nEmily could not look at these presents, and made a last, though almost\nhopeless, effort to interest the compassion of Madame Montoni, who, if\nshe did feel any degree of pity, or remorse, successfully concealed it,\nand reproached her niece with folly in being miserable, concerning a\nmarriage, which ought only to make her happy. 'I am sure,' said she, 'if\nI was unmarried, and the Count had proposed to me, I should have been\nflattered by the distinction: and if I should have been so, I am sure,\nniece, you, who have no fortune, ought to feel yourself highly honoured,\nand shew a proper gratitude and humility towards the Count, for his\ncondescension. I am often surprised, I must own, to observe how humbly\nhe deports himself to you, notwithstanding the haughty airs you give\nyourself; I wonder he has patience to humour you so: if I was he,\nI know, I should often be ready to reprehend you, and make you know\nyourself a little better. I would not have flattered you, I can tell\nyou, for it is this absurd flattery that makes you fancy yourself of\nso much consequence, that you think nobody can deserve you, and I often\ntell the Count so, for I have no patience to hear him pay you such\nextravagant compliments, which you believe every word of!'\n\n'Your patience, madam, cannot suffer more cruelly on such occasions,\nthan my own,' said Emily.\n\n'O! that is all mere affectation,' rejoined her aunt. 'I know that his\nflattery delights you, and makes you so vain, that you think you may\nhave the whole world at your feet. But you are very much mistaken; I\ncan assure you, niece, you will not meet with many such suitors as the\nCount: every other person would have turned upon his heel, and left you\nto repent at your leisure, long ago.'\n\n'O that the Count had resembled every other person, then!' said Emily,\nwith a heavy sigh.\n\n'It is happy for you, that he does not,' rejoined Madame Montoni;\n'and what I am now saying is from pure kindness. I am endeavouring to\nconvince you of your good fortune, and to persuade you to submit to\nnecessity with a good grace. It is nothing to me, you know, whether you\nlike this marriage or not, for it must be; what I say, therefore, is\nfrom pure kindness. I wish to see you happy, and it is your own fault if\nyou are not so. I would ask you, now, seriously and calmly, what kind of\na match you can expect, since a Count cannot content your ambition?'\n\n'I have no ambition whatever, madam,' replied Emily, 'my only wish is to\nremain in my present station.'\n\n'O! that is speaking quite from the purpose,' said her aunt, 'I see\nyou are still thinking of Mons. Valancourt. Pray get rid of all\nthose fantastic notions about love, and this ridiculous pride, and be\nsomething like a reasonable creature. But, however, this is nothing to\nthe purpose--for your marriage with the Count takes place tomorrow, you\nknow, whether you approve it or not. The Count will be trifled with no\nlonger.'\n\nEmily made no attempt to reply to this curious speech; she felt it\nwould be mean, and she knew it would be useless. Madame Montoni laid the\nCount's presents upon the table, on which Emily was leaning, and then,\ndesiring she would be ready early in the morning, bade her good-night.\n'Good-night, madam,' said Emily, with a deep sigh, as the door closed\nupon her aunt, and she was left once more to her own sad reflections.\nFor some time she sat so lost in thought, as to be wholly unconscious\nwhere she was; at length, raising her head, and looking round the room,\nits gloom and profound stillness awed her. She fixed her eyes on the\ndoor, through which her aunt had disappeared, and listened anxiously for\nsome sound, that might relieve the deep dejection of her spirits; but it\nwas past midnight, and all the family except the servant, who sat up for\nMontoni, had retired to bed. Her mind, long harassed by distress, now\nyielded to imaginary terrors; she trembled to look into the obscurity\nof her spacious chamber, and feared she knew not what; a state of mind,\nwhich continued so long, that she would have called up Annette, her\naunt's woman, had her fears permitted her to rise from her chair, and to\ncross the apartment.\n\nThese melancholy illusions at length began to disperse, and she retired\nto her bed, not to sleep, for that was scarcely possible, but to try, at\nleast, to quiet her disturbed fancy, and to collect strength of spirits\nsufficient to bear her through the scene of the approaching morning.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\n Dark power! with shudd'ring, meek submitted thought\n Be mine to read the visions old\n Which thy awak'ning bards have told,\n And, lest they meet my blasted view,\n Hold each strange tale devoutly true.\n     COLLINS' ODE TO FEAR\n\nEmily was recalled from a kind of slumber, into which she had, at\nlength, sunk, by a quick knocking at her chamber door. She started up\nin terror, for Montoni and Count Morano instantly came to her mind; but,\nhaving listened in silence for some time, and recognizing the voice\nof Annette, she rose and opened the door. 'What brings you hither so\nearly?' said Emily, trembling excessively. She was unable to support\nherself, and sat down on the bed.\n\n'Dear ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'do not look so pale. I am quite\nfrightened to see you. Here is a fine bustle below stairs, all the\nservants running to and fro, and none of them fast enough! Here is a\nbustle, indeed, all of a sudden, and nobody knows for what!'\n\n'Who is below besides them?' said Emily, 'Annette, do not trifle with\nme!'\n\n'Not for the world, ma'amselle, I would not trifle for the world; but\none cannot help making one's remarks, and there is the Signor in such\na bustle, as I never saw him before; and he has sent me to tell you,\nma'am, to get ready immediately.'\n\n'Good God support me!' cried Emily, almost fainting, 'Count Morano is\nbelow, then!'\n\n'No, ma'amselle, he is not below that I know of,' replied Annette, 'only\nhis excellenza sent me to desire you would get ready directly to leave\nVenice, for that the gondolas would be at the steps of the canal in a\nfew minutes: but I must hurry back to my lady, who is just at her wits\nend, and knows not which way to turn for haste.'\n\n'Explain, Annette, explain the meaning of all this before you go,' said\nEmily, so overcome with surprise and timid hope, that she had scarcely\nbreath to speak.\n\n'Nay, ma'amselle, that is more than I can do. I only know that the\nSignor is just come home in a very ill humour, that he has had us\nall called out of our beds, and tells us we are all to leave Venice\nimmediately.'\n\n'Is Count Morano to go with the signor?' said Emily, 'and whither are we\ngoing?'\n\n'I know neither, ma'am, for certain; but I heard Ludovico say something\nabout going, after we get to terra-firma, to the signor's castle among\nsome mountains, that he talked of.'\n\n'The Apennines!' said Emily, eagerly, 'O! then I have little to hope!'\n\n'That is the very place, ma'am. But cheer up, and do not take it so much\nto heart, and think what a little time you have to get ready in, and how\nimpatient the Signor is. Holy St. Mark! I hear the oars on the canal;\nand now they come nearer, and now they are dashing at the steps below;\nit is the gondola, sure enough.'\n\nAnnette hastened from the room; and Emily prepared for this unexpected\nflight, as fast as her trembling hands would permit, not perceiving,\nthat any change in her situation could possibly be for the worse. She\nhad scarcely thrown her books and clothes into her travelling\ntrunk, when, receiving a second summons, she went down to her aunt's\ndressing-room, where she found Montoni impatiently reproving his wife\nfor delay. He went out, soon after, to give some further orders to his\npeople, and Emily then enquired the occasion of this hasty journey; but\nher aunt appeared to be as ignorant as herself, and to undertake the\njourney with more reluctance.\n\nThe family at length embarked, but neither Count Morano, nor Cavigni,\nwas of the party. Somewhat revived by observing this, Emily, when the\ngondolieri dashed their oars in the water, and put off from the steps\nof the portico, felt like a criminal, who receives a short reprieve. Her\nheart beat yet lighter, when they emerged from the canal into the ocean,\nand lighter still, when they skimmed past the walls of St. Mark, without\nhaving stopped to take up Count Morano.\n\nThe dawn now began to tint the horizon, and to break upon the shores of\nthe Adriatic. Emily did not venture to ask any questions of Montoni, who\nsat, for some time, in gloomy silence, and then rolled himself up in his\ncloak, as if to sleep, while Madame Montoni did the same; but Emily, who\ncould not sleep, undrew one of the little curtains of the gondola,\nand looked out upon the sea. The rising dawn now enlightened the\nmountain-tops of Friuli, but their lower sides, and the distant waves,\nthat rolled at their feet, were still in deep shadow. Emily, sunk in\ntranquil melancholy, watched the strengthening light spreading upon the\nocean, shewing successively Venice and her islets, and the shores of\nItaly, along which boats, with their pointed latin sails, began to move.\n\nThe gondolieri were frequently hailed, at this early hour, by the\nmarket-people, as they glided by towards Venice, and the lagune\nsoon displayed a gay scene of innumerable little barks, passing from\nterra-firma with provisions. Emily gave a last look to that splendid\ncity, but her mind was then occupied by considering the probable events,\nthat awaited her, in the scenes, to which she was removing, and with\nconjectures, concerning the motive of this sudden journey. It appeared,\nupon calmer consideration, that Montoni was removing her to his secluded\ncastle, because he could there, with more probability of success,\nattempt to terrify her into obedience; or, that, should its gloomy and\nsequestered scenes fail of this effect, her forced marriage with the\nCount could there be solemnized with the secrecy, which was necessary\nto the honour of Montoni. The little spirit, which this reprieve had\nrecalled, now began to fail, and, when Emily reached the shore, her mind\nhad sunk into all its former depression.\n\nMontoni did not embark on the Brenta, but pursued his way in carriages\nacross the country, towards the Apennine; during which journey, his\nmanner to Emily was so particularly severe, that this alone would have\nconfirmed her late conjecture, had any such confirmation been necessary.\nHer senses were now dead to the beautiful country, through which she\ntravelled. Sometimes she was compelled to smile at the naivete of\nAnnette, in her remarks on what she saw, and sometimes to sigh, as a\nscene of peculiar beauty recalled Valancourt to her thoughts, who was\nindeed seldom absent from them, and of whom she could never hope to hear\nin the solitude, to which she was hastening.\n\nAt length, the travellers began to ascend among the Apennines. The\nimmense pine-forests, which, at that period, overhung these mountains,\nand between which the road wound, excluded all view but of the cliffs\naspiring above, except, that, now and then, an opening through the dark\nwoods allowed the eye a momentary glimpse of the country below. The\ngloom of these shades, their solitary silence, except when the breeze\nswept over their summits, the tremendous precipices of the mountains,\nthat came partially to the eye, each assisted to raise the solemnity of\nEmily's feelings into awe; she saw only images of gloomy grandeur, or of\ndreadful sublimity, around her; other images, equally gloomy and equally\nterrible, gleamed on her imagination. She was going she scarcely\nknew whither, under the dominion of a person, from whose arbitrary\ndisposition she had already suffered so much, to marry, perhaps, a man\nwho possessed neither her affection, or esteem; or to endure, beyond the\nhope of succour, whatever punishment revenge, and that Italian revenge,\nmight dictate.--The more she considered what might be the motive of the\njourney, the more she became convinced, that it was for the purpose of\nconcluding her nuptials with Count Morano, with that secrecy, which\nher resolute resistance had made necessary to the honour, if not to\nthe safety, of Montoni. From the deep solitudes, into which she was\nimmerging, and from the gloomy castle, of which she had heard\nsome mysterious hints, her sick heart recoiled in despair, and she\nexperienced, that, though her mind was already occupied by peculiar\ndistress, it was still alive to the influence of new and local\ncircumstance; why else did she shudder at the idea of this desolate\ncastle?\n\nAs the travellers still ascended among the pine forests, steep rose over\nsteep, the mountains seemed to multiply, as they went, and what was the\nsummit of one eminence proved to be only the base of another. At length,\nthey reached a little plain, where the drivers stopped to rest the\nmules, whence a scene of such extent and magnificence opened below, as\ndrew even from Madame Montoni a note of admiration. Emily lost, for a\nmoment, her sorrows, in the immensity of nature. Beyond the amphitheatre\nof mountains, that stretched below, whose tops appeared as numerous\nalmost, as the waves of the sea, and whose feet were concealed by the\nforests--extended the campagna of Italy, where cities and rivers, and\nwoods and all the glow of cultivation were mingled in gay confusion. The\nAdriatic bounded the horizon, into which the Po and the Brenta, after\nwinding through the whole extent of the landscape, poured their fruitful\nwaves. Emily gazed long on the splendours of the world she was quitting,\nof which the whole magnificence seemed thus given to her sight only to\nincrease her regret on leaving it; for her, Valancourt alone was in that\nworld; to him alone her heart turned, and for him alone fell her bitter\ntears.\n\nFrom this sublime scene the travellers continued to ascend among the\npines, till they entered a narrow pass of the mountains, which shut out\nevery feature of the distant country, and, in its stead, exhibited only\ntremendous crags, impending over the road, where no vestige of humanity,\nor even of vegetation, appeared, except here and there the trunk and\nscathed branches of an oak, that hung nearly headlong from the rock,\ninto which its strong roots had fastened. This pass, which led into the\nheart of the Apennine, at length opened to day, and a scene of mountains\nstretched in long perspective, as wild as any the travellers had yet\npassed. Still vast pine-forests hung upon their base, and crowned the\nridgy precipice, that rose perpendicularly from the vale, while, above,\nthe rolling mists caught the sun-beams, and touched their cliffs\nwith all the magical colouring of light and shade. The scene seemed\nperpetually changing, and its features to assume new forms, as the\nwinding road brought them to the eye in different attitudes; while the\nshifting vapours, now partially concealing their minuter beauties and\nnow illuminating them with splendid tints, assisted the illusions of the\nsight.\n\nThough the deep vallies between these mountains were, for the most part,\nclothed with pines, sometimes an abrupt opening presented a perspective\nof only barren rocks, with a cataract flashing from their summit among\nbroken cliffs, till its waters, reaching the bottom, foamed along with\nunceasing fury; and sometimes pastoral scenes exhibited their 'green\ndelights' in the narrow vales, smiling amid surrounding horror. There\nherds and flocks of goats and sheep, browsing under the shade of hanging\nwoods, and the shepherd's little cabin, reared on the margin of a clear\nstream, presented a sweet picture of repose.\n\nWild and romantic as were these scenes, their character had far less\nof the sublime, that had those of the Alps, which guard the entrance\nof Italy. Emily was often elevated, but seldom felt those emotions\nof indescribable awe which she had so continually experienced, in her\npassage over the Alps.\n\nTowards the close of day, the road wound into a deep valley. Mountains,\nwhose shaggy steeps appeared to be inaccessible, almost surrounded\nit. To the east, a vista opened, that exhibited the Apennines in their\ndarkest horrors; and the long perspective of retiring summits, rising\nover each other, their ridges clothed with pines, exhibited a stronger\nimage of grandeur, than any that Emily had yet seen. The sun had just\nsunk below the top of the mountains she was descending, whose long\nshadow stretched athwart the valley, but his sloping rays, shooting\nthrough an opening of the cliffs, touched with a yellow gleam the\nsummits of the forest, that hung upon the opposite steeps, and streamed\nin full splendour upon the towers and battlements of a castle, that\nspread its extensive ramparts along the brow of a precipice above. The\nsplendour of these illumined objects was heightened by the contrasted\nshade, which involved the valley below.\n\n'There,' said Montoni, speaking for the first time in several hours, 'is\nUdolpho.'\n\nEmily gazed with melancholy awe upon the castle, which she understood to\nbe Montoni's; for, though it was now lighted up by the setting sun, the\ngothic greatness of its features, and its mouldering walls of dark grey\nstone, rendered it a gloomy and sublime object. As she gazed, the light\ndied away on its walls, leaving a melancholy purple tint, which spread\ndeeper and deeper, as the thin vapour crept up the mountain, while the\nbattlements above were still tipped with splendour. From those, too,\nthe rays soon faded, and the whole edifice was invested with the solemn\nduskiness of evening. Silent, lonely, and sublime, it seemed to stand\nthe sovereign of the scene, and to frown defiance on all, who dared to\ninvade its solitary reign. As the twilight deepened, its features\nbecame more awful in obscurity, and Emily continued to gaze, till its\nclustering towers were alone seen, rising over the tops of the woods,\nbeneath whose thick shade the carriages soon after began to ascend.\n\nThe extent and darkness of these tall woods awakened terrific images in\nher mind, and she almost expected to see banditti start up from under\nthe trees. At length, the carriages emerged upon a heathy rock, and,\nsoon after, reached the castle gates, where the deep tone of the portal\nbell, which was struck upon to give notice of their arrival, increased\nthe fearful emotions, that had assailed Emily. While they waited till\nthe servant within should come to open the gates, she anxiously\nsurveyed the edifice: but the gloom, that overspread it, allowed her to\ndistinguish little more than a part of its outline, with the massy walls\nof the ramparts, and to know, that it was vast, ancient and dreary. From\nthe parts she saw, she judged of the heavy strength and extent of the\nwhole. The gateway before her, leading into the courts, was of gigantic\nsize, and was defended by two round towers, crowned by overhanging\nturrets, embattled, where, instead of banners, now waved long grass and\nwild plants, that had taken root among the mouldering stones, and which\nseemed to sigh, as the breeze rolled past, over the desolation around\nthem. The towers were united by a curtain, pierced and embattled also,\nbelow which appeared the pointed arch of a huge portcullis, surmounting\nthe gates: from these, the walls of the ramparts extended to other\ntowers, overlooking the precipice, whose shattered outline, appearing on\na gleam, that lingered in the west, told of the ravages of war.--Beyond\nthese all was lost in the obscurity of evening.\n\nWhile Emily gazed with awe upon the scene, footsteps were heard within\nthe gates, and the undrawing of bolts; after which an ancient servant of\nthe castle appeared, forcing back the huge folds of the portal, to admit\nhis lord. As the carriage-wheels rolled heavily under the portcullis,\nEmily's heart sunk, and she seemed, as if she was going into her prison;\nthe gloomy court, into which she passed, served to confirm the idea,\nand her imagination, ever awake to circumstance, suggested even more\nterrors, than her reason could justify.\n\nAnother gate delivered them into the second court, grass-grown, and more\nwild than the first, where, as she surveyed through the twilight its\ndesolation--its lofty walls, overtopt with briony, moss and nightshade,\nand the embattled towers that rose above,--long-suffering and murder\ncame to her thoughts. One of those instantaneous and unaccountable\nconvictions, which sometimes conquer even strong minds, impressed her\nwith its horror. The sentiment was not diminished, when she entered an\nextensive gothic hall, obscured by the gloom of evening, which a light,\nglimmering at a distance through a long perspective of arches, only\nrendered more striking. As a servant brought the lamp nearer partial\ngleams fell upon the pillars and the pointed arches, forming a strong\ncontrast with their shadows, that stretched along the pavement and the\nwalls.\n\nThe sudden journey of Montoni had prevented his people from making any\nother preparations for his reception, than could be had in the short\ninterval, since the arrival of the servant, who had been sent forward\nfrom Venice; and this, in some measure, may account for the air of\nextreme desolation, that everywhere appeared.\n\nThe servant, who came to light Montoni, bowed in silence, and the\nmuscles of his countenance relaxed with no symptom of joy.--Montoni\nnoticed the salutation by a slight motion of his hand, and passed on,\nwhile his lady, following, and looking round with a degree of surprise\nand discontent, which she seemed fearful of expressing, and Emily,\nsurveying the extent and grandeur of the hall in timid wonder,\napproached a marble stair-case. The arches here opened to a lofty vault,\nfrom the centre of which hung a tripod lamp, which a servant was hastily\nlighting; and the rich fret-work of the roof, a corridor, leading into\nseveral upper apartments, and a painted window, stretching nearly from\nthe pavement to the ceiling of the hall, became gradually visible.\n\nHaving crossed the foot of the stair-case, and passed through an\nante-room, they entered a spacious apartment, whose walls, wainscoted\nwith black larch-wood, the growth of the neighbouring mountains, were\nscarcely distinguishable from darkness itself. 'Bring more light,'\nsaid Montoni, as he entered. The servant, setting down his lamp, was\nwithdrawing to obey him, when Madame Montoni observing, that the evening\nair of this mountainous region was cold, and that she should like a\nfire, Montoni ordered that wood might be brought.\n\nWhile he paced the room with thoughtful steps, and Madame Montoni sat\nsilently on a couch, at the upper end of it, waiting till the servant\nreturned, Emily was observing the singular solemnity and desolation of\nthe apartment, viewed, as it now was, by the glimmer of the single lamp,\nplaced near a large Venetian mirror, that duskily reflected the scene,\nwith the tall figure of Montoni passing slowly along, his arms folded,\nand his countenance shaded by the plume, that waved in his hat.\n\nFrom the contemplation of this scene, Emily's mind proceeded to the\napprehension of what she might suffer in it, till the remembrance of\nValancourt, far, far distant! came to her heart, and softened it into\nsorrow. A heavy sigh escaped her: but, trying to conceal her tears, she\nwalked away to one of the high windows, that opened upon the ramparts,\nbelow which, spread the woods she had passed in her approach to the\ncastle. But the night-shade sat deeply on the mountains beyond, and\ntheir indented outline alone could be faintly traced on the horizon,\nwhere a red streak yet glimmered in the west. The valley between was\nsunk in darkness.\n\nThe scene within, upon which Emily turned on the opening of the door,\nwas scarcely less gloomy. The old servant, who had received them at the\ngates, now entered, bending under a load of pine-branches, while two of\nMontoni's Venetian servants followed with lights.\n\n'Your excellenza is welcome to the castle,' said the old man, as he\nraised himself from the hearth, where he had laid the wood: 'it has been\na lonely place a long while; but you will excuse it, Signor, knowing we\nhad but short notice. It is near two years, come next feast of St. Mark,\nsince your excellenza was within these walls.'\n\n'You have a good memory, old Carlo,' said Montoni: 'it is there-about;\nand how hast thou contrived to live so long?'\n\n'A-well-a-day, sir, with much ado; the cold winds, that blow through the\ncastle in winter, are almost too much for me; and I thought sometimes of\nasking your excellenza to let me leave the mountains, and go down into\nthe lowlands. But I don't know how it is--I am loth to quit these old\nwalls I have lived in so long.'\n\n'Well, how have you gone on in the castle, since I left it?' said\nMontoni.\n\n'Why much as usual, Signor, only it wants a good deal of repairing.\nThere is the north tower--some of the battlements have tumbled down, and\nhad liked one day to have knocked my poor wife (God rest her soul!) on\nthe head. Your excellenza must know'--\n\n'Well, but the repairs,' interrupted Montoni.\n\n'Aye, the repairs,' said Carlo: 'a part of the roof of the great hall\nhas fallen in, and all the winds from the mountains rushed through it\nlast winter, and whistled through the whole castle so, that there was no\nkeeping one's self warm, be where one would. There, my wife and I used\nto sit shivering over a great fire in one corner of the little hall,\nready to die with cold, and'--\n\n'But there are no more repairs wanted,' said Montoni, impatiently.\n\n'O Lord! Your excellenza, yes--the wall of the rampart has tumbled down\nin three places; then, the stairs, that lead to the west gallery, have\nbeen a long time so bad, that it is dangerous to go up them; and the\npassage leading to the great oak chamber, that overhangs the north\nrampart--one night last winter I ventured to go there by myself, and\nyour excellenza'--\n\n'Well, well, enough of this,' said Montoni, with quickness: 'I will talk\nmore with thee to-morrow.'\n\nThe fire was now lighted; Carlo swept the hearth, placed chairs, wiped\nthe dust from a large marble table that stood near it, and then left the\nroom.\n\nMontoni and his family drew round the fire. Madame Montoni made several\nattempts at conversation, but his sullen answers repulsed her, while\nEmily sat endeavouring to acquire courage enough to speak to him. At\nlength, in a tremulous voice, she said, 'May I ask, sir, the motive\nof this sudden journey?'--After a long pause, she recovered sufficient\ncourage to repeat the question.\n\n'It does not suit me to answer enquiries,' said Montoni, 'nor does it\nbecome you to make them; time may unfold them all: but I desire I may\nbe no further harassed, and I recommend it to you to retire to your\nchamber, and to endeavour to adopt a more rational conduct, than that\nof yielding to fancies, and to a sensibility, which, to call it by the\ngentlest name, is only a weakness.'\n\nEmily rose to withdraw. 'Good night, madam,' said she to her aunt, with\nan assumed composure, that could not disguise her emotion.\n\n'Good night, my dear,' said Madame Montoni, in a tone of kindness, which\nher niece had never before heard from her; and the unexpected endearment\nbrought tears to Emily's eyes. She curtsied to Montoni, and was\nretiring; 'But you do not know the way to your chamber,' said her aunt.\nMontoni called the servant, who waited in the ante-room, and bade\nhim send Madame Montoni's woman, with whom, in a few minutes, Emily\nwithdrew.\n\n'Do you know which is my room?' said she to Annette, as they crossed the\nhall.\n\n'Yes, I believe I do, ma'amselle; but this is such a strange rambling\nplace! I have been lost in it already: they call it the double chamber,\nover the south rampart, and I went up this great stair-case to it. My\nlady's room is at the other end of the castle.'\n\nEmily ascended the marble staircase, and came to the corridor, as they\npassed through which, Annette resumed her chat--'What a wild lonely\nplace this is, ma'am! I shall be quite frightened to live in it. How\noften, and often have I wished myself in France again! I little thought,\nwhen I came with my lady to see the world, that I should ever be shut up\nin such a place as this, or I would never have left my own country!\nThis way, ma'amselle, down this turning. I can almost believe in giants\nagain, and such like, for this is just like one of their castles; and,\nsome night or other, I suppose I shall see fairies too, hopping about\nin that great old hall, that looks more like a church, with its huge\npillars, than any thing else.'\n\n'Yes,' said Emily, smiling, and glad to escape from more serious\nthought, 'if we come to the corridor, about midnight, and look down into\nthe hall, we shall certainly see it illuminated with a thousand lamps,\nand the fairies tripping in gay circles to the sound of delicious music;\nfor it is in such places as this, you know, that they come to hold\ntheir revels. But I am afraid, Annette, you will not be able to pay the\nnecessary penance for such a sight: and, if once they hear your voice,\nthe whole scene will vanish in an instant.'\n\n'O! if you will bear me company, ma'amselle, I will come to the\ncorridor, this very night, and I promise you I will hold my tongue; it\nshall not be my fault if the show vanishes.--But do you think they will\ncome?'\n\n'I cannot promise that with certainty, but I will venture to say, it\nwill not be your fault if the enchantment should vanish.'\n\n'Well, ma'amselle, that is saying more than I expected of you: but I am\nnot so much afraid of fairies, as of ghosts, and they say there are a\nplentiful many of them about the castle: now I should be frightened to\ndeath, if I should chance to see any of them. But hush! ma'amselle, walk\nsoftly! I have thought, several times, something passed by me.'\n\n'Ridiculous!' said Emily, 'you must not indulge such fancies.'\n\n'O ma'am! they are not fancies, for aught I know; Benedetto says these\ndismal galleries and halls are fit for nothing but ghosts to live\nin; and I verily believe, if I LIVE long in them I shall turn to one\nmyself!'\n\n'I hope,' said Emily, 'you will not suffer Signor Montoni to hear of\nthese weak fears; they would highly displease him.'\n\n'What, you know then, ma'amselle, all about it!' rejoined Annette. 'No,\nno, I do know better than to do so; though, if the Signor can sleep\nsound, nobody else in the castle has any right to lie awake, I am sure.'\nEmily did not appear to notice this remark.\n\n'Down this passage, ma'amselle; this leads to a back stair-case. O! if I\nsee any thing, I shall be frightened out of my wits!'\n\n'That will scarcely be possible,' said Emily smiling, as she followed\nthe winding of the passage, which opened into another gallery: and then\nAnnette, perceiving that she had missed her way, while she had been\nso eloquently haranguing on ghosts and fairies, wandered about through\nother passages and galleries, till, at length, frightened by their\nintricacies and desolation, she called aloud for assistance: but they\nwere beyond the hearing of the servants, who were on the other side of\nthe castle, and Emily now opened the door of a chamber on the left.\n\n'O! do not go in there, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'you will only lose\nyourself further.'\n\n'Bring the light forward,' said Emily, 'we may possibly find our way\nthrough these rooms.'\n\nAnnette stood at the door, in an attitude of hesitation, with the light\nheld up to shew the chamber, but the feeble rays spread through not half\nof it. 'Why do you hesitate?' said Emily, 'let me see whither this room\nleads.'\n\nAnnette advanced reluctantly. It opened into a suite of spacious and\nancient apartments, some of which were hung with tapestry, and others\nwainscoted with cedar and black larch-wood. What furniture there was,\nseemed to be almost as old as the rooms, and retained an appearance\nof grandeur, though covered with dust, and dropping to pieces with the\ndamps, and with age.\n\n'How cold these rooms are, ma'amselle!' said Annette: 'nobody has lived\nin them for many, many years, they say. Do let us go.'\n\n'They may open upon the great stair-case, perhaps,' said Emily, passing\non till she came to a chamber, hung with pictures, and took the light\nto examine that of a soldier on horseback in a field of battle.--He was\ndarting his spear upon a man, who lay under the feet of the horse, and\nwho held up one hand in a supplicating attitude. The soldier,\nwhose beaver was up, regarded him with a look of vengeance, and the\ncountenance, with that expression, struck Emily as resembling Montoni.\nShe shuddered, and turned from it. Passing the light hastily over\nseveral other pictures, she came to one concealed by a veil of black\nsilk. The singularity of the circumstance struck her, and she stopped\nbefore it, wishing to remove the veil, and examine what could thus\ncarefully be concealed, but somewhat wanting courage. 'Holy Virgin! what\ncan this mean?' exclaimed Annette. 'This is surely the picture they told\nme of at Venice.'\n\n'What picture?' said Emily. 'Why a picture--a picture,' replied Annette,\nhesitatingly--'but I never could make out exactly what it was about,\neither.'\n\n'Remove the veil, Annette.'\n\n'What! I, ma'amselle!--I! not for the world!' Emily, turning round, saw\nAnnette's countenance grow pale. 'And pray, what have you heard of\nthis picture, to terrify you so, my good girl?' said she. 'Nothing,\nma'amselle: I have heard nothing, only let us find our way out.'\n\n'Certainly: but I wish first to examine the picture; take the light,\nAnnette, while I lift the veil.' Annette took the light, and immediately\nwalked away with it, disregarding Emily's call to stay, who, not\nchoosing to be left alone in the dark chamber, at length followed her.\n'What is the reason of this, Annette?' said Emily, when she overtook\nher, 'what have you heard concerning that picture, which makes you so\nunwilling to stay when I bid you?'\n\n'I don't know what is the reason, ma'amselle, replied Annette, 'nor\nany thing about the picture, only I have heard there is something very\ndreadful belonging to it--and that it has been covered up in black EVER\nSINCE--and that nobody has looked at it for a great many years--and it\nsomehow has to do with the owner of this castle before Signor Montoni\ncame to the possession of it--and'---\n\n'Well, Annette,' said Emily, smiling, 'I perceive it is as you say--that\nyou know nothing about the picture.'\n\n'No, nothing, indeed, ma'amselle, for they made me promise never to\ntell:--but'--\n\n'Well,' rejoined Emily, who observed that she was struggling between\nher inclination to reveal a secret, and her apprehension for the\nconsequence, 'I will enquire no further'---\n\n'No, pray, ma'am, do not.'\n\n'Lest you should tell all,' interrupted Emily.\n\nAnnette blushed, and Emily smiled, and they passed on to the extremity\nof this suite of apartments, and found themselves, after some further\nperplexity, once more at the top of the marble stair-case, where Annette\nleft Emily, while she went to call one of the servants of the castle to\nshew them to the chamber, for which they had been seeking.\n\nWhile she was absent, Emily's thoughts returned to the picture; an\nunwillingness to tamper with the integrity of a servant, had checked her\nenquiries on this subject, as well as concerning some alarming hints,\nwhich Annette had dropped respecting Montoni; though her curiosity\nwas entirely awakened, and she had perceived, that her questions might\neasily be answered. She was now, however, inclined to go back to the\napartment and examine the picture; but the loneliness of the hour and\nof the place, with the melancholy silence that reigned around her,\nconspired with a certain degree of awe, excited by the mystery attending\nthis picture, to prevent her. She determined, however, when day-light\nshould have re-animated her spirits, to go thither and remove the veil.\nAs she leaned from the corridor, over the stair-case, and her eyes\nwandered round, she again observed, with wonder, the vast strength of\nthe walls, now somewhat decayed, and the pillars of solid marble, that\nrose from the hall, and supported the roof.\n\nA servant now appeared with Annette, and conducted Emily to her chamber,\nwhich was in a remote part of the castle, and at the very end of the\ncorridor, from whence the suite of apartments opened, through which they\nhad been wandering. The lonely aspect of her room made Emily unwilling\nthat Annette should leave her immediately, and the dampness of it\nchilled her with more than fear. She begged Caterina, the servant of the\ncastle, to bring some wood and light a fire.\n\n'Aye, lady, it's many a year since a fire was lighted here,' said\nCaterina.\n\n'You need not tell us that, good woman,' said Annette; 'every room in\nthe castle feels like a well. I wonder how you contrive to live here;\nfor my part, I wish myself at Venice again.' Emily waved her hand for\nCaterina to fetch the wood.\n\n'I wonder, ma'am, why they call this the double chamber?' said Annette,\nwhile Emily surveyed it in silence and saw that it was lofty and\nspacious, like the others she had seen, and, like many of them, too, had\nits walls lined with dark larch-wood. The bed and other furniture was\nvery ancient, and had an air of gloomy grandeur, like all that she\nhad seen in the castle. One of the high casements, which she opened,\noverlooked a rampart, but the view beyond was hid in darkness.\n\nIn the presence of Annette, Emily tried to support her spirits, and to\nrestrain the tears, which, every now and then, came to her eyes. She\nwished much to enquire when Count Morano was expected at the castle,\nbut an unwillingness to ask unnecessary questions, and to mention family\nconcerns to a servant, withheld her. Meanwhile, Annette's thoughts were\nengaged upon another subject: she dearly loved the marvellous, and\nhad heard of a circumstance, connected with the castle, that highly\ngratified this taste. Having been enjoined not to mention it, her\ninclination to tell it was so strong, that she was every instant on the\npoint of speaking what she had heard. Such a strange circumstance, too,\nand to be obliged to conceal it, was a severe punishment; but she knew,\nthat Montoni might impose one much severer, and she feared to incur it\nby offending him.\n\nCaterina now brought the wood, and its bright blaze dispelled, for a\nwhile, the gloom of the chamber. She told Annette, that her lady\nhad enquired for her, and Emily was once again left to her own sad\nreflections. Her heart was not yet hardened against the stern manners\nof Montoni, and she was nearly as much shocked now, as she had been when\nshe first witnessed them. The tenderness and affection, to which she had\nbeen accustomed, till she lost her parents, had made her particularly\nsensible to any degree of unkindness, and such a reverse as this no\napprehension had prepared her to support.\n\nTo call off her attention from subjects, that pressed heavily on her\nspirits, she rose and again examined her room and its furniture. As\nshe walked round it, she passed a door, that was not quite shut, and,\nperceiving, that it was not the one, through which she entered, she\nbrought the light forward to discover whither it led. She opened it,\nand, going forward, had nearly fallen down a steep, narrow stair-case\nthat wound from it, between two stone walls. She wished to know to what\nit led, and was the more anxious, since it communicated so immediately\nwith her apartment; but, in the present state of her spirits, she wanted\ncourage to venture into the darkness alone. Closing the door, therefore,\nshe endeavoured to fasten it, but, upon further examination, perceived,\nthat it had no bolts on the chamber side, though it had two on the\nother. By placing a heavy chair against it, she in some measure remedied\nthe defect; yet she was still alarmed at the thought of sleeping in this\nremote room alone, with a door opening she knew not whither, and which\ncould not be perfectly fastened on the inside. Sometimes she wished to\nentreat of Madame Montoni, that Annette might have leave to remain with\nher all night, but was deterred by an apprehension of betraying what\nwould be thought childish fears, and by an unwillingness to increase the\napt terrors of Annette.\n\nHer gloomy reflections were, soon after, interrupted by a footstep in\nthe corridor, and she was glad to see Annette enter with some supper,\nsent by Madame Montoni. Having a table near the fire, she made the good\ngirl sit down and sup with her; and, when their little repast was over,\nAnnette, encouraged by her kindness and stirring the wood into a blaze,\ndrew her chair upon the hearth, nearer to Emily, and said--'Did you ever\nhear, ma'amselle, of the strange accident, that made the Signor lord of\nthis castle?'\n\n'What wonderful story have you now to tell?' said Emily, concealing the\ncuriosity, occasioned by the mysterious hints she had formerly heard on\nthat subject.\n\n'I have heard all about it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, looking round\nthe chamber and drawing closer to Emily; 'Benedetto told it me as we\ntravelled together: says he, \"Annette, you don't know about this castle\nhere, that we are going to?\" No, says I, Mr. Benedetto, pray what do you\nknow? But, ma'amselle, you can keep a secret, or I would not tell it\nyou for the world; for I promised never to tell, and they say, that the\nSignor does not like to have it talked of.'\n\n'If you promised to keep this secret,' said Emily, 'you do right not to\nmention it.'\n\nAnnette paused a moment, and then said, 'O, but to you, ma'amselle, to\nyou I may tell it safely, I know.'\n\nEmily smiled, 'I certainly shall keep it as faithful as yourself,\nAnnette.'\n\nAnnette replied very gravely, that would do, and proceeded--'This\ncastle, you must know, ma'amselle, is very old, and very strong, and\nhas stood out many sieges as they say. Now it was not Signor Montoni's\nalways, nor his father's; no; but, by some law or other, it was to come\nto the Signor, if the lady died unmarried.'\n\n'What lady?' said Emily.\n\n'I am not come to that yet,' replied Annette, 'it is the lady I am going\nto tell you about, ma'amselle: but, as I was saying, this lady lived in\nthe castle, and had everything very grand about her, as you may suppose,\nma'amselle. The Signor used often to come to see her, and was in love\nwith her, and offered to marry her; for, though he was somehow related,\nthat did not signify. But she was in love with somebody else, and would\nnot have him, which made him very angry, as they say, and you know,\nma'amselle, what an ill-looking gentleman he is, when he is angry.\nPerhaps she saw him in a passion, and therefore would not have him. But,\nas I was saying, she was very melancholy and unhappy, and all that, for\na long while, and--Holy Virgin! what noise is that? did not you hear a\nsound, ma'amselle?'\n\n'It was only the wind,' said Emily, 'but do come to the end of your\nstory.'\n\n'As I was saying--O, where was I?--as I was saying--she was very\nmelancholy and unhappy a long while, and used to walk about upon the\nterrace, there, under the windows, by herself, and cry so! it would have\ndone your heart good to hear her. That is--I don't mean good, but it\nwould have made you cry too, as they tell me.'\n\n'Well, but, Annette, do tell me the substance of your tale.'\n\n'All in good time, ma'am; all this I heard before at Venice, but what is\nto come I never heard till to-day. This happened a great many years ago,\nwhen Signor Montoni was quite a young man. The lady--they called her\nSignora Laurentini, was very handsome, but she used to be in great\npassions, too, sometimes, as well as the Signor. Finding he could not\nmake her listen to him--what does he do, but leave the castle, and never\ncomes near it for a long time! but it was all one to her; she was just\nas unhappy whether he was here or not, till one evening, Holy St. Peter!\nma'amselle,' cried Annette, 'look at that lamp, see how blue it burns!'\nShe looked fearfully round the chamber. 'Ridiculous girl!' said Emily,\n'why will you indulge those fancies? Pray let me hear the end of your\nstory, I am weary.'\n\nAnnette still kept her eyes on the lamp, and proceeded in a lower voice.\n'It was one evening, they say, at the latter end of the year, it\nmight be about the middle of September, I suppose, or the beginning of\nOctober; nay, for that matter, it might be November, for that, too, is\nthe latter end of the year, but that I cannot say for certain, because\nthey did not tell me for certain themselves. However, it was at the\nlatter end of the year, this grand lady walked out of the castle into\nthe woods below, as she had often done before, all alone, only her maid\nwas with her. The wind blew cold, and strewed the leaves about, and\nwhistled dismally among those great old chesnut trees, that we passed,\nma'amselle, as we came to the castle--for Benedetto shewed me the\ntrees as he was talking--the wind blew cold, and her woman would have\npersuaded her to return: but all would not do, for she was fond of\nwalking in the woods, at evening time, and, if the leaves were falling\nabout her, so much the better.\n\n'Well, they saw her go down among the woods, but night came, and she\ndid not return: ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock came, and no\nlady! Well, the servants thought to be sure, some accident had befallen\nher, and they went out to seek her. They searched all night long, but\ncould not find her, or any trace of her; and, from that day to this,\nma'amselle, she has never been heard of.'\n\n'Is this true, Annette?' said Emily, in much surprise.\n\n'True, ma'am!' said Annette, with a look of horror, 'yes, it is true,\nindeed. But they do say,' she added, lowering her voice, 'they do say,\nthat the Signora has been seen, several times since, walking in the\nwoods and about the castle in the night: several of the old servants,\nwho remained here some time after, declare they saw her; and, since\nthen, she has been seen by some of the vassals, who have happened to be\nin the castle, at night. Carlo, the old steward, could tell such things,\nthey say, if he would.'\n\n'How contradictory is this, Annette!' said Emily, 'you say nothing has\nbeen since known of her, and yet she has been seen!'\n\n'But all this was told me for a great secret,' rejoined Annette, without\nnoticing the remark, 'and I am sure, ma'am, you would not hurt either\nme or Benedetto, so much as to go and tell it again.' Emily remained\nsilent, and Annette repeated her last sentence.\n\n'You have nothing to fear from my indiscretion,' replied Emily, 'and let\nme advise you, my good Annette, be discreet yourself, and never mention\nwhat you have just told me to any other person. Signor Montoni, as\nyou say, may be angry if he hears of it. But what inquiries were made\nconcerning the lady?'\n\n'O! a great deal, indeed, ma'amselle, for the Signor laid claim to the\ncastle directly, as being the next heir, and they said, that is, the\njudges, or the senators, or somebody of that sort, said, he could not\ntake possession of it till so many years were gone by, and then, if,\nafter all, the lady could not be found, why she would be as good as\ndead, and the castle would be his own; and so it is his own. But the\nstory went round, and many strange reports were spread, so very strange,\nma'amselle, that I shall not tell them.'\n\n'That is stranger still, Annette,' said Emily, smiling, and rousing\nherself from her reverie. 'But, when Signora Laurentini was afterwards\nseen in the castle, did nobody speak to her?'\n\n'Speak--speak to her!' cried Annette, with a look of terror; 'no, to be\nsure.'\n\n'And why not?' rejoined Emily, willing to hear further.\n\n'Holy Mother! speak to a spirit!'\n\n'But what reason had they to conclude it was a spirit, unless they had\napproached, and spoken to it?' 'O ma'amselle, I cannot tell. How can you\nask such shocking questions? But nobody ever saw it come in, or go out\nof the castle; and it was in one place now, and then the next minute in\nquite another part of the castle; and then it never spoke, and, if it\nwas alive, what should it do in the castle if it never spoke? Several\nparts of the castle have never been gone into since, they say, for that\nvery reason.'\n\n'What, because it never spoke?' said Emily, trying to laugh away the\nfears that began to steal upon her.--'No, ma'amselle, no;' replied\nAnnette, rather angrily 'but because something has been seen there. They\nsay, too, there is an old chapel adjoining the west side of the castle,\nwhere, any time at midnight, you may hear such groans!--it makes one\nshudder to think of them!--and strange sights have been seen there--'\n\n'Pr'ythee, Annette, no more of these silly tales,' said Emily.\n\n'Silly tales, ma'amselle! O, but I will tell you one story about this,\nif you please, that Caterina told me. It was one cold winter's night\nthat Caterina (she often came to the castle then, she says, to keep old\nCarlo and his wife company, and so he recommended her afterwards to the\nSignor, and she has lived here ever since) Caterina was sitting with\nthem in the little hall, says Carlo, \"I wish we had some of those figs\nto roast, that lie in the store-closet, but it is a long way off, and I\nam loath to fetch them; do, Caterina,\" says he, \"for you are young and\nnimble, do bring us some, the fire is in nice trim for roasting them;\nthey lie,\" says he, \"in such a corner of the store-room, at the end of\nthe north-gallery; here, take the lamp,\" says he, \"and mind, as you go\nup the great stair-case, that the wind, through the roof, does not blow\nit out.\" So, with that, Caterina took the lamp--Hush! ma'amselle, I\nsurely heard a noise!'\n\nEmily, whom Annette had now infected with her own terrors, listened\nattentively; but every thing was still, and Annette proceeded:\n\n'Caterina went to the north-gallery, that is the wide gallery we passed,\nma'am, before we came to the corridor, here. As she went with the lamp\nin her hand, thinking of nothing at all--There, again!' cried Annette\nsuddenly--'I heard it again!--it was not fancy, ma'amselle!'\n\n'Hush!' said Emily, trembling. They listened, and, continuing to sit\nquite still, Emily heard a low knocking against the wall. It came\nrepeatedly. Annette then screamed loudly, and the chamber door slowly\nopened.--It was Caterina, come to tell Annette, that her lady wanted\nher. Emily, though she now perceived who it was, could not immediately\novercome her terror; while Annette, half laughing, half crying, scolded\nCaterina heartily for thus alarming them; and was also terrified lest\nwhat she had told had been overheard.--Emily, whose mind was deeply\nimpressed by the chief circumstance of Annette's relation, was unwilling\nto be left alone, in the present state of her spirits; but, to avoid\noffending Madame Montoni, and betraying her own weakness, she struggled\nto overcome the illusions of fear, and dismissed Annette for the night.\n\nWhen she was alone, her thoughts recurred to the strange history of\nSignora Laurentini and then to her own strange situation, in the wild\nand solitary mountains of a foreign country, in the castle, and the\npower of a man, to whom, only a few preceding months, she was an entire\nstranger; who had already exercised an usurped authority over her, and\nwhose character she now regarded, with a degree of terror, apparently\njustified by the fears of others. She knew, that he had invention equal\nto the conception and talents to the execution of any project, and\nshe greatly feared he had a heart too void of feeling to oppose the\nperpetration of whatever his interest might suggest. She had long\nobserved the unhappiness of Madame Montoni, and had often been witness\nto the stern and contemptuous behaviour she received from her husband.\nTo these circumstances, which conspired to give her just cause for\nalarm, were now added those thousand nameless terrors, which exist only\nin active imaginations, and which set reason and examination equally at\ndefiance.\n\nEmily remembered all that Valancourt had told her, on the eve of her\ndeparture from Languedoc, respecting Montoni, and all that he had said\nto dissuade her from venturing on the journey. His fears had often since\nappeared to her prophetic--now they seemed confirmed. Her heart, as\nit gave her back the image of Valancourt, mourned in vain regret, but\nreason soon came with a consolation which, though feeble at first,\nacquired vigour from reflection. She considered, that, whatever might be\nher sufferings, she had withheld from involving him in misfortune, and\nthat, whatever her future sorrows could be, she was, at least, free from\nself-reproach.\n\nHer melancholy was assisted by the hollow sighings of the wind along the\ncorridor and round the castle. The cheerful blaze of the wood had long\nbeen extinguished, and she sat with her eyes fixed on the dying embers,\ntill a loud gust, that swept through the corridor, and shook the doors\nand casements, alarmed her, for its violence had moved the chair she had\nplaced as a fastening, and the door, leading to the private stair-case\nstood half open. Her curiosity and her fears were again awakened. She\ntook the lamp to the top of the steps, and stood hesitating whether to\ngo down; but again the profound stillness and the gloom of the place\nawed her, and, determining to enquire further, when day-light might\nassist the search, she closed the door, and placed against it a stronger\nguard.\n\nShe now retired to her bed, leaving the lamp burning on the table; but\nits gloomy light, instead of dispelling her fear, assisted it; for,\nby its uncertain rays, she almost fancied she saw shapes flit past her\ncurtains and glide into the remote obscurity of her chamber.--The castle\nclock struck one before she closed her eyes to sleep.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\n      I think it is the weakness of mine eyes,\n That shapes this monstrous apparition.\n It comes upon me!\n      JULIUS CAESAR\n\nDaylight dispelled from Emily's mind the glooms of superstition, but\nnot those of apprehension. The Count Morano was the first image, that\noccurred to her waking thoughts, and then came a train of anticipated\nevils, which she could neither conquer, nor avoid. She rose, and, to\nrelieve her mind from the busy ideas, that tormented it, compelled\nherself to notice external objects. From her casement she looked out\nupon the wild grandeur of the scene, closed nearly on all sides by\nalpine steeps, whose tops, peeping over each other, faded from the eye\nin misty hues, while the promontories below were dark with woods, that\nswept down to their base, and stretched along the narrow vallies. The\nrich pomp of these woods was particularly delightful to Emily; and she\nviewed with astonishment the fortifications of the castle spreading\nalong a vast extent of rock, and now partly in decay, the grandeur of\nthe ramparts below, and the towers and battlements and various features\nof the fabric above. From these her sight wandered over the cliffs and\nwoods into the valley, along which foamed a broad and rapid stream, seen\nfalling among the crags of an opposite mountain, now flashing in the\nsun-beams, and now shadowed by over-arching pines, till it was entirely\nconcealed by their thick foliage. Again it burst from beneath this\ndarkness in one broad sheet of foam, and fell thundering into the vale.\nNearer, towards the west, opened the mountain-vista, which Emily had\nviewed with such sublime emotion, on her approach to the castle: a thin\ndusky vapour, that rose from the valley, overspread its features with a\nsweet obscurity. As this ascended and caught the sun-beams, it kindled\ninto a crimson tint, and touched with exquisite beauty the woods and\ncliffs, over which it passed to the summit of the mountains; then, as\nthe veil drew up, it was delightful to watch the gleaming objects, that\nprogressively disclosed themselves in the valley--the green turf--dark\nwoods--little rocky recesses--a few peasants' huts--the foaming\nstream--a herd of cattle, and various images of pastoral beauty. Then,\nthe pine-forests brightened, and then the broad breast of the mountains,\ntill, at length, the mist settled round their summit, touching them with\na ruddy glow. The features of the vista now appeared distinctly, and the\nbroad deep shadows, that fell from the lower cliffs, gave strong effect\nto the streaming splendour above; while the mountains, gradually sinking\nin the perspective, appeared to shelve into the Adriatic sea, for such\nEmily imagined to be the gleam of blueish light, that terminated the\nview.\n\nThus she endeavoured to amuse her fancy, and was not unsuccessful.\nThe breezy freshness of the morning, too, revived her. She raised her\nthoughts in prayer, which she felt always most disposed to do, when\nviewing the sublimity of nature, and her mind recovered its strength.\n\nWhen she turned from the casement, her eyes glanced upon the door she\nhad so carefully guarded, on the preceding night, and she now determined\nto examine whither it led; but, on advancing to remove the chairs,\nshe perceived, that they were already moved a little way. Her surprise\ncannot be easily imagined, when, in the next minute, she perceived that\nthe door was fastened.--She felt, as if she had seen an apparition. The\ndoor of the corridor was locked as she had left it, but this door, which\ncould be secured only on the outside, must have been bolted, during the\nnight. She became seriously uneasy at the thought of sleeping again in\na chamber, thus liable to intrusion, so remote, too, as it was from\nthe family, and she determined to mention the circumstance to Madame\nMontoni, and to request a change.\n\nAfter some perplexity she found her way into the great hall, and to the\nroom, which she had left, on the preceding night, where breakfast was\nspread, and her aunt was alone, for Montoni had been walking over the\nenvirons of the castle, examining the condition of its fortifications,\nand talking for some time with Carlo. Emily observed that her aunt had\nbeen weeping, and her heart softened towards her, with an affection,\nthat shewed itself in her manner, rather than in words, while she\ncarefully avoided the appearance of having noticed, that she was\nunhappy. She seized the opportunity of Montoni's absence to mention the\ncircumstance of the door, to request that she might be allowed another\napartment, and to enquire again, concerning the occasion of their\nsudden journey. On the first subject her aunt referred her to Montoni,\npositively refusing to interfere in the affair; on the last, she\nprofessed utter ignorance.\n\nEmily, then, with a wish of making her aunt more reconciled to her\nsituation, praised the grandeur of the castle and the surrounding\nscenery, and endeavoured to soften every unpleasing circumstance\nattending it. But, though misfortune had somewhat conquered the\nasperities of Madame Montoni's temper, and, by increasing her cares\nfor herself, had taught her to feel in some degree for others, the\ncapricious love of rule, which nature had planted and habit had\nnourished in her heart, was not subdued. She could not now deny herself\nthe gratification of tyrannizing over the innocent and helpless Emily,\nby attempting to ridicule the taste she could not feel.\n\nHer satirical discourse was, however, interrupted by the entrance of\nMontoni, and her countenance immediately assumed a mingled expression of\nfear and resentment, while he seated himself at the breakfast-table, as\nif unconscious of there being any person but himself in the room.\n\nEmily, as she observed him in silence, saw, that his countenance was\ndarker and sterner than usual. 'O could I know,' said she to herself,\n'what passes in that mind; could I know the thoughts, that are known\nthere, I should no longer be condemned to this torturing suspense!'\nTheir breakfast passed in silence, till Emily ventured to request, that\nanother apartment might be allotted to her, and related the circumstance\nwhich made her wish it.\n\n'I have no time to attend to these idle whims,' said Montoni, 'that\nchamber was prepared for you, and you must rest contented with it. It\nis not probable, that any person would take the trouble of going to that\nremote stair-case, for the purpose of fastening a door. If it was not\nfastened, when you entered the chamber, the wind, perhaps, shook the\ndoor and made the bolts slide. But I know not why I should undertake to\naccount for so trifling an occurrence.'\n\nThis explanation was by no means satisfactory to Emily, who had\nobserved, that the bolts were rusted, and consequently could not be thus\neasily moved; but she forbore to say so, and repeated her request.\n\n\n'If you will not release yourself from the slavery of these fears,' said\nMontoni, sternly, 'at least forbear to torment others by the mention\nof them. Conquer such whims, and endeavour to strengthen your mind. No\nexistence is more contemptible than that, which is embittered by fear.'\nAs he said this, his eye glanced upon Madame Montoni, who coloured\nhighly, but was still silent. Emily, wounded and disappointed, thought\nher fears were, in this instance, too reasonable to deserve ridicule;\nbut, perceiving, that, however they might oppress her, she must endure\nthem, she tried to withdraw her attention from the subject.\n\nCarlo soon after entered with some fruit:\n\n'Your excellenza is tired after your long ramble,' said he, as he set\nthe fruit upon the table; 'but you have more to see after breakfast.\nThere is a place in the vaulted passage leading to--'\n\nMontoni frowned upon him, and waved his hand for him to leave the\nroom. Carlo stopped, looked down, and then added, as he advanced to the\nbreakfast-table, and took up the basket of fruit, 'I made bold, your\nexcellenza, to bring some cherries, here, for my honoured lady and\nmy young mistress. Will your ladyship taste them, madam?' said Carlo,\npresenting the basket, 'they are very fine ones, though I gathered them\nmyself, and from an old tree, that catches all the south sun; they are\nas big as plums, your ladyship.'\n\n'Very well, old Carlo,' said Madame Montoni; 'I am obliged to you.'\n\n'And the young Signora, too, she may like some of them,' rejoined Carlo,\nturning with the basket to Emily, 'it will do me good to see her eat\nsome.'\n\n'Thank you, Carlo,' said Emily, taking some cherries, and smiling\nkindly.\n\n'Come, come,' said Montoni, impatiently, 'enough of this. Leave the\nroom, but be in waiting. I shall want you presently.'\n\nCarlo obeyed, and Montoni, soon after, went out to examine further into\nthe state of the castle; while Emily remained with her aunt, patiently\nenduring her ill humour, and endeavouring, with much sweetness, to\nsoothe her affliction, instead of resenting its effect.\n\nWhen Madame Montoni retired to her dressing-room, Emily endeavoured to\namuse herself by a view of the castle. Through a folding door she passed\nfrom the great hall to the ramparts, which extended along the brow of\nthe precipice, round three sides of the edifice; the fourth was guarded\nby the high walls of the courts, and by the gateway, through which\nshe had passed, on the preceding evening. The grandeur of the broad\nramparts, and the changing scenery they overlooked, excited her high\nadmiration; for the extent of the terraces allowed the features of the\ncountry to be seen in such various points of view, that they appeared to\nform new landscapes. She often paused to examine the gothic magnificence\nof Udolpho, its proud irregularity, its lofty towers and battlements,\nits high-arched casements, and its slender watch-towers, perched upon\nthe corners of turrets. Then she would lean on the wall of the terrace,\nand, shuddering, measure with her eye the precipice below, till the\ndark summits of the woods arrested it. Wherever she turned, appeared\nmountain-tops, forests of pine and narrow glens, opening among the\nApennines and retiring from the sight into inaccessible regions.\n\nWhile she thus leaned, Montoni, followed by two men, appeared, ascending\na winding path, cut in the rock below. He stopped upon a cliff, and,\npointing to the ramparts, turned to his followers, and talked with much\neagerness of gesticulation.--Emily perceived, that one of these men was\nCarlo; the other was in the dress of a peasant, and he alone seemed to\nbe receiving the directions of Montoni.\n\nShe withdrew from the walls, and pursued her walk, till she heard at\na distance the sound of carriage wheels, and then the loud bell of\nthe portal, when it instantly occurred to her, that Count Morano was\narrived. As she hastily passed the folding doors from the terrace,\ntowards her own apartment, several persons entered the hall by an\nopposite door. She saw them at the extremities of the arcades, and\nimmediately retreated; but the agitation of her spirits, and the extent\nand duskiness of the hall, had prevented her from distinguishing the\npersons of the strangers. Her fears, however, had but one object, and\nthey had called up that object to her fancy:--she believed that she had\nseen Count Morano.\n\nWhen she thought that they had passed the hall, she ventured again to\nthe door, and proceeded, unobserved, to her room, where she remained,\nagitated with apprehensions, and listening to every distant sound. At\nlength, hearing voices on the rampart, she hastened to her window,\nand observed Montoni, with Signor Cavigni, walking below, conversing\nearnestly, and often stopping and turning towards each other, at which\ntime their discourse seemed to be uncommonly interesting.\n\nOf the several persons who had appeared in the hall, here was Cavigni\nalone: but Emily's alarm was soon after heightened by the steps of some\none in the corridor, who, she apprehended, brought a message from the\nCount. In the next moment, Annette appeared.\n\n'Ah! ma'amselle,' said she, 'here is the Signor Cavigni arrived! I am\nsure I rejoiced to see a christian person in this place; and then he is\nso good natured too, he always takes so much notice of me!--And here is\nalso Signor Verezzi, and who do you think besides, ma'amselle?'\n\n'I cannot guess, Annette; tell me quickly.'\n\n'Nay, ma'am, do guess once.'\n\n'Well, then,' said Emily, with assumed composure, 'it is--Count Morano,\nI suppose.'\n\n'Holy Virgin!' cried Annette, 'are you ill, ma'amselle? you are going to\nfaint! let me get some water.'\n\nEmily sunk into a chair. 'Stay, Annette,' said she, feebly, 'do not\nleave me--I shall soon be better; open the casement.--The Count, you\nsay--he is come, then?'\n\n'Who, I!--the Count! No, ma'amselle, I did not say so.' 'He is NOT come\nthen?' said Emily eagerly. 'No, ma'amselle.'\n\n'You are sure of it?'\n\n'Lord bless me!' said Annette, 'you recover very suddenly, ma'am! why, I\nthought you was dying, just now.'\n\n'But the Count--you are sure, is not come?'\n\n'O yes, quite sure of that, ma'amselle. Why, I was looking out through\nthe grate in the north turret, when the carriages drove into the\ncourt-yard, and I never expected to see such a goodly sight in this\ndismal old castle! but here are masters and servants, too, enough to\nmake the place ring again. O! I was ready to leap through the rusty old\nbars for joy!--O! who would ever have thought of seeing a christian\nface in this huge dreary house? I could have kissed the very horses that\nbrought them.'\n\n'Well, Annette, well, I am better now.'\n\n'Yes, ma'amselle, I see you are. O! all the servants will lead merry\nlives here, now; we shall have singing and dancing in the little hall,\nfor the Signor cannot hear us there--and droll stories--Ludovico's come,\nma'am; yes, there is Ludovico come with them! You remember Ludovico,\nma'am--a tall, handsome young man--Signor Cavigni's lacquey--who always\nwears his cloak with such a grace, thrown round his left arm, and his\nhat set on so smartly, all on one side, and--'\n\n'No,' said Emily, who was wearied by her loquacity.\n\n'What, ma'amselle, don't you remember Ludovico--who rowed the\nCavaliero's gondola, at the last regatta, and won the prize? And\nwho used to sing such sweet verses about Orlandos and about the\nBlack-a-moors, too; and Charly--Charly--magne, yes, that was the name,\nall under my lattice, in the west portico, on the moon-light nights at\nVenice? O! I have listened to him!'---\n\n'I fear, to thy peril, my good Annette,' said Emily; 'for it seems his\nverses have stolen thy heart. But let me advise you; if it is so, keep\nthe secret; never let him know it.'\n\n'Ah--ma'amselle!--how can one keep such a secret as that?'\n\n'Well, Annette, I am now so much better, that you may leave me.'\n\n'O, but, ma'amselle, I forgot to ask--how did you sleep in this\ndreary old chamber last night?'--'As well as usual.'--'Did you hear\nno noises?'--'None.'--'Nor see anything?'--'Nothing.'--'Well, that is\nsurprising!'--'Not in the least: and now tell me, why you ask these\nquestions.'\n\n'O, ma'amselle! I would not tell you for the world, nor all I have heard\nabout this chamber, either; it would frighten you so.'\n\n'If that is all, you have frightened me already, and may therefore tell\nme what you know, without hurting your conscience.'\n\n'O Lord! they say the room is haunted, and has been so these many\nyears.'\n\n'It is by a ghost, then, who can draw bolts,' said Emily, endeavouring\nto laugh away her apprehensions; 'for I left the door open, last night,\nand found it fastened this morning.'\n\nAnnette turned pale, and said not a word.\n\n'Do you know whether any of the servants fastened this door in the\nmorning, before I rose?'\n\n'No, ma'am, that I will be bound they did not; but I don't know: shall\nI go and ask, ma'amselle?' said Annette, moving hastily towards the\ncorridor.\n\n'Stay, Annette, I have another question to ask; tell me what you have\nheard concerning this room, and whither that stair-case leads.'\n\n'I will go and ask it all directly, ma'am; besides, I am sure my lady\nwants me. I cannot stay now, indeed, ma'am.'\n\nShe hurried from the room, without waiting Emily's reply, whose heart,\nlightened by the certainty, that Morano was not arrived, allowed her\nto smile at the superstitious terror, which had seized on Annette; for,\nthough she sometimes felt its influence herself, she could smile at it,\nwhen apparent in other persons.\n\nMontoni having refused Emily another chamber, she determined to bear\nwith patience the evil she could not remove, and, in order to make the\nroom as comfortable as possible, unpacked her books, her sweet delight\nin happier days, and her soothing resource in the hours of moderate\nsorrow: but there were hours when even these failed of their effect;\nwhen the genius, the taste, the enthusiasm of the sublimest writers were\nfelt no longer.\n\nHer little library being arranged on a high chest, part of the furniture\nof the room, she took out her drawing utensils, and was tranquil enough\nto be pleased with the thought of sketching the sublime scenes, beheld\nfrom her windows; but she suddenly checked this pleasure, remembering\nhow often she had soothed herself by the intention of obtaining\namusement of this kind, and had been prevented by some new circumstance\nof misfortune.\n\n'How can I suffer myself to be deluded by hope,' said she, 'and, because\nCount Morano is not yet arrived, feel a momentary happiness? Alas! what\nis it to me, whether he is here to-day, or to-morrow, if he comes at\nall?--and that he will come--it were weakness to doubt.'\n\nTo withdraw her thoughts, however, from the subject of her misfortunes,\nshe attempted to read, but her attention wandered from the page, and,\nat length, she threw aside the book, and determined to explore the\nadjoining chambers of the castle. Her imagination was pleased with the\nview of ancient grandeur, and an emotion of melancholy awe awakened all\nits powers, as she walked through rooms, obscure and desolate, where no\nfootsteps had passed probably for many years, and remembered the strange\nhistory of the former possessor of the edifice. This brought to her\nrecollection the veiled picture, which had attracted her curiosity,\non the preceding night, and she resolved to examine it. As she passed\nthrough the chambers, that led to this, she found herself somewhat\nagitated; its connection with the late lady of the castle, and the\nconversation of Annette, together with the circumstance of the veil,\nthrowing a mystery over the subject, that excited a faint degree of\nterror. But a terror of this nature, as it occupies and expands the\nmind, and elevates it to high expectation, is purely sublime, and leads\nus, by a kind of fascination, to seek even the object, from which we\nappear to shrink.\n\nEmily passed on with faltering steps, and having paused a moment at\nthe door, before she attempted to open it, she then hastily entered the\nchamber, and went towards the picture, which appeared to be enclosed\nin a frame of uncommon size, that hung in a dark part of the room.\nShe paused again, and then, with a timid hand, lifted the veil; but\ninstantly let it fall--perceiving that what it had concealed was no\npicture, and, before she could leave the chamber, she dropped senseless\non the floor.\n\nWhen she recovered her recollection, the remembrance of what she had\nseen had nearly deprived her of it a second time. She had scarcely\nstrength to remove from the room, and regain her own; and, when arrived\nthere, wanted courage to remain alone. Horror occupied her mind, and\nexcluded, for a time, all sense of past, and dread of future misfortune:\nshe seated herself near the casement, because from thence she heard\nvoices, though distant, on the terrace, and might see people pass, and\nthese, trifling as they were, were reviving circumstances. When her\nspirits had recovered their tone, she considered, whether she should\nmention what she had seen to Madame Montoni, and various and important\nmotives urged her to do so, among which the least was the hope of the\nrelief, which an overburdened mind finds in speaking of the subject of\nits interest. But she was aware of the terrible consequences, which such\na communication might lead to; and, dreading the indiscretion of her\naunt, at length, endeavoured to arm herself with resolution to observe a\nprofound silence, on the subject. Montoni and Verezzi soon after passed\nunder the casement, speaking cheerfully, and their voices revived her.\nPresently the Signors Bertolini and Cavigni joined the party on the\nterrace, and Emily, supposing that Madame Montoni was then alone, went\nto seek her; for the solitude of her chamber, and its proximity to that\nwhere she had received so severe a shock, again affected her spirit.\n\nShe found her aunt in her dressing-room, preparing for dinner. Emily's\npale and affrighted countenance alarmed even Madame Montoni; but she had\nsufficient strength of mind to be silent on the subject, that still made\nher shudder, and which was ready to burst from her lips. In her aunt's\napartment she remained, till they both descended to dinner. There she\nmet the gentlemen lately arrived, who had a kind of busy seriousness in\ntheir looks, which was somewhat unusual with them, while their thoughts\nseemed too much occupied by some deep interest, to suffer them to bestow\nmuch attention either on Emily, or Madame Montoni. They spoke little,\nand Montoni less. Emily, as she now looked on him, shuddered. The horror\nof the chamber rushed on her mind. Several times the colour faded from\nher cheeks, and she feared, that illness would betray her emotions,\nand compel her to leave the room; but the strength of her resolution\nremedied the weakness of her frame; she obliged herself to converse, and\neven tried to look cheerful.\n\nMontoni evidently laboured under some vexation, such as would probably\nhave agitated a weaker mind, or a more susceptible heart, but which\nappeared, from the sternness of his countenance, only to bend up his\nfaculties to energy and fortitude.\n\nIt was a comfortless and silent meal. The gloom of the castle seemed to\nhave spread its contagion even over the gay countenance of Cavigni, and\nwith this gloom was mingled a fierceness, such as she had seldom seen\nhim indicate. Count Morano was not named, and what conversation there\nwas, turned chiefly upon the wars, which at that time agitated the\nItalian states, the strength of the Venetian armies, and the characters\nof their generals.\n\nAfter dinner, when the servants had withdrawn, Emily learned, that the\ncavalier, who had drawn upon himself the vengeance of Orsino, had since\ndied of his wounds, and that strict search was still making for his\nmurderer. The intelligence seemed to disturb Montoni, who mused, and\nthen enquired, where Orsino had concealed himself. His guests, who all,\nexcept Cavigni, were ignorant, that Montoni had himself assisted him\nto escape from Venice, replied, that he had fled in the night with such\nprecipitation and secrecy, that his most intimate companions knew not\nwhither. Montoni blamed himself for having asked the question, for a\nsecond thought convinced him, that a man of Orsino's suspicious temper\nwas not likely to trust any of the persons present with the knowledge\nof his asylum. He considered himself, however, as entitled to his utmost\nconfidence, and did not doubt, that he should soon hear of him.\n\nEmily retired with Madame Montoni, soon after the cloth was withdrawn,\nand left the cavaliers to their secret councils, but not before the\nsignificant frowns of Montoni had warned his wife to depart, who passed\nfrom the hall to the ramparts, and walked, for some time, in silence,\nwhich Emily did not interrupt, for her mind was also occupied by\ninterests of its own. It required all her resolution, to forbear\ncommunicating to Madame Montoni the terrible subject, which still\nthrilled her every nerve with horror; and sometimes she was on the point\nof doing so, merely to obtain the relief of a moment; but she knew\nhow wholly she was in the power of Montoni, and, considering, that the\nindiscretion of her aunt might prove fatal to them both, she compelled\nherself to endure a present and an inferior evil, rather than to tempt a\nfuture and a heavier one. A strange kind of presentiment frequently, on\nthis day, occurred to her;--it seemed as if her fate rested here, and\nwas by some invisible means connected with this castle.\n\n'Let me not accelerate it,' said she to herself: 'for whatever I may be\nreserved, let me, at least, avoid self-reproach.'\n\nAs she looked on the massy walls of the edifice, her melancholy spirits\nrepresented it to be her prison; and she started as at a new suggestion,\nwhen she considered how far distant she was from her native country,\nfrom her little peaceful home, and from her only friend--how remote was\nher hope of happiness, how feeble the expectation of again seeing him!\nYet the idea of Valancourt, and her confidence in his faithful love, had\nhitherto been her only solace, and she struggled hard to retain them.\nA few tears of agony started to her eyes, which she turned aside to\nconceal.\n\nWhile she afterwards leaned on the wall of the rampart, some peasants,\nat a little distance, were seen examining a breach, before which lay\na heap of stones, as if to repair it, and a rusty old cannon, that\nappeared to have fallen from its station above. Madame Montoni stopped\nto speak to the men, and enquired what they were going to do. 'To repair\nthe fortifications, your ladyship,' said one of them; a labour which\nshe was somewhat surprised, that Montoni should think necessary,\nparticularly since he had never spoken of the castle, as of a place, at\nwhich he meant to reside for any considerable time; but she passed on\ntowards a lofty arch, that led from the south to the east rampart,\nand which adjoined the castle, on one side, while, on the other, it\nsupported a small watch-tower, that entirely commanded the deep valley\nbelow. As she approached this arch, she saw, beyond it, winding along\nthe woody descent of a distant mountain, a long troop of horse and foot,\nwhom she knew to be soldiers, only by the glitter of their pikes and\nother arms, for the distance did not allow her to discover the colour\nof their liveries. As she gazed, the vanguard issued from the woods into\nthe valley, but the train still continued to pour over the remote\nsummit of the mountain, in endless succession; while, in the front,\nthe military uniform became distinguishable, and the commanders, riding\nfirst, and seeming, by their gestures, to direct the march of those that\nfollowed, at length, approached very near to the castle.\n\nSuch a spectacle, in these solitary regions, both surprised and alarmed\nMadame Montoni, and she hastened towards some peasants, who were\nemployed in raising bastions before the south rampart, where the rock\nwas less abrupt than elsewhere. These men could give no satisfactory\nanswers to her enquiries, but, being roused by them, gazed in stupid\nastonishment upon the long cavalcade. Madame Montoni, then thinking it\nnecessary to communicate further the object of her alarm, sent Emily to\nsay, that she wished to speak to Montoni; an errand her niece did not\napprove, for she dreaded his frowns, which she knew this message would\nprovoke; but she obeyed in silence.\n\nAs she drew near the apartment, in which he sat with his guests,\nshe heard them in earnest and loud dispute, and she paused a moment,\ntrembling at the displeasure, which her sudden interruption would\noccasion. In the next, their voices sunk all together; she then ventured\nto open the door, and, while Montoni turned hastily and looked at her,\nwithout speaking, she delivered her message.\n\n'Tell Madam Montoni I am engaged,' said he.\n\nEmily then thought it proper to mention the subject of her alarm.\nMontoni and his companions rose instantly and went to the windows, but,\nthese not affording them a view of the troops, they at length proceeded\nto the ramparts, where Cavigni conjectured it to be a legion of\ncondottieri, on their march towards Modena.\n\nOne part of the cavalcade now extended along the valley, and another\nwound among the mountains towards the north, while some troops still\nlingered on the woody precipices, where the first had appeared, so that\nthe great length of the procession seemed to include an whole army.\nWhile Montoni and his family watched its progress, they heard the sound\nof trumpets and the clash of cymbals in the vale, and then others,\nanswering from the heights. Emily listened with emotion to the shrill\nblast, that woke the echoes of the mountains, and Montoni explained the\nsignals, with which he appeared to be well acquainted, and which meant\nnothing hostile. The uniforms of the troops, and the kind of arms\nthey bore, confirmed to him the conjecture of Cavigni, and he had the\nsatisfaction to see them pass by, without even stopping to gaze upon his\ncastle. He did not, however, leave the rampart, till the bases of\nthe mountains had shut them from his view, and the last murmur of the\ntrumpet floated away on the wind. Cavigni and Verezzi were inspirited\nby this spectacle, which seemed to have roused all the fire of their\ntemper; Montoni turned into the castle in thoughtful silence.\n\nEmily's mind had not yet sufficiently recovered from its late shock,\nto endure the loneliness of her chamber, and she remained upon the\nramparts; for Madame Montoni had not invited her to her dressing-room,\nwhither she had gone evidently in low spirits, and Emily, from her\nlate experience, had lost all wish to explore the gloomy and mysterious\nrecesses of the castle. The ramparts, therefore, were almost her only\nretreat, and here she lingered, till the gray haze of evening was again\nspread over the scene.\n\nThe cavaliers supped by themselves, and Madame Montoni remained in her\napartment, whither Emily went, before she retired to her own. She found\nher aunt weeping, and in much agitation. The tenderness of Emily was\nnaturally so soothing, that it seldom failed to give comfort to the\ndrooping heart: but Madame Montoni's was torn, and the softest accents\nof Emily's voice were lost upon it. With her usual delicacy, she did\nnot appear to observe her aunt's distress, but it gave an involuntary\ngentleness to her manners, and an air of solicitude to her countenance,\nwhich Madame Montoni was vexed to perceive, who seemed to feel the pity\nof her niece to be an insult to her pride, and dismissed her as soon\nas she properly could. Emily did not venture to mention again the\nreluctance she felt to her gloomy chamber, but she requested that\nAnnette might be permitted to remain with her till she retired to rest;\nand the request was somewhat reluctantly granted. Annette, however, was\nnow with the servants, and Emily withdrew alone.\n\nWith light and hasty steps she passed through the long galleries, while\nthe feeble glimmer of the lamp she carried only shewed the gloom\naround her, and the passing air threatened to extinguish it. The lonely\nsilence, that reigned in this part of the castle, awed her; now and\nthen, indeed, she heard a faint peal of laughter rise from a remote part\nof the edifice, where the servants were assembled, but it was soon lost,\nand a kind of breathless stillness remained. As she passed the suite of\nrooms which she had visited in the morning, her eyes glanced fearfully\non the door, and she almost fancied she heard murmuring sounds within,\nbut she paused not a moment to enquire.\n\nHaving reached her own apartment, where no blazing wood on the\nhearth dissipated the gloom, she sat down with a book, to enliven her\nattention, till Annette should come, and a fire could be kindled. She\ncontinued to read till her light was nearly expired, but Annette did not\nappear, and the solitude and obscurity of her chamber again affected her\nspirits, the more, because of its nearness to the scene of horror, that\nshe had witnessed in the morning. Gloomy and fantastic images came to\nher mind. She looked fearfully towards the door of the stair-case, and\nthen, examining whether it was still fastened, found that it was so.\nUnable to conquer the uneasiness she felt at the prospect of sleeping\nagain in this remote and insecure apartment, which some person seemed to\nhave entered during the preceding night, her impatience to see Annette,\nwhom she had bidden to enquire concerning this circumstance, became\nextremely painful. She wished also to question her, as to the object,\nwhich had excited so much horror in her own mind, and which Annette on\nthe preceding evening had appeared to be in part acquainted with, though\nher words were very remote from the truth, and it appeared plainly to\nEmily, that the girl had been purposely misled by a false report: above\nall she was surprised, that the door of the chamber, which contained\nit, should be left unguarded. Such an instance of negligence almost\nsurpassed belief. But her light was now expiring; the faint flashes it\nthrew upon the walls called up all the terrors of fancy, and she rose\nto find her way to the habitable part of the castle, before it was quite\nextinguished. As she opened the chamber door, she heard remote voices,\nand, soon after, saw a light issue upon the further end of the corridor,\nwhich Annette and another servant approached. 'I am glad you are\ncome,' said Emily: 'what has detained you so long? Pray light me a fire\nimmediately.'\n\n'My lady wanted me, ma'amselle,' replied Annette in some confusion; 'I\nwill go and get the wood.'\n\n'No,' said Caterina, 'that is my business,' and left the room instantly,\nwhile Annette would have followed; but, being called back, she began\nto talk very loud, and laugh, and seemed afraid to trust a pause of\nsilence.\n\nCaterina soon returned with the wood, and then, when the cheerful blaze\nonce more animated the room, and this servant had withdrawn, Emily\nasked Annette, whether she had made the enquiry she bade her. 'Yes,\nma'amselle,' said Annette, 'but not a soul knows any thing about the\nmatter: and old Carlo--I watched him well, for they say he knows strange\nthings--old Carlo looked so as I don't know how to tell, and he asked me\nagain and again, if I was sure the door was ever unfastened. Lord, says\nI--am I sure I am alive? And as for me, ma'am, I am all astounded, as\none may say, and would no more sleep in this chamber, than I would on\nthe great cannon at the end of the east rampart.'\n\n'And what objection have you to that cannon, more than to any of the\nrest?' said Emily smiling: 'the best would be rather a hard bed.'\n\n'Yes, ma'amselle, any of them would be hard enough for that matter; but\nthey do say, that something has been seen in the dead of night, standing\nbeside the great cannon, as if to guard it.'\n\n'Well! my good Annette, the people who tell such stories, are happy in\nhaving you for an auditor, for I perceive you believe them all.'\n\n'Dear ma'amselle! I will shew you the very cannon; you can see it from\nthese windows!'\n\n'Well,' said Emily, 'but that does not prove, that an apparition guards\nit.'\n\n'What! not if I shew you the very cannon! Dear ma'am, you will believe\nnothing.'\n\n'Nothing probably upon this subject, but what I see,' said\nEmily.--'Well, ma'am, but you shall see it, if you will only step this\nway to the casement.'--Emily could not forbear laughing, and Annette\nlooked surprised. Perceiving her extreme aptitude to credit the\nmarvellous, Emily forbore to mention the subject she had intended, lest\nit should overcome her with idle terrors, and she began to speak on a\nlively topic--the regattas of Venice.\n\n'Aye, ma'amselle, those rowing matches,' said Annette, 'and the fine\nmoon-light nights, are all, that are worth seeing in Venice. To be sure\nthe moon is brighter than any I ever saw; and then to hear such sweet\nmusic, too, as Ludovico has often and often sung under the lattice by\nthe west portico! Ma'amselle, it was Ludovico, that told me about that\npicture, which you wanted so to look at last night, and---'\n\n'What picture?' said Emily, wishing Annette to explain herself.\n\n'O! that terrible picture with the black veil over it.'\n\n'You never saw it, then?' said Emily.\n\n'Who, I!--No, ma'amselle, I never did. But this morning,' continued\nAnnette, lowering her voice, and looking round the room, 'this morning,\nas it was broad daylight, do you know, ma'am, I took a strange fancy to\nsee it, as I had heard such odd hints about it, and I got as far as the\ndoor, and should have opened it, if it had not been locked!'\n\nEmily, endeavouring to conceal the emotion this circumstance occasioned,\nenquired at what hour she went to the chamber, and found, that it was\nsoon after herself had been there. She also asked further questions, and\nthe answers convinced her, that Annette, and probably her informer, were\nignorant of the terrible truth, though in Annette's account something\nvery like the truth, now and then, mingled with the falsehood. Emily now\nbegan to fear, that her visit to the chamber had been observed, since\nthe door had been closed, so immediately after her departure; and\ndreaded lest this should draw upon her the vengeance of Montoni. Her\nanxiety, also, was excited to know whence, and for what purpose, the\ndelusive report, which had been imposed upon Annette, had originated,\nsince Montoni could only have wished for silence and secrecy; but she\nfelt, that the subject was too terrible for this lonely hour, and she\ncompelled herself to leave it, to converse with Annette, whose chat,\nsimple as it was, she preferred to the stillness of total solitude.\n\nThus they sat, till near midnight, but not without many hints from\nAnnette, that she wished to go. The embers were now nearly burnt out;\nand Emily heard, at a distance, the thundering sound of the hall doors,\nas they were shut for the night. She, therefore, prepared for rest, but\nwas still unwilling that Annette should leave her. At this instant, the\ngreat bell of the portal sounded. They listened in fearful expectation,\nwhen, after a long pause of silence, it sounded again. Soon after, they\nheard the noise of carriage wheels in the court-yard. Emily sunk almost\nlifeless in her chair; 'It is the Count,' said she.\n\n'What, at this time of night, ma'am!' said Annette: 'no, my dear lady.\nBut, for that matter, it is a strange time of night for any body to\ncome!'\n\n'Nay, pr'ythee, good Annette, stay not talking,' said Emily in a voice\nof agony--'Go, pr'ythee, go, and see who it is.'\n\nAnnette left the room, and carried with her the light, leaving Emily in\ndarkness, which a few moments before would have terrified her in this\nroom, but was now scarcely observed by her. She listened and waited, in\nbreathless expectation, and heard distant noises, but Annette did not\nreturn. Her patience, at length, exhausted, she tried to find her way\nto the corridor, but it was long before she could touch the door of the\nchamber, and, when she had opened it, the total darkness without made\nher fear to proceed. Voices were now heard, and Emily even thought she\ndistinguished those of Count Morano, and Montoni. Soon after, she\nheard steps approaching, and then a ray of light streamed through the\ndarkness, and Annette appeared, whom Emily went to meet.\n\n'Yes, ma'amselle,' said she, 'you was right, it is the Count sure\nenough.'\n\n'It is he!' exclaimed Emily, lifting her eyes towards heaven and\nsupporting herself by Annette's arm.\n\n'Good Lord! my dear lady, don't be in such a FLUSTER, and look so pale,\nwe shall soon hear more.'\n\n'We shall, indeed!' said Emily, moving as fast as she was able towards\nher apartment. 'I am not well; give me air.' Annette opened a casement,\nand brought water. The faintness soon left Emily, but she desired\nAnnette would not go till she heard from Montoni.\n\n'Dear ma'amselle! he surely will not disturb you at this time of night;\nwhy he must think you are asleep.'\n\n'Stay with me till I am so, then,' said Emily, who felt temporary relief\nfrom this suggestion, which appeared probable enough, though her fears\nhad prevented its occurring to her. Annette, with secret reluctance,\nconsented to stay, and Emily was now composed enough to ask her some\nquestions; among others, whether she had seen the Count.\n\n'Yes, ma'am, I saw him alight, for I went from hence to the grate in the\nnorth turret, that overlooks the inner court-yard, you know. There I\nsaw the Count's carriage, and the Count in it, waiting at the great\ndoor,--for the porter was just gone to bed--with several men on\nhorseback all by the light of the torches they carried.' Emily was\ncompelled to smile. 'When the door was opened, the Count said something,\nthat I could not make out, and then got out, and another gentleman with\nhim. I thought, to be sure, the Signor was gone to bed, and I hastened\naway to my lady's dressing-room, to see what I could hear. But in the\nway I met Ludovico, and he told me that the Signor was up, counselling\nwith his master and the other Signors, in the room at the end of the\nnorth gallery; and Ludovico held up his finger, and laid it on his lips,\nas much as to say--There is more going on, than you think of, Annette,\nbut you must hold your tongue. And so I did hold my tongue, ma'amselle,\nand came away to tell you directly.'\n\nEmily enquired who the cavalier was, that accompanied the Count, and how\nMontoni received them; but Annette could not inform her.\n\n'Ludovico,' she added, 'had just been to call Signor Montoni's valet,\nthat he might tell him they were arrived, when I met him.'\n\nEmily sat musing, for some time, and then her anxiety was so much\nincreased, that she desired Annette would go to the servants' hall,\nwhere it was possible she might hear something of the Count's intention,\nrespecting his stay at the castle.\n\n'Yes, ma'am,' said Annette with readiness; 'but how am I to find the\nway, if I leave the lamp with you?'\n\nEmily said she would light her, and they immediately quitted the\nchamber. When they had reached the top of the great stair-case, Emily\nrecollected, that she might be seen by the Count, and, to avoid the\ngreat hall, Annette conducted her through some private passages to a\nback stair-case, which led directly to that of the servants.\n\nAs she returned towards her chamber, Emily began to fear, that she\nmight again lose herself in the intricacies of the castle, and again\nbe shocked by some mysterious spectacle; and, though she was already\nperplexed by the numerous turnings, she feared to open one of the many\ndoors that offered. While she stepped thoughtfully along, she fancied,\nthat she heard a low moaning at no great distance, and, having paused a\nmoment, she heard it again and distinctly. Several doors appeared on the\nright hand of the passage. She advanced, and listened. When she came to\nthe second, she heard a voice, apparently in complaint, within, to which\nshe continued to listen, afraid to open the door, and unwilling to\nleave it. Convulsive sobs followed, and then the piercing accents of an\nagonizing spirit burst forth. Emily stood appalled, and looked through\nthe gloom, that surrounded her, in fearful expectation. The lamentations\ncontinued. Pity now began to subdue terror; it was possible she might\nadminister comfort to the sufferer, at least, by expressing sympathy,\nand she laid her hand on the door. While she hesitated she thought\nshe knew this voice, disguised as it was by tones of grief. Having,\ntherefore, set down the lamp in the passage, she gently opened the door,\nwithin which all was dark, except that from an inner apartment a partial\nlight appeared; and she stepped softly on. Before she reached it, the\nappearance of Madame Montoni, leaning on her dressing-table, weeping,\nand with a handkerchief held to her eyes, struck her, and she paused.\n\nSome person was seated in a chair by the fire, but who it was she could\nnot distinguish. He spoke, now and then, in a low voice, that did not\nallow Emily to hear what was uttered, but she thought, that Madame\nMontoni, at those times, wept the more, who was too much occupied by her\nown distress, to observe Emily, while the latter, though anxious to know\nwhat occasioned this, and who was the person admitted at so late an\nhour to her aunt's dressing-room, forbore to add to her sufferings by\nsurprising her, or to take advantage of her situation, by listening to a\nprivate discourse. She, therefore, stepped softly back, and, after\nsome further difficulty, found the way to her own chamber, where nearer\ninterests, at length, excluded the surprise and concern she had felt,\nrespecting Madame Montoni.\n\nAnnette, however, returned without satisfactory intelligence, for the\nservants, among whom she had been, were either entirely ignorant, or\naffected to be so, concerning the Count's intended stay at the castle.\nThey could talk only of the steep and broken road they had just passed,\nand of the numerous dangers they had escaped and express wonder how\ntheir lord could choose to encounter all these, in the darkness of\nnight; for they scarcely allowed, that the torches had served for any\nother purpose but that of shewing the dreariness of the mountains.\nAnnette, finding she could gain no information, left them, making noisy\npetitions, for more wood on the fire and more supper on the table.\n\n'And now, ma'amselle,' added she, 'I am so sleepy!--I am sure, if you\nwas so sleepy, you would not desire me to sit up with you.'\n\nEmily, indeed, began to think it was cruel to wish it; she had also\nwaited so long, without receiving a summons from Montoni, that it\nappeared he did not mean to disturb her, at this late hour, and she\ndetermined to dismiss Annette. But, when she again looked round her\ngloomy chamber, and recollected certain circumstances, fear seized her\nspirits, and she hesitated.\n\n'And yet it were cruel of me to ask you to stay, till I am asleep,\nAnnette,' said she, 'for I fear it will be very long before I forget\nmyself in sleep.'\n\n'I dare say it will be very long, ma'amselle,' said Annette.\n\n'But, before you go,' rejoined Emily, 'let me ask you--Had Signor\nMontoni left Count Morano, when you quitted the hall?'\n\n'O no, ma'am, they were alone together.'\n\n'Have you been in my aunt's dressing-room, since you left me?'\n\n'No, ma'amselle, I called at the door as I passed, but it was fastened;\nso I thought my lady was gone to bed.'\n\n'Who, then, was with your lady just now?' said Emily, forgetting, in\nsurprise, her usual prudence.\n\n'Nobody, I believe, ma'am,' replied Annette, 'nobody has been with her,\nI believe, since I left you.'\n\nEmily took no further notice of the subject, and, after some struggle\nwith imaginary fears, her good nature prevailed over them so far, that\nshe dismissed Annette for the night. She then sat, musing upon her own\ncircumstances and those of Madame Montoni, till her eye rested on the\nminiature picture, which she had found, after her father's death, among\nthe papers he had enjoined her to destroy. It was open upon the table,\nbefore her, among some loose drawings, having, with them, been taken out\nof a little box by Emily, some hours before. The sight of it called\nup many interesting reflections, but the melancholy sweetness of the\ncountenance soothed the emotions, which these had occasioned. It was\nthe same style of countenance as that of her late father, and, while\nshe gazed on it with fondness on this account, she even fancied\na resemblance in the features. But this tranquillity was suddenly\ninterrupted, when she recollected the words in the manuscript, that had\nbeen found with this picture, and which had formerly occasioned her\nso much doubt and horror. At length, she roused herself from the deep\nreverie, into which this remembrance had thrown her; but, when she rose\nto undress, the silence and solitude, to which she was left, at this\nmidnight hour, for not even a distant sound was now heard, conspired\nwith the impression the subject she had been considering had given to\nher mind, to appall her. Annette's hints, too, concerning this chamber,\nsimple as they were, had not failed to affect her, since they followed\na circumstance of peculiar horror, which she herself had witnessed, and\nsince the scene of this was a chamber nearly adjoining her own.\n\nThe door of the stair-case was, perhaps, a subject of more reasonable\nalarm, and she now began to apprehend, such was the aptitude of her\nfears, that this stair-case had some private communication with the\napartment, which she shuddered even to remember. Determined not to\nundress, she lay down to sleep in her clothes, with her late father's\ndog, the faithful MANCHON, at the foot of the bed, whom she considered\nas a kind of guard.\n\nThus circumstanced, she tried to banish reflection, but her busy fancy\nwould still hover over the subjects of her interest, and she heard the\nclock of the castle strike two, before she closed her eyes.\n\nFrom the disturbed slumber, into which she then sunk, she was soon\nawakened by a noise, which seemed to arise within her chamber; but the\nsilence, that prevailed, as she fearfully listened, inclined her to\nbelieve, that she had been alarmed by such sounds as sometimes occur in\ndreams, and she laid her head again upon the pillow.\n\nA return of the noise again disturbed her; it seemed to come from that\npart of the room, which communicated with the private stair-case, and\nshe instantly remembered the odd circumstance of the door having been\nfastened, during the preceding night, by some unknown hand. Her late\nalarming suspicion, concerning its communication, also occurred to her.\nHer heart became faint with terror. Half raising herself from the bed,\nand gently drawing aside the curtain, she looked towards the door of the\nstair-case, but the lamp, that burnt on the hearth, spread so feeble a\nlight through the apartment, that the remote parts of it were lost in\nshadow. The noise, however, which, she was convinced, came from the\ndoor, continued. It seemed like that made by the undrawing of rusty\nbolts, and often ceased, and was then renewed more gently, as if the\nhand, that occasioned it, was restrained by a fear of discovery.\n\nWhile Emily kept her eyes fixed on the spot, she saw the door move,\nand then slowly open, and perceived something enter the room, but the\nextreme duskiness prevented her distinguishing what it was. Almost\nfainting with terror, she had yet sufficient command over herself, to\ncheck the shriek, that was escaping from her lips, and, letting the\ncurtain drop from her hand, continued to observe in silence the motions\nof the mysterious form she saw. It seemed to glide along the remote\nobscurity of the apartment, then paused, and, as it approached the\nhearth, she perceived, in the stronger light, what appeared to be a\nhuman figure. Certain remembrances now struck upon her heart, and almost\nsubdued the feeble remains of her spirits; she continued, however, to\nwatch the figure, which remained for some time motionless, but then,\nadvancing slowly towards the bed, stood silently at the feet, where\nthe curtains, being a little open, allowed her still to see it; terror,\nhowever, had now deprived her of the power of discrimination, as well as\nof that of utterance.\n\nHaving continued there a moment, the form retreated towards the hearth,\nwhen it took the lamp, held it up, surveyed the chamber, for a few\nmoments, and then again advanced towards the bed. The light at that\ninstant awakening the dog, that had slept at Emily's feet, he barked\nloudly, and, jumping to the floor, flew at the stranger, who struck the\nanimal smartly with a sheathed sword, and, springing towards the bed,\nEmily discovered--Count Morano!\n\nShe gazed at him for a moment in speechless affright, while he, throwing\nhimself on his knee at the bed-side, besought her to fear nothing,\nand, having thrown down his sword, would have taken her hand, when the\nfaculties, that terror had suspended, suddenly returned, and she\nsprung from the bed, in the dress, which surely a kind of prophetic\napprehension had prevented her, on this night, from throwing aside.\n\nMorano rose, followed her to the door, through which he had entered,\nand caught her hand, as she reached the top of the stair-case, but not\nbefore she had discovered, by the gleam of a lamp, another man half-way\ndown the steps. She now screamed in despair, and, believing herself\ngiven up by Montoni, saw, indeed, no possibility of escape.\n\nThe Count, who still held her hand, led her back into the chamber.\n\n'Why all this terror?' said he, in a tremulous voice. 'Hear me, Emily: I\ncome not to alarm you; no, by Heaven! I love you too well--too well for\nmy own peace.'\n\nEmily looked at him for a moment, in fearful doubt.\n\n'Then leave me, sir,' said she, 'leave me instantly.'\n\n'Hear me, Emily,' resumed Morano, 'hear me! I love, and am in\ndespair--yes--in despair. How can I gaze upon you, and know, that it\nis, perhaps, for the last time, without suffering all the phrensy of\ndespair? But it shall not be so; you shall be mine, in spite of Montoni\nand all his villany.'\n\n'In spite of Montoni!' cried Emily eagerly: 'what is it I hear?'\n\n'You hear, that Montoni is a villain,' exclaimed Morano with\nvehemence,--'a villain who would have sold you to my love!--Who---'\n\n'And is he less, who would have bought me?' said Emily, fixing on the\nCount an eye of calm contempt. 'Leave the room, sir, instantly,' she\ncontinued in a voice, trembling between joy and fear, 'or I will alarm\nthe family, and you may receive that from Signor Montoni's vengeance,\nwhich I have vainly supplicated from his pity.' But Emily knew, that she\nwas beyond the hearing of those, who might protect her.\n\n'You can never hope any thing from his pity,' said Morano, 'he has used\nme infamously, and my vengeance shall pursue him. And for you, Emily,\nfor you, he has new plans more profitable than the last, no doubt.'\nThe gleam of hope, which the Count's former speech had revived, was\nnow nearly extinguished by the latter; and, while Emily's countenance\nbetrayed the emotions of her mind, he endeavoured to take advantage of\nthe discovery.\n\n'I lose time,' said he: 'I came not to exclaim against Montoni; I came\nto solicit, to plead--to Emily; to tell her all I suffer, to entreat\nher to save me from despair, and herself from destruction. Emily! the\nschemes of Montoni are insearchable, but, I warn you, they are terrible;\nhe has no principle, when interest, or ambition leads. Can I love you,\nand abandon you to his power? Fly, then, fly from this gloomy prison,\nwith a lover, who adores you! I have bribed a servant of the castle to\nopen the gates, and, before tomorrow's dawn, you shall be far on the way\nto Venice.'\n\nEmily, overcome by the sudden shock she had received, at the moment,\ntoo, when she had begun to hope for better days, now thought she saw\ndestruction surround her on every side. Unable to reply, and almost to\nthink, she threw herself into a chair, pale and breathless. That Montoni\nhad formerly sold her to Morano, was very probable; that he had now\nwithdrawn his consent to the marriage, was evident from the Count's\npresent conduct; and it was nearly certain, that a scheme of stronger\ninterest only could have induced the selfish Montoni to forego a plan,\nwhich he had hitherto so strenuously pursued. These reflections made her\ntremble at the hints, which Morano had just given, which she no longer\nhesitated to believe; and, while she shrunk from the new scenes of\nmisery and oppression, that might await her in the castle of Udolpho,\nshe was compelled to observe, that almost her only means of escaping\nthem was by submitting herself to the protection of this man, with whom\nevils more certain and not less terrible appeared,--evils, upon which\nshe could not endure to pause for an instant.\n\nHer silence, though it was that of agony, encouraged the hopes of\nMorano, who watched her countenance with impatience, took again the\nresisting hand she had withdrawn, and, as he pressed it to his heart,\nagain conjured her to determine immediately. 'Every moment we lose, will\nmake our departure more dangerous,' said he: 'these few moments lost may\nenable Montoni to overtake us.'\n\n'I beseech you, sir, be silent,' said Emily faintly: 'I am indeed very\nwretched, and wretched I must remain. Leave me--I command you, leave me\nto my fate.'\n\n'Never!' cried the Count vehemently: 'let me perish first! But forgive\nmy violence! the thought of losing you is madness. You cannot\nbe ignorant of Montoni's character, you may be ignorant of his\nschemes--nay, you must be so, or you would not hesitate between my love\nand his power.'\n\n'Nor do I hesitate,' said Emily.\n\n'Let us go, then,' said Morano, eagerly kissing her hand, and rising,\n'my carriage waits, below the castle walls.'\n\n'You mistake me, sir,' said Emily. 'Allow me to thank you for the\ninterest you express in my welfare, and to decide by my own choice. I\nshall remain under the protection of Signor Montoni.'\n\n'Under his protection!' exclaimed Morano, proudly, 'his PROTECTION!\nEmily, why will you suffer yourself to be thus deluded? I have already\ntold you what you have to expect from his PROTECTION.'\n\n'And pardon me, sir, if, in this instance, I doubt mere assertion, and,\nto be convinced, require something approaching to proof.'\n\n'I have now neither the time, or the means of adducing proof,' replied\nthe Count.\n\n'Nor have I, sir, the inclination to listen to it, if you had.'\n\n'But you trifle with my patience and my distress,' continued Morano. 'Is\na marriage with a man, who adores you, so very terrible in your eyes,\nthat you would prefer to it all the misery, to which Montoni may\ncondemn you in this remote prison? Some wretch must have stolen those\naffections, which ought to be mine, or you would not thus obstinately\npersist in refusing an offer, that would place you beyond the reach\nof oppression.' Morano walked about the room, with quick steps, and a\ndisturbed air.\n\n'This discourse, Count Morano, sufficiently proves, that my affections\nought not to be yours,' said Emily, mildly, 'and this conduct, that\nI should not be placed beyond the reach of oppression, so long as I\nremained in your power. If you wish me to believe otherwise, cease to\noppress me any longer by your presence. If you refuse this, you will\ncompel me to expose you to the resentment of Signor Montoni.'\n\n'Yes, let him come,' cried Morano furiously, 'and brave MY resentment!\nLet him dare to face once more the man he has so courageously injured;\ndanger shall teach him morality, and vengeance justice--let him come,\nand receive my sword in his heart!'\n\nThe vehemence, with which this was uttered, gave Emily new cause of\nalarm, who arose from her chair, but her trembling frame refused to\nsupport her, and she resumed her seat;--the words died on her lips, and,\nwhen she looked wistfully towards the door of the corridor, which was\nlocked, she considered it was impossible for her to leave the apartment,\nbefore Morano would be apprised of, and able to counteract, her\nintention.\n\nWithout observing her agitation, he continued to pace the room in the\nutmost perturbation of spirits. His darkened countenance expressed\nall the rage of jealousy and revenge; and a person, who had seen his\nfeatures under the smile of ineffable tenderness, which he so lately\nassumed, would now scarcely have believed them to be the same.\n\n'Count Morano,' said Emily, at length recovering her voice, 'calm, I\nentreat you, these transports, and listen to reason, if you will not to\npity. You have equally misplaced your love, and your hatred.--I never\ncould have returned the affection, with which you honour me, and\ncertainly have never encouraged it; neither has Signor Montoni injured\nyou, for you must have known, that he had no right to dispose of my\nhand, had he even possessed the power to do so. Leave, then, leave\nthe castle, while you may with safety. Spare yourself the dreadful\nconsequences of an unjust revenge, and the remorse of having prolonged\nto me these moments of suffering.'\n\n'Is it for mine, or for Montoni's safety, that you are thus alarmed?'\nsaid Morano, coldly, and turning towards her with a look of acrimony.\n\n'For both,' replied Emily, in a trembling voice.\n\n'Unjust revenge!' cried the Count, resuming the abrupt tones of passion.\n'Who, that looks upon that face, can imagine a punishment adequate to\nthe injury he would have done me? Yes, I will leave the castle; but it\nshall not be alone. I have trifled too long. Since my prayers and my\nsufferings cannot prevail, force shall. I have people in waiting, who\nshall convey you to my carriage. Your voice will bring no succour; it\ncannot be heard from this remote part of the castle; submit, therefore,\nin silence, to go with me.'\n\nThis was an unnecessary injunction, at present; for Emily was too\ncertain, that her call would avail her nothing; and terror had so\nentirely disordered her thoughts, that she knew not how to plead to\nMorano, but sat, mute and trembling, in her chair, till he advanced\nto lift her from it, when she suddenly raised herself, and, with a\nrepulsive gesture, and a countenance of forced serenity, said, 'Count\nMorano! I am now in your power; but you will observe, that this is not\nthe conduct which can win the esteem you appear so solicitous to obtain,\nand that you are preparing for yourself a load of remorse, in the\nmiseries of a friendless orphan, which can never leave you. Do you\nbelieve your heart to be, indeed, so hardened, that you can look without\nemotion on the suffering, to which you would condemn me?'---\n\nEmily was interrupted by the growling of the dog, who now came again\nfrom the bed, and Morano looked towards the door of the stair-case,\nwhere no person appearing, he called aloud, 'Cesario!'\n\n'Emily,' said the Count, 'why will you reduce me to adopt this conduct?\nHow much more willingly would I persuade, than compel you to become my\nwife! but, by Heaven! I will not leave you to be sold by Montoni. Yet a\nthought glances across my mind, that brings madness with it. I know not\nhow to name it. It is preposterous--it cannot be.--Yet you tremble--you\ngrow pale! It is! it is so;--you--you--love Montoni!' cried Morano,\ngrasping Emily's wrist, and stamping his foot on the floor.\n\nAn involuntary air of surprise appeared on her countenance. 'If you have\nindeed believed so,' said she, 'believe so still.'\n\n'That look, those words confirm it,' exclaimed Morano, furiously. 'No,\nno, no, Montoni had a richer prize in view, than gold. But he shall not\nlive to triumph over me!--This very instant---'\n\nHe was interrupted by the loud barking of the dog.\n\n'Stay, Count Morano,' said Emily, terrified by his words, and by the\nfury expressed in his eyes, 'I will save you from this error.--Of all\nmen, Signor Montoni is not your rival; though, if I find all other means\nof saving myself vain, I will try whether my voice may not arouse his\nservants to my succour.'\n\n'Assertion,' replied Morano, 'at such a moment, is not to be depended\nupon. How could I suffer myself to doubt, even for an instant, that he\ncould see you, and not love?--But my first care shall be to convey you\nfrom the castle. Cesario! ho,--Cesario!'\n\nA man now appeared at the door of the stair-case, and other steps were\nheard ascending. Emily uttered a loud shriek, as Morano hurried her\nacross the chamber, and, at the same moment, she heard a noise at the\ndoor, that opened upon the corridor. The Count paused an instant, as if\nhis mind was suspended between love and the desire of vengeance; and,\nin that instant, the door gave way, and Montoni, followed by the old\nsteward and several other persons, burst into the room.\n\n'Draw!' cried Montoni to the Count, who did not pause for a second\nbidding, but, giving Emily into the hands of the people, that appeared\nfrom the stair-case, turned fiercely round. 'This in thine heart,\nvillain!' said he, as he made a thrust at Montoni with his sword, who\nparried the blow, and aimed another, while some of the persons, who\nhad followed him into the room, endeavoured to part the combatants, and\nothers rescued Emily from the hands of Morano's servants.\n\n'Was it for this, Count Morano,' said Montoni, in a cool sarcastic tone\nof voice, 'that I received you under my roof, and permitted you, though\nmy declared enemy, to remain under it for the night? Was it, that you\nmight repay my hospitality with the treachery of a fiend, and rob me of\nmy niece?'\n\n'Who talks of treachery?' said Morano, in a tone of unrestrained\nvehemence. 'Let him that does, shew an unblushing face of innocence.\nMontoni, you are a villain! If there is treachery in this affair, look\nto yourself as the author of it. IF--do I say? I--whom you have wronged\nwith unexampled baseness, whom you have injured almost beyond redress!\nBut why do I use words?--Come on, coward, and receive justice at my\nhands!'\n\n'Coward!' cried Montoni, bursting from the people who held him, and\nrushing on the Count, when they both retreated into the corridor, where\nthe fight continued so desperately, that none of the spectators dared\napproach them, Montoni swearing, that the first who interfered, should\nfall by his sword.\n\nJealousy and revenge lent all their fury to Morano, while the superior\nskill and the temperance of Montoni enabled him to wound his adversary,\nwhom his servants now attempted to seize, but he would not be\nrestrained, and, regardless of his wound, continued to fight. He seemed\nto be insensible both of pain and loss of blood, and alive only to the\nenergy of his passions. Montoni, on the contrary, persevered in the\ncombat, with a fierce, yet wary, valour; he received the point of\nMorano's sword on his arm, but, almost in the same instant, severely\nwounded and disarmed him. The Count then fell back into the arms of his\nservant, while Montoni held his sword over him, and bade him ask his\nlife. Morano, sinking under the anguish of his wound, had scarcely\nreplied by a gesture, and by a few words, feebly articulated, that he\nwould not--when he fainted; and Montoni was then going to have plunged\nthe sword into his breast, as he lay senseless, but his arm was arrested\nby Cavigni. To the interruption he yielded without much difficulty, but\nhis complexion changed almost to blackness, as he looked upon his fallen\nadversary, and ordered, that he should be carried instantly from the\ncastle.\n\nIn the mean time, Emily, who had been with-held from leaving the chamber\nduring the affray, now came forward into the corridor, and pleaded a\ncause of common humanity, with the feelings of the warmest benevolence,\nwhen she entreated Montoni to allow Morano the assistance in the castle,\nwhich his situation required. But Montoni, who had seldom listened to\npity, now seemed rapacious of vengeance, and, with a monster's cruelty,\nagain ordered his defeated enemy to be taken from the castle, in\nhis present state, though there were only the woods, or a solitary\nneighbouring cottage, to shelter him from the night.\n\nThe Count's servants having declared, that they would not move him till\nhe revived, Montoni's stood inactive, Cavigni remonstrating, and Emily,\nsuperior to Montoni's menaces, giving water to Morano, and directing the\nattendants to bind up his wound. At length, Montoni had leisure to feel\npain from his own hurt, and he withdrew to examine it.\n\nThe Count, meanwhile, having slowly recovered, the first object he saw,\non raising his eyes, was Emily, bending over him with a countenance\nstrongly expressive of solicitude. He surveyed her with a look of\nanguish.\n\n'I have deserved this,' said he, 'but not from Montoni. It is from you,\nEmily, that I have deserved punishment, yet I receive only pity!' He\npaused, for he had spoken with difficulty. After a moment, he proceeded.\n'I must resign you, but not to Montoni. Forgive me the sufferings I have\nalready occasioned you! But for THAT villain--his infamy shall not go\nunpunished. Carry me from this place,' said he to his servants. 'I am\nin no condition to travel: you must, therefore, take me to the nearest\ncottage, for I will not pass the night under his roof, although I may\nexpire on the way from it.'\n\nCesario proposed to go out, and enquire for a cottage, that might\nreceive his master, before he attempted to remove him: but Morano was\nimpatient to be gone; the anguish of his mind seemed to be even greater\nthan that of his wound, and he rejected, with disdain, the offer of\nCavigni to entreat Montoni, that he might be suffered to pass the night\nin the castle. Cesario was now going to call up the carriage to the\ngreat gate, but the Count forbade him. 'I cannot bear the motion of a\ncarriage,' said he: 'call some others of my people, that they may assist\nin bearing me in their arms.'\n\nAt length, however, Morano submitted to reason, and consented, that\nCesario should first prepare some cottage to receive him. Emily,\nnow that he had recovered his senses, was about to withdraw from the\ncorridor, when a message from Montoni commanded her to do so, and also\nthat the Count, if he was not already gone, should quit the castle\nimmediately. Indignation flashed from Morano's eyes, and flushed his\ncheeks.\n\n'Tell Montoni,' said he, 'that I shall go when it suits my own\nconvenience; that I quit the castle, he dares to call his, as I would\nthe nest of a serpent, and that this is not the last he shall hear from\nme. Tell him, I will not leave ANOTHER murder on his conscience, if I\ncan help it.'\n\n'Count Morano! do you know what you say?' said Cavigni.\n\n'Yes, Signor, I know well what I say, and he will understand well what I\nmean. His conscience will assist his understanding, on this occasion.'\n\n'Count Morano,' said Verezzi, who had hitherto silently observed him,\n'dare again to insult my friend, and I will plunge this sword in your\nbody.'\n\n'It would be an action worthy the friend of a villain!' said Morano, as\nthe strong impulse of his indignation enabled him to raise himself from\nthe arms of his servants; but the energy was momentary, and he sunk\nback, exhausted by the effort. Montoni's people, meanwhile, held\nVerezzi, who seemed inclined, even in this instant, to execute his\nthreat; and Cavigni, who was not so depraved as to abet the cowardly\nmalignity of Verezzi, endeavoured to withdraw him from the corridor;\nand Emily, whom a compassionate interest had thus long detained, was\nnow quitting it in new terror, when the supplicating voice of Morano\narrested her, and, by a feeble gesture, he beckoned her to draw\nnearer. She advanced with timid steps, but the fainting languor of his\ncountenance again awakened her pity, and overcame her terror.\n\n'I am going from hence for ever,' said he: 'perhaps, I shall never see\nyou again. I would carry with me your forgiveness, Emily; nay more--I\nwould also carry your good wishes.'\n\n'You have my forgiveness, then,' said Emily, 'and my sincere wishes for\nyour recovery.'\n\n'And only for my recovery?' said Morano, with a sigh. 'For your general\nwelfare,' added Emily.\n\n'Perhaps I ought to be contented with this,' he resumed; 'I certainly\nhave not deserved more; but I would ask you, Emily, sometimes to think\nof me, and, forgetting my offence, to remember only the passion which\noccasioned it. I would ask, alas! impossibilities: I would ask you to\nlove me! At this moment, when I am about to part with you, and that,\nperhaps, for ever, I am scarcely myself. Emily--may you never know the\ntorture of a passion like mine! What do I say? O, that, for me, you\nmight be sensible of such a passion!'\n\nEmily looked impatient to be gone. 'I entreat you, Count, to consult\nyour own safety,' said she, 'and linger here no longer. I tremble\nfor the consequences of Signor Verezzi's passion, and of Montoni's\nresentment, should he learn that you are still here.'\n\nMorano's face was overspread with a momentary crimson, his eyes\nsparkled, but he seemed endeavouring to conquer his emotion, and replied\nin a calm voice, 'Since you are interested for my safety, I will regard\nit, and be gone. But, before I go, let me again hear you say, that you\nwish me well,' said he, fixing on her an earnest and mournful look.\n\nEmily repeated her assurances. He took her hand, which she scarcely\nattempted to withdraw, and put it to his lips. 'Farewell, Count Morano!'\nsaid Emily; and she turned to go, when a second message arrived from\nMontoni, and she again conjured Morano, as he valued his life, to quit\nthe castle immediately. He regarded her in silence, with a look of fixed\ndespair. But she had no time to enforce her compassionate entreaties,\nand, not daring to disobey the second command of Montoni, she left the\ncorridor, to attend him.\n\nHe was in the cedar parlour, that adjoined the great hall, laid upon\na couch, and suffering a degree of anguish from his wound, which few\npersons could have disguised, as he did. His countenance, which was\nstern, but calm, expressed the dark passion of revenge, but no symptom\nof pain; bodily pain, indeed, he had always despised, and had yielded\nonly to the strong and terrible energies of the soul. He was attended by\nold Carlo and by Signor Bertolini, but Madame Montoni was not with him.\n\nEmily trembled, as she approached and received his severe rebuke,\nfor not having obeyed his first summons; and perceived, also, that\nhe attributed her stay in the corridor to a motive, that had not even\noccurred to her artless mind.\n\n'This is an instance of female caprice,' said he, 'which I ought to have\nforeseen. Count Morano, whose suit you obstinately rejected, so long as\nit was countenanced by me, you favour, it seems, since you find I have\ndismissed him.'\n\nEmily looked astonished. 'I do not comprehend you, sir,' said she: 'You\ncertainly do not mean to imply, that the design of the Count to visit\nthe double-chamber, was founded upon any approbation of mine.'\n\n'To that I reply nothing,' said Montoni; 'but it must certainly be a\nmore than common interest, that made you plead so warmly in his cause,\nand that could detain you thus long in his presence, contrary to my\nexpress order--in the presence of a man, whom you have hitherto, on all\noccasions, most scrupulously shunned!'\n\n'I fear, sir, it was a more than common interest, that detained me,'\nsaid Emily calmly; 'for of late I have been inclined to think, that of\ncompassion is an uncommon one. But how could I, could YOU, sir, witness\nCount Morano's deplorable condition, and not wish to relieve it?'\n\n'You add hypocrisy to caprice,' said Montoni, frowning, 'and an attempt\nat satire, to both; but, before you undertake to regulate the morals\nof other persons, you should learn and practise the virtues, which\nare indispensable to a woman--sincerity, uniformity of conduct and\nobedience.'\n\nEmily, who had always endeavoured to regulate her conduct by the nicest\nlaws, and whose mind was finely sensible, not only of what is just\nin morals, but of whatever is beautiful in the female character, was\nshocked by these words; yet, in the next moment, her heart swelled with\nthe consciousness of having deserved praise, instead of censure, and she\nwas proudly silent. Montoni, acquainted with the delicacy of her mind,\nknew how keenly she would feel his rebuke; but he was a stranger to the\nluxury of conscious worth, and, therefore, did not foresee the energy of\nthat sentiment, which now repelled his satire. Turning to a servant who\nhad lately entered the room, he asked whether Morano had quitted the\ncastle. The man answered, that his servants were then removing him, on\na couch, to a neighbouring cottage. Montoni seemed somewhat appeased,\non hearing this; and, when Ludovico appeared, a few moments after,\nand said, that Morano was gone, he told Emily she might retire to her\napartment.\n\nShe withdrew willingly from his presence; but the thought of passing the\nremainder of the night in a chamber, which the door from the stair-case\nmade liable to the intrusion of any person, now alarmed her more than\never, and she determined to call at Madame Montoni's room, and request,\nthat Annette might be permitted to be with her.\n\nOn reaching the great gallery, she heard voices seemingly in\ndispute, and, her spirits now apt to take alarm, she paused, but soon\ndistinguished some words of Cavigni and Verezzi, and went towards them,\nin the hope of conciliating their difference. They were alone. Verezzi's\nface was still flushed with rage; and, as the first object of it was\nnow removed from him, he appeared willing to transfer his resentment\nto Cavigni, who seemed to be expostulating, rather than disputing, with\nhim.\n\nVerezzi was protesting, that he would instantly inform Montoni of the\ninsult, which Morano had thrown out against him, and above all, that,\nwherein he had accused him of murder.\n\n'There is no answering,' said Cavigni, 'for the words of a man in a\npassion; little serious regard ought to be paid to them. If you persist\nin your resolution, the consequences may be fatal to both. We have now\nmore serious interests to pursue, than those of a petty revenge.'\n\nEmily joined her entreaties to Cavigni's arguments, and they, at length,\nprevailed so far, as that Verezzi consented to retire, without seeing\nMontoni.\n\nOn calling at her aunt's apartment, she found it fastened. In a few\nminutes, however, it was opened by Madame Montoni herself.\n\nIt may be remembered, that it was by a door leading into the bedroom\nfrom a back passage, that Emily had secretly entered a few hours\npreceding. She now conjectured, by the calmness of Madame Montoni's\nair, that she was not apprised of the accident, which had befallen her\nhusband, and was beginning to inform her of it, in the tenderest manner\nshe could, when her aunt interrupted her, by saying, she was acquainted\nwith the whole affair.\n\nEmily knew indeed, that she had little reason to love Montoni, but could\nscarcely have believed her capable of such perfect apathy, as she now\ndiscovered towards him; having obtained permission, however, for Annette\nto sleep in her chamber, she went thither immediately.\n\nA track of blood appeared along the corridor, leading to it; and on\nthe spot, where the Count and Montoni had fought, the whole floor was\nstained. Emily shuddered, and leaned on Annette, as she passed. When she\nreached her apartment, she instantly determined, since the door of the\nstair-case had been left open, and that Annette was now with her, to\nexplore whither it led,--a circumstance now materially connected with\nher own safety. Annette accordingly, half curious and half afraid,\nproposed to descend the stairs; but, on approaching the door, they\nperceived, that it was already fastened without, and their care was then\ndirected to the securing it on the inside also, by placing against it as\nmuch of the heavy furniture of the room, as they could lift. Emily then\nretired to bed, and Annette continued on a chair by the hearth, where\nsome feeble embers remained.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\n Of aery tongues, that syllable men's names\n On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.\n      MILTON\n\nIt is now necessary to mention some circumstances, which could not be\nrelated amidst the events of Emily's hasty departure from Venice, or\ntogether with those, which so rapidly succeeded to her arrival in the\ncastle.\n\nOn the morning of her journey, Count Morano had gone at the appointed\nhour to the mansion of Montoni, to demand his bride. When he reached\nit, he was somewhat surprised by the silence and solitary air of the\nportico, where Montoni's lacqueys usually loitered; but surprise\nwas soon changed to astonishment, and astonishment to the rage of\ndisappointment, when the door was opened by an old woman, who told his\nservants, that her master and his family had left Venice, early in the\nmorning, for terra-firma. Scarcely believing what his servants told, he\nleft his gondola, and rushed into the hall to enquire further. The old\nwoman, who was the only person left in care of the mansion, persisted in\nher story, which the silent and deserted apartments soon convinced him\nwas no fiction. He then seized her with a menacing air, as if he meant\nto wreak all his vengeance upon her, at the same time asking her twenty\nquestions in a breath, and all these with a gesticulation so furious,\nthat she was deprived of the power of answering them; then suddenly\nletting her go, he stamped about the hall, like a madman, cursing\nMontoni and his own folly.\n\nWhen the good woman was at liberty, and had somewhat recovered from her\nfright, she told him all she knew of the affair, which was, indeed, very\nlittle, but enough to enable Morano to discover, that Montoni was gone\nto his castle on the Apennine. Thither he followed, as soon as his\nservants could complete the necessary preparation for the journey,\naccompanied by a friend, and attended by a number of his people,\ndetermined to obtain Emily, or a full revenge on Montoni. When his mind\nhad recovered from the first effervescence of rage, and his\nthoughts became less obscured, his conscience hinted to him certain\ncircumstances, which, in some measure, explained the conduct of Montoni:\nbut how the latter could have been led to suspect an intention, which,\nhe had believed, was known only to himself, he could not even guess. On\nthis occasion, however, he had been partly betrayed by that sympathetic\nintelligence, which may be said to exist between bad minds, and which\nteaches one man to judge what another will do in the same circumstances.\nThus it was with Montoni, who had now received indisputable proof of a\ntruth, which he had some time suspected--that Morano's circumstances,\ninstead of being affluent, as he had been bidden to believe, were\ngreatly involved. Montoni had been interested in his suit, by motives\nentirely selfish, those of avarice and pride; the last of which would\nhave been gratified by an alliance with a Venetian nobleman, the former\nby Emily's estate in Gascony, which he had stipulated, as the price of\nhis favour, should be delivered up to him from the day of her marriage.\nIn the meantime, he had been led to suspect the consequence of the\nCount's boundless extravagance; but it was not till the evening,\npreceding the intended nuptials, that he obtained certain information\nof his distressed circumstances. He did not hesitate then to infer,\nthat Morano designed to defraud him of Emily's estate; and in this\nsupposition he was confirmed, and with apparent reason, by the\nsubsequent conduct of the Count, who, after having appointed to meet him\non that night, for the purpose of signing the instrument, which was to\nsecure to him his reward, failed in his engagement. Such a circumstance,\nindeed, in a man of Morano's gay and thoughtless character, and at a\ntime when his mind was engaged by the bustle of preparation for his\nnuptials, might have been attributed to a cause less decisive, than\ndesign; but Montoni did not hesitate an instant to interpret it his own\nway, and, after vainly waiting the Count's arrival, for several hours,\nhe gave orders for his people to be in readiness to set off at a\nmoment's notice. By hastening to Udolpho he intended to remove Emily\nfrom the reach of Morano, as well as to break off the affair, without\nsubmitting himself to useless altercation: and, if the Count meant what\nhe called honourably, he would doubtless follow Emily, and sign the\nwritings in question. If this was done, so little consideration had\nMontoni for her welfare, that he would not have scrupled to sacrifice\nher to a man of ruined fortune, since by that means he could enrich\nhimself; and he forbore to mention to her the motive of his sudden\njourney, lest the hope it might revive should render her more\nintractable, when submission would be required.\n\nWith these considerations, he had left Venice; and, with others totally\ndifferent, Morano had, soon after, pursued his steps across the rugged\nApennines. When his arrival was announced at the castle, Montoni did\nnot believe, that he would have presumed to shew himself, unless he had\nmeant to fulfil his engagement, and he, therefore, readily admitted him;\nbut the enraged countenance and expressions of Morano, as he entered the\napartment, instantly undeceived him; and, when Montoni had explained, in\npart, the motives of his abrupt departure from Venice, the Count still\npersisted in demanding Emily, and reproaching Montoni, without even\nnaming the former stipulation.\n\nMontoni, at length, weary of the dispute, deferred the settling of\nit till the morrow, and Morano retired with some hope, suggested by\nMontoni's apparent indecision. When, however, in the silence of his own\napartment, he began to consider the past conversation, the character of\nMontoni, and some former instances of his duplicity, the hope, which\nhe had admitted, vanished, and he determined not to neglect the present\npossibility of obtaining Emily by other means. To his confidential\nvalet he told his design of carrying away Emily, and sent him back to\nMontoni's servants to find out one among them, who might enable him to\nexecute it. The choice of this person he entrusted to the fellow's own\ndiscernment, and not imprudently; for he discovered a man, whom Montoni\nhad, on some former occasion, treated harshly, and who was now ready\nto betray him. This man conducted Cesario round the castle, through a\nprivate passage, to the stair-case, that led to Emily's chamber; then\nshewed him a short way out of the building, and afterwards procured him\nthe keys, that would secure his retreat. The man was well rewarded for\nhis trouble; how the Count was rewarded for his treachery, had already\nappeared.\n\nMeanwhile, old Carlo had overheard two of Morano's servants, who had\nbeen ordered to be in waiting with the carriage, beyond the castle\nwalls, expressing their surprise at their master's sudden, and secret\ndeparture, for the valet had entrusted them with no more of Morano's\ndesigns, than it was necessary for them to execute. They, however,\nindulged themselves in surmises, and in expressing them to each other;\nand from these Carlo had drawn a just conclusion. But, before he\nventured to disclose his apprehensions to Montoni, he endeavoured to\nobtain further confirmation of them, and, for this purpose, placed\nhimself, with one of his fellow-servants, at the door of Emily's\napartment, that opened upon the corridor. He did not watch long in vain,\nthough the growling of the dog had once nearly betrayed him. When he was\nconvinced, that Morano was in the room, and had listened long enough\nto his conversation, to understand his scheme, he immediately alarmed\nMontoni, and thus rescued Emily from the designs of the Count.\n\nMontoni, on the following morning, appeared as usual, except that\nhe wore his wounded arm in a sling; he went out upon the ramparts;\noverlooked the men employed in repairing them; gave orders for\nadditional workmen, and then came into the castle to give audience\nto several persons, who were just arrived, and who were shewn into a\nprivate apartment, where he communicated with them, for near an hour.\nCarlo was then summoned, and ordered to conduct the strangers to a part\nof the castle, which, in former times, had been occupied by the upper\nservants of the family, and to provide them with every necessary\nrefreshment.--When he had done this, he was bidden to return to his\nmaster.\n\nMeanwhile, the Count remained in a cottage in the skirts of the woods\nbelow, suffering under bodily and mental pain, and meditating deep\nrevenge against Montoni. His servant, whom he had dispatched for a\nsurgeon to the nearest town, which was, however, at a considerable\ndistance, did not return till the following day, when, his wounds being\nexamined and dressed, the practitioner refused to deliver any positive\nopinion, concerning the degree of danger attending them; but giving his\npatient a composing draught and ordering him to be quiet, remained at\nthe cottage to watch the event.\n\nEmily, for the remainder of the late eventful night, had been suffered\nto sleep, undisturbed; and, when her mind recovered from the confusion\nof slumber, and she remembered, that she was now released from the\naddresses of Count Morano, her spirits were suddenly relieved from a\npart of the terrible anxiety, that had long oppressed them; that which\nremained, arose chiefly from a recollection of Morano's assertions,\nconcerning the schemes of Montoni. He had said, that plans of the\nlatter, concerning Emily, were insearchable, yet that he knew them to\nbe terrible. At the time he uttered this, she almost believed it to be\ndesigned for the purpose of prevailing with her to throw herself into\nhis protection, and she still thought it might be chiefly so accounted\nfor; but his assertions had left an impression on her mind, which a\nconsideration of the character and former conduct of Montoni did not\ncontribute to efface. She, however, checked her propensity to anticipate\nevil; and, determined to enjoy this respite from actual misfortune,\ntried to dismiss thought, took her instruments for drawing, and placed\nherself at a window, to select into a landscape some features of the\nscenery without.\n\nAs she was thus employed, she saw, walking on the rampart below, the\nmen, who had so lately arrived at the castle. The sight of strangers\nsurprised her, but still more, of strangers such as these. There was a\nsingularity in their dress, and a certain fierceness in their air, that\nfixed all her attention. She withdrew from the casement, while they\npassed, but soon returned to observe them further. Their figures seemed\nso well suited to the wildness of the surrounding objects, that, as they\nstood surveying the castle, she sketched them for banditti, amid the\nmountain-view of her picture, when she had finished which, she was\nsurprised to observe the spirit of her group. But she had copied from\nnature.\n\nCarlo, when he had placed refreshment before these men in the apartment\nassigned to them, returned, as he was ordered, to Montoni, who was\nanxious to discover by what servant the keys of the castle had been\ndelivered to Morano, on the preceding night. But this man, though he was\ntoo faithful to his master quietly to see him injured, would not\nbetray a fellow-servant even to justice; he, therefore, pretended to be\nignorant who it was, that had conspired with Count Morano, and related,\nas before, that he had only overheard some of the strangers describing\nthe plot.\n\nMontoni's suspicions naturally fell upon the porter, whom he ordered now\nto attend. Carlo hesitated, and then with slow steps went to seek him.\n\nBarnardine, the porter, denied the accusation with a countenance so\nsteady and undaunted, that Montoni could scarcely believe him guilty,\nthough he knew not how to think him innocent. At length, the man was\ndismissed from his presence, and, though the real offender, escaped\ndetection.\n\nMontoni then went to his wife's apartment, whither Emily followed soon\nafter, but, finding them in high dispute, was instantly leaving the\nroom, when her aunt called her back, and desired her to stay.--'You\nshall be a witness,' said she, 'of my opposition. Now, sir, repeat the\ncommand, I have so often refused to obey.'\n\nMontoni turned, with a stern countenance, to Emily, and bade her quit\nthe apartment, while his wife persisted in desiring, that she would\nstay. Emily was eager to escape from this scene of contention, and\nanxious, also, to serve her aunt; but she despaired of conciliating\nMontoni, in whose eyes the rising tempest of his soul flashed terribly.\n\n'Leave the room,' said he, in a voice of thunder. Emily obeyed, and,\nwalking down to the rampart, which the strangers had now left, continued\nto meditate on the unhappy marriage of her father's sister, and on her\nown desolate situation, occasioned by the ridiculous imprudence of her,\nwhom she had always wished to respect and love. Madame Montoni's conduct\nhad, indeed, rendered it impossible for Emily to do either; but\nher gentle heart was touched by her distress, and, in the pity thus\nawakened, she forgot the injurious treatment she had received from her.\n\nAs she sauntered on the rampart, Annette appeared at the hall door,\nlooked cautiously round, and then advanced to meet her.\n\n'Dear ma'amselle, I have been looking for you all over the castle,' said\nshe. 'If you will step this way, I will shew you a picture.'\n\n'A picture!' exclaimed Emily, and shuddered.\n\n'Yes, ma'am, a picture of the late lady of this place. Old Carlo just\nnow told me it was her, and I thought you would be curious to see it. As\nto my lady, you know, ma'amselle, one cannot talk about such things to\nher.'--\n\n'And so,' said Emily smilingly, 'as you must talk of them to somebody--'\n\n'Why, yes, ma'amselle; what can one do in such a place as this, if one\nmust not talk? If I was in a dungeon, if they would let me talk--it\nwould be some comfort; nay, I would talk, if it was only to the walls.\nBut come, ma'amselle, we lose time--let me shew you to the picture.'\n\n'Is it veiled?' said Emily, pausing.\n\n'Dear ma'amselle!' said Annette, fixing her eyes on Emily's face, 'what\nmakes you look so pale?--are you ill?'\n\n'No, Annette, I am well enough, but I have no desire to see this\npicture; return into the hall.'\n\n'What! ma'am, not to see the lady of this castle?' said the girl--'the\nlady, who disappeared to strangely? Well! now, I would have run to the\nfurthest mountain we can see, yonder, to have got a sight of such a\npicture; and, to speak my mind, that strange story is all, that makes\nme care about this old castle, though it makes me thrill all over, as it\nwere, whenever I think of it.'\n\n'Yes, Annette, you love the wonderful; but do you know, that, unless you\nguard against this inclination, it will lead you into all the misery of\nsuperstition?'\n\nAnnette might have smiled in her turn, at this sage observation of\nEmily, who could tremble with ideal terrors, as much as herself, and\nlisten almost as eagerly to the recital of a mysterious story. Annette\nurged her request.\n\n'Are you sure it is a picture?' said Emily, 'Have you seen it?--Is it\nveiled?'\n\n'Holy Maria! ma'amselle, yes, no, yes. I am sure it is a picture--I have\nseen it, and it is not veiled!'\n\nThe tone and look of surprise, with which this was uttered, recalled\nEmily's prudence; who concealed her emotion under a smile, and bade\nAnnette lead her to the picture. It was in an obscure chamber, adjoining\nthat part of the castle, allotted to the servants. Several other\nportraits hung on the walls, covered, like this, with dust and cobweb.\n\n'That is it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, in a low voice, and pointing.\nEmily advanced, and surveyed the picture. It represented a lady in the\nflower of youth and beauty; her features were handsome and noble, full\nof strong expression, but had little of the captivating sweetness, that\nEmily had looked for, and still less of the pensive mildness she loved.\nIt was a countenance, which spoke the language of passion, rather than\nthat of sentiment; a haughty impatience of misfortune--not the placid\nmelancholy of a spirit injured, yet resigned.\n\n'How many years have passed, since this lady disappeared, Annette?' said\nEmily.\n\n'Twenty years, ma'amselle, or thereabout, as they tell me; I know it is\na long while ago.' Emily continued to gaze upon the portrait.\n\n'I think,' resumed Annette, 'the Signor would do well to hang it in a\nbetter place, than this old chamber. Now, in my mind, he ought to place\nthe picture of a lady, who gave him all these riches, in the handsomest\nroom in the castle. But he may have good reasons for what he does:\nand some people do say that he has lost his riches, as well as his\ngratitude. But hush, ma'am, not a word!' added Annette, laying her\nfinger on her lips. Emily was too much absorbed in thought, to hear what\nshe said.\n\n''Tis a handsome lady, I am sure,' continued Annette: 'the Signor need\nnot be ashamed to put her in the great apartment, where the veiled\npicture hangs.' Emily turned round. 'But for that matter, she would be\nas little seen there, as here, for the door is always locked, I find.'\n\n'Let us leave this chamber,' said Emily: 'and let me caution you again,\nAnnette; be guarded in your conversation, and never tell, that you know\nany thing of that picture.'\n\n'Holy Mother!' exclaimed Annette, 'it is no secret; why all the servants\nhave seen it already!'\n\nEmily started. 'How is this?' said she--'Have seen it! When?--how?'\n\n'Dear, ma'amselle, there is nothing surprising in that; we had all a\nlittle more CURIOUSNESS than you had.'\n\n'I thought you told me, the door was kept locked?' said Emily.\n\n'If that was the case, ma'amselle,' replied Annette, looking about her,\n'how could we get here?'\n\n'Oh, you mean THIS picture,' said Emily, with returning calmness. 'Well,\nAnnette, here is nothing more to engage my attention; we will go.'\n\nEmily, as she passed to her own apartment, saw Montoni go down to the\nhall, and she turned into her aunt's dressing-room, whom she found\nweeping and alone, grief and resentment struggling on her countenance.\nPride had hitherto restrained complaint. Judging of Emily's disposition\nfrom her own, and from a consciousness of what her treatment of her\ndeserved, she had believed, that her griefs would be cause of triumph\nto her niece, rather than of sympathy; that she would despise, not pity\nher. But she knew not the tenderness and benevolence of Emily's heart,\nthat had always taught her to forget her own injuries in the misfortunes\nof her enemy. The sufferings of others, whoever they might be, called\nforth her ready compassion, which dissipated at once every obscuring\ncloud to goodness, that passion or prejudice might have raised in her\nmind.\n\nMadame Montoni's sufferings, at length, rose above her pride, and, when\nEmily had before entered the room, she would have told them all, had not\nher husband prevented her; now that she was no longer restrained by his\npresence, she poured forth all her complaints to her niece.\n\n'O Emily!' she exclaimed, 'I am the most wretched of women--I am\nindeed cruelly treated! Who, with my prospects of happiness, could have\nforeseen such a wretched fate as this?--who could have thought, when I\nmarried such a man as the Signor, I should ever have to bewail my lot?\nBut there is no judging what is for the best--there is no knowing what\nis for our good! The most flattering prospects often change--the best\njudgments may be deceived--who could have foreseen, when I married the\nSignor, that I should ever repent my GENEROSITY?'\n\nEmily thought she might have foreseen it, but this was not a thought\nof triumph. She placed herself in a chair near her aunt, took her\nhand, and, with one of those looks of soft compassion, which might\ncharacterize the countenance of a guardian angel, spoke to her in\nthe tenderest accents. But these did not sooth Madame Montoni, whom\nimpatience to talk made unwilling to listen. She wanted to complain, not\nto be consoled; and it was by exclamations of complaint only, that Emily\nlearned the particular circumstances of her affliction.\n\n'Ungrateful man!' said Madame Montoni, 'he has deceived me in every\nrespect; and now he has taken me from my country and friends, to shut\nme up in this old castle; and, here he thinks he can compel me to do\nwhatever he designs! But he shall find himself mistaken, he shall find\nthat no threats can alter--But who would have believed! who would have\nsupposed, that a man of his family and apparent wealth had absolutely\nno fortune?--no, scarcely a sequin of his own! I did all for the best;\nI thought he was a man of consequence, of great property, or I am sure\nI would never have married him,--ungrateful, artful man!' She paused to\ntake breath.\n\n'Dear Madam, be composed,' said Emily: 'the Signor may not be so rich as\nyou had reason to expect, but surely he cannot be very poor, since\nthis castle and the mansion at Venice are his. May I ask what are the\ncircumstances, that particularly affect you?'\n\n'What are the circumstances!' exclaimed Madame Montoni with resentment:\n'why is it not sufficient, that he had long ago ruined his own fortune\nby play, and that he has since lost what I brought him--and that now he\nwould compel me to sign away my settlement (it was well I had the chief\nof my property settled on myself!) that he may lose this also, or throw\nit away in wild schemes, which nobody can understand but himself? And,\nand--is not all this sufficient?'\n\n'It is, indeed,' said Emily, 'but you must recollect, dear madam, that I\nknew nothing of all this.'\n\n'Well, and is it not sufficient,' rejoined her aunt, 'that he is also\nabsolutely ruined, that he is sunk deeply in debt, and that neither\nthis castle, or the mansion at Venice, is his own, if all his debts,\nhonourable and dishonourable, were paid!'\n\n'I am shocked by what you tell me, madam,' said Emily.\n\n'And is it not enough,' interrupted Madame Montoni, 'that he has treated\nme with neglect, with cruelty, because I refused to relinquish my\nsettlements, and, instead of being frightened by his menaces, resolutely\ndefied him, and upbraided him with his shameful conduct? But I bore all\nmeekly,--you know, niece, I never uttered a word of complaint, till now;\nno! That such a disposition as mine should be so imposed upon! That I,\nwhose only faults are too much kindness, too much generosity, should be\nchained for life to such a vile, deceitful, cruel monster!'\n\nWant of breath compelled Madame Montoni to stop. If any thing could have\nmade Emily smile in these moments, it would have been this speech of\nher aunt, delivered in a voice very little below a scream, and with a\nvehemence of gesticulation and of countenance, that turned the whole\ninto burlesque. Emily saw, that her misfortunes did not admit of real\nconsolation, and, contemning the commonplace terms of superficial\ncomfort, she was silent; while Madame Montoni, jealous of her own\nconsequence, mistook this for the silence of indifference, or of\ncontempt, and reproached her with want of duty and feeling.\n\n'O! I suspected what all this boasted sensibility would prove to be!'\nrejoined she; 'I thought it would not teach you to feel either duty,\nor affection, for your relations, who have treated you like their own\ndaughter!'\n\n'Pardon me, madam,' said Emily, mildly, 'it is not natural to me to\nboast, and if it was, I am sure I would not boast of sensibility--a\nquality, perhaps, more to be feared, than desired.'\n\n'Well, well, niece, I will not dispute with you. But, as I said, Montoni\nthreatens me with violence, if I any longer refuse to sign away my\nsettlements, and this was the subject of our contest, when you came into\nthe room before. Now, I am determined no power on earth shall make me\ndo this. Neither will I bear all this tamely. He shall hear his true\ncharacter from me; I will tell him all he deserves, in spite of his\nthreats and cruel treatment.'\n\nEmily seized a pause of Madame Montoni's voice, to speak. 'Dear madam,'\nsaid she, 'but will not this serve to irritate the Signor unnecessarily?\nwill it not provoke the harsh treatment you dread?'\n\n'I do not care,' replied Madame Montoni, 'it does not signify: I will\nnot submit to such usage. You would have me give up my settlements, too,\nI suppose!'\n\n'No, madam, I do not exactly mean that.'\n\n'What is it you do mean then?'\n\n'You spoke of reproaching the Signor,'--said Emily, with hesitation.\n'Why, does he not deserve reproaches?' said her aunt.\n\n'Certainly he does; but will it be prudent in you, madam, to make them?'\n\n'Prudent!' exclaimed Madame Montoni. 'Is this a time to talk of\nprudence, when one is threatened with all sorts of violence?'\n\n'It is to avoid that violence, that prudence is necessary.' said Emily.\n\n'Of prudence!' continued Madame Montoni, without attending to her, 'of\nprudence towards a man, who does not scruple to break all the common\nties of humanity in his conduct to me! And is it for me to consider\nprudence in my behaviour towards him! I am not so mean.'\n\n'It is for your own sake, not for the Signor's, madam,' said Emily\nmodestly, 'that you should consult prudence. Your reproaches, however\njust, cannot punish him, but they may provoke him to further violence\nagainst you.'\n\n'What! would you have me submit, then, to whatever he commands--would\nyou have me kneel down at his feet, and thank him for his cruelties?\nWould you have me give up my settlements?'\n\n'How much you mistake me, madam!' said Emily, 'I am unequal to advise\nyou on a point so important as the last: but you will pardon me for\nsaying, that, if you consult your own peace, you will try to conciliate\nSignor Montoni, rather than to irritate him by reproaches.'\n\n'Conciliate indeed! I tell you, niece, it is utterly impossible; I\ndisdain to attempt it.'\n\nEmily was shocked to observe the perverted understanding and obstinate\ntemper of Madame Montoni; but, not less grieved for her sufferings,\nshe looked round for some alleviating circumstance to offer her. 'Your\nsituation is, perhaps, not so desperate, dear madam,' said Emily, 'as\nyou may imagine. The Signor may represent his affairs to be worse than\nthey are, for the purpose of pleading a stronger necessity for his\npossession of your settlement. Besides, so long as you keep this, you\nmay look forward to it as a resource, at least, that will afford you\na competence, should the Signor's future conduct compel you to sue for\nseparation.'\n\nMadame Montoni impatiently interrupted her. 'Unfeeling, cruel girl!'\nsaid she, 'and so you would persuade me, that I have no reason to\ncomplain; that the Signor is in very flourishing circumstances, that my\nfuture prospects promise nothing but comfort, and that my griefs are\nas fanciful and romantic as your own! Is it the way to console me, to\nendeavour to persuade me out of my senses and my feelings, because you\nhappen to have no feelings yourself? I thought I was opening my heart\nto a person, who could sympathize in my distress, but I find, that your\npeople of sensibility can feel for nobody but themselves! You may retire\nto your chamber.'\n\nEmily, without replying, immediately left the room, with a mingled\nemotion of pity and contempt, and hastened to her own, where she yielded\nto the mournful reflections, which a knowledge of her aunt's situation\nhad occasioned. The conversation of the Italian with Valancourt, in\nFrance, again occurred to her. His hints, respecting the broken fortunes\nof Montoni, were now completely justified; those, also, concerning his\ncharacter, appeared not less so, though the particular circumstances,\nconnected with his fame, to which the stranger had alluded, yet remained\nto be explained. Notwithstanding, that her own observations and the\nwords of Count Morano had convinced her, that Montoni's situation was\nnot what it formerly appeared to be, the intelligence she had just\nreceived from her aunt on this point, struck her with all the force of\nastonishment, which was not weakened, when she considered the present\nstyle of Montoni's living, the number of servants he maintained, and the\nnew expences he was incurring, by repairing and fortifying his castle.\nHer anxiety for her aunt and for herself increased with reflection.\nSeveral assertions of Morano, which, on the preceding night, she\nhad believed were prompted either by interest, or by resentment, now\nreturned to her mind with the strength of truth. She could not doubt,\nthat Montoni had formerly agreed to give her to the Count, for a\npecuniary reward;--his character, and his distressed circumstances\njustified the belief; these, also, seemed to confirm Morano's assertion,\nthat he now designed to dispose of her, more advantageously for himself,\nto a richer suitor.\n\nAmidst the reproaches, which Morano had thrown out against Montoni,\nhe had said--he would not quit the castle HE DARED TO CALL HIS, nor\nwillingly leave ANOTHER murder on his conscience--hints, which might\nhave no other origin than the passion of the moment: but Emily was now\ninclined to account for them more seriously, and she shuddered to think,\nthat she was in the hands of a man, to whom it was even possible they\ncould apply. At length, considering, that reflection could neither\nrelease her from her melancholy situation, or enable her to bear it with\ngreater fortitude, she tried to divert her anxiety, and took down from\nher little library a volume of her favourite Ariosto; but his wild\nimagery and rich invention could not long enchant her attention; his\nspells did not reach her heart, and over her sleeping fancy they played,\nwithout awakening it.\n\nShe now put aside the book, and took her lute, for it was seldom that\nher sufferings refused to yield to the magic of sweet sounds; when they\ndid so, she was oppressed by sorrow, that came from excess of tenderness\nand regret; and there were times, when music had increased such sorrow\nto a degree, that was scarcely endurable; when, if it had not suddenly\nceased, she might have lost her reason. Such was the time, when she\nmourned for her father, and heard the midnight strains, that floated by\nher window near the convent in Languedoc, on the night that followed his\ndeath.\n\nShe continued to play, till Annette brought dinner into her chamber,\nat which Emily was surprised, and enquired whose order she obeyed. 'My\nlady's, ma'amselle,' replied Annette: 'the Signor ordered her dinner to\nbe carried to her own apartment, and so she has sent you yours. There\nhave been sad doings between them, worse than ever, I think.'\n\nEmily, not appearing to notice what she said, sat down to the little\ntable, that was spread for her. But Annette was not to be silenced thus\neasily. While she waited, she told of the arrival of the men, whom\nEmily had observed on the ramparts, and expressed much surprise at their\nstrange appearance, as well as at the manner, in which they had been\nattended by Montoni's order. 'Do they dine with the Signor, then?' said\nEmily.\n\n'No, ma'amselle, they dined long ago, in an apartment at the north end\nof the castle, but I know not when they are to go, for the Signor told\nold Carlo to see them provided with every thing necessary. They have\nbeen walking all about the castle, and asking questions of the workmen\non the ramparts. I never saw such strange-looking men in my life; I am\nfrightened whenever I see them.'\n\nEmily enquired, if she had heard of Count Morano, and whether he was\nlikely to recover: but Annette only knew, that he was lodged in a\ncottage in the wood below, and that every body said he must die. Emily's\ncountenance discovered her emotion.\n\n'Dear ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'to see how young ladies will disguise\nthemselves, when they are in love! I thought you hated the Count, or I\nam sure I would not have told you; and I am sure you have cause enough\nto hate him.'\n\n'I hope I hate nobody,' replied Emily, trying to smile; 'but certainly\nI do not love Count Morano. I should be shocked to hear of any person\ndying by violent means.'\n\n'Yes, ma'amselle, but it is his own fault.'\n\nEmily looked displeased; and Annette, mistaking the cause of her\ndispleasure, immediately began to excuse the Count, in her way. 'To\nbe sure, it was very ungenteel behaviour,' said she, 'to break into a\nlady's room, and then, when he found his discoursing was not agreeable\nto her, to refuse to go; and then, when the gentleman of the castle\ncomes to desire him to walk about his business--to turn round, and draw\nhis sword, and swear he'll run him through the body!--To be sure it was\nvery ungenteel behaviour, but then he was disguised in love, and so did\nnot know what he was about.'\n\n'Enough of this,' said Emily, who now smiled without an effort; and\nAnnette returned to a mention of the disagreement between Montoni, and\nher lady. 'It is nothing new,' said she: 'we saw and heard enough of\nthis at Venice, though I never told you of it, ma'amselle.'\n\n'Well, Annette, it was very prudent of you not to mention it then: be as\nprudent now; the subject is an unpleasant one.'\n\n'Ah dear, ma'amselle!--to see now how considerate you can be about\nsome folks, who care so little about you! I cannot bear to see you so\ndeceived, and I must tell you. But it is all for your own good, and not\nto spite my lady, though, to speak truth, I have little reason to love\nher; but--'\n\n'You are not speaking thus of my aunt, I hope, Annette?' said Emily,\ngravely.\n\n'Yes, ma'amselle, but I am, though; and if you knew as much as I do, you\nwould not look so angry. I have often, and often, heard the Signor and\nher talking over your marriage with the Count, and she always advised\nhim never to give up to your foolish whims, as she was pleased to call\nthem, but to be resolute, and compel you to be obedient, whether you\nwould, or no. And I am sure, my heart has ached a thousand times, and\nI have thought, when she was so unhappy herself, she might have felt a\nlittle for other people, and--'\n\n'I thank you for your pity, Annette,' said Emily, interrupting her: 'but\nmy aunt was unhappy then, and that disturbed her temper perhaps, or I\nthink--I am sure--You may take away, Annette, I have done.'\n\n'Dear ma'amselle, you have eat nothing at all! Do try, and take a\nlittle bit more. Disturbed her temper truly! why, her temper is always\ndisturbed, I think. And at Tholouse too I have heard my lady talking of\nyou and Mons. Valancourt to Madame Merveille and Madame Vaison, often\nand often, in a very ill-natured way, as I thought, telling them what\na deal of trouble she had to keep you in order, and what a fatigue and\ndistress it was to her, and that she believed you would run away with\nMons. Valancourt, if she was not to watch you closely; and that you\nconnived at his coming about the house at night, and--'\n\n'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, blushing deeply, 'it is surely impossible\nmy aunt could thus have represented me!'\n\n'Indeed, ma'am, I say nothing more than the truth, and not all of\nthat. But I thought, myself, she might have found something better to\ndiscourse about, than the faults of her own niece, even if you had been\nin fault, ma'amselle; but I did not believe a word of what she said. But\nmy lady does not care what she says against any body, for that matter.'\n\n'However that may be, Annette,' interrupted Emily, recovering her\ncomposure, 'it does not become you to speak of the faults of my aunt to\nme. I know you have meant well, but--say no more.--I have quite dined.'\n\nAnnette blushed, looked down, and then began slowly to clear the table.\n\n'Is this, then, the reward of my ingenuousness?' said Emily, when she\nwas alone; 'the treatment I am to receive from a relation--an\naunt--who ought to have been the guardian, not the slanderer of my\nreputation,--who, as a woman, ought to have respected the delicacy of\nfemale honour, and, as a relation, should have protected mine! But, to\nutter falsehoods on so nice a subject--to repay the openness, and, I\nmay say with honest pride, the propriety of my conduct, with\nslanders--required a depravity of heart, such as I could scarcely\nhave believed existed, such as I weep to find in a relation. O! what a\ncontrast does her character present to that of my beloved father;\nwhile envy and low cunning form the chief traits of hers, his was\ndistinguished by benevolence and philosophic wisdom! But now, let me\nonly remember, if possible, that she is unfortunate.'\n\nEmily threw her veil over her, and went down to walk upon the ramparts,\nthe only walk, indeed, which was open to her, though she often wished,\nthat she might be permitted to ramble among the woods below, and\nstill more, that she might sometimes explore the sublime scenes of the\nsurrounding country. But, as Montoni would not suffer her to pass the\ngates of the castle, she tried to be contented with the romantic views\nshe beheld from the walls. The peasants, who had been employed on the\nfortifications, had left their work, and the ramparts were silent and\nsolitary. Their lonely appearance, together with the gloom of a lowering\nsky, assisted the musings of her mind, and threw over it a kind of\nmelancholy tranquillity, such as she often loved to indulge. She turned\nto observe a fine effect of the sun, as his rays, suddenly streaming\nfrom behind a heavy cloud, lighted up the west towers of the castle,\nwhile the rest of the edifice was in deep shade, except, that, through\na lofty gothic arch, adjoining the tower, which led to another terrace,\nthe beams darted in full splendour, and shewed the three strangers\nshe had observed in the morning. Perceiving them, she started, and a\nmomentary fear came over her, as she looked up the long rampart, and saw\nno other persons. While she hesitated, they approached. The gate at the\nend of the terrace, whither they were advancing, she knew, was always\nlocked, and she could not depart by the opposite extremity, without\nmeeting them; but, before she passed them, she hastily drew a thin\nveil over her face, which did, indeed, but ill conceal her beauty. They\nlooked earnestly at her, and spoke to each other in bad Italian,\nof which she caught only a few words; but the fierceness of their\ncountenances, now that she was near enough to discriminate them, struck\nher yet more than the wild singularity of their air and dress had\nformerly done. It was the countenance and figure of him, who walked\nbetween the other two, that chiefly seized her attention, which\nexpressed a sullen haughtiness and a kind of dark watchful villany, that\ngave a thrill of horror to her heart. All this was so legibly written on\nhis features, as to be seen by a single glance, for she passed the group\nswiftly, and her timid eyes scarcely rested on them a moment. Having\nreached the terrace, she stopped, and perceived the strangers standing\nin the shadow of one of the turrets, gazing after her, and seemingly, by\ntheir action, in earnest conversation. She immediately left the rampart,\nand retired to her apartment.\n\nIn the evening, Montoni sat late, carousing with his guests in the cedar\nchamber. His recent triumph over Count Morano, or, perhaps, some other\ncircumstance, contributed to elevate his spirits to an unusual height.\nHe filled the goblet often, and gave a loose to merriment and talk. The\ngaiety of Cavigni, on the contrary, was somewhat clouded by anxiety. He\nkept a watchful eye upon Verezzi, whom, with the utmost difficulty,\nhe had hitherto restrained from exasperating Montoni further against\nMorano, by a mention of his late taunting words.\n\nOne of the company exultingly recurred to the event of the preceding\nevening. Verezzi's eyes sparkled. The mention of Morano led to that of\nEmily, of whom they were all profuse in the praise, except Montoni, who\nsat silent, and then interrupted the subject.\n\nWhen the servants had withdrawn, Montoni and his friends entered into\nclose conversation, which was sometimes checked by the irascible temper\nof Verezzi, but in which Montoni displayed his conscious superiority,\nby that decisive look and manner, which always accompanied the vigour\nof his thought, and to which most of his companions submitted, as to\na power, that they had no right to question, though of each\nother's self-importance they were jealously scrupulous. Amidst this\nconversation, one of them imprudently introduced again the name of\nMorano; and Verezzi, now more heated by wine, disregarded the expressive\nlooks of Cavigni, and gave some dark hints of what had passed on the\npreceding night. These, however, Montoni did not appear to understand,\nfor he continued silent in his chair, without discovering any emotion,\nwhile, the choler of Verezzi increasing with the apparent insensibility\nof Montoni, he at length told the suggestion of Morano, that this castle\ndid not lawfully belong to him, and that he would not willingly leave\nanother murder on his conscience.\n\n'Am I to be insulted at my own table, and by my own friends?' said\nMontoni, with a countenance pale in anger. 'Why are the words of that\nmadman repeated to me?' Verezzi, who had expected to hear Montoni's\nindignation poured forth against Morano, and answered by thanks to\nhimself, looked with astonishment at Cavigni, who enjoyed his confusion.\n'Can you be weak enough to credit the assertions of a madman?' rejoined\nMontoni, 'or, what is the same thing, a man possessed by the spirit of\nvengeance? But he has succeeded too well; you believe what he said.'\n\n'Signor,' said Verezzi, 'we believe only what we know.'--'How!'\ninterrupted Montoni, sternly: 'produce your proof.'\n\n'We believe only what we know,' repeated Verezzi, 'and we know nothing\nof what Morano asserts.' Montoni seemed to recover himself. 'I am hasty,\nmy friends,' said he, 'with respect to my honour; no man shall question\nit with impunity--you did not mean to question it. These foolish words\nare not worth your remembrance, or my resentment. Verezzi, here is to\nyour first exploit.'\n\n'Success to your first exploit,' re-echoed the whole company.\n\n'Noble Signor,' replied Verezzi, glad to find he had escaped Montoni's\nresentment, 'with my good will, you shall build your ramparts of gold.'\n\n'Pass the goblet,' cried Montoni. 'We will drink to Signora St. Aubert,'\nsaid Cavigni. 'By your leave we will first drink to the lady of the\ncastle.' said Bertolini.--Montoni was silent. 'To the lady of the\ncastle,' said his guests. He bowed his head.\n\n'It much surprises me, Signor,' said Bertolini, 'that you have so long\nneglected this castle; it is a noble edifice.'\n\n'It suits our purpose,' replied Montoni, 'and IS a noble edifice. You\nknow not, it seems, by what mischance it came to me.'\n\n'It was a lucky mischance, be it what it may, Signor,' replied\nBertolini, smiling. 'I would, that one so lucky had befallen me.'\n\nMontoni looked gravely at him. 'If you will attend to what I say,' he\nresumed, 'you shall hear the story.'\n\nThe countenances of Bertolini and Verezzi expressed something more than\ncuriosity; Cavigni, who seemed to feel none, had probably heard the\nrelation before.\n\n'It is now near twenty years,' said Montoni, 'since this castle came\ninto my possession. I inherit it by the female line. The lady, my\npredecessor, was only distantly related to me; I am the last of her\nfamily. She was beautiful and rich; I wooed her; but her heart was fixed\nupon another, and she rejected me. It is probable, however, that she\nwas herself rejected of the person, whoever he might be, on whom she\nbestowed her favour, for a deep and settled melancholy took possession\nof her; and I have reason to believe she put a period to her own life.\nI was not at the castle at the time; but, as there are some singular and\nmysterious circumstances attending that event, I shall repeat them.'\n\n'Repeat them!' said a voice.\n\nMontoni was silent; the guests looked at each other, to know who spoke;\nbut they perceived, that each was making the same enquiry. Montoni, at\nlength, recovered himself. 'We are overheard,' said he: 'we will finish\nthis subject another time. Pass the goblet.'\n\nThe cavaliers looked round the wide chamber.\n\n'Here is no person, but ourselves,' said Verezzi: 'pray, Signor,\nproceed.'\n\n'Did you hear any thing?' said Montoni.\n\n'We did,' said Bertolini.\n\n'It could be only fancy,' said Verezzi, looking round again. 'We see no\nperson besides ourselves; and the sound I thought I heard seemed within\nthe room. Pray, Signor, go on.'\n\nMontoni paused a moment, and then proceeded in a lowered voice, while\nthe cavaliers drew nearer to attend.\n\n'Ye are to know, Signors, that the Lady Laurentini had for some months\nshewn symptoms of a dejected mind, nay, of a disturbed imagination. Her\nmood was very unequal; sometimes she was sunk in calm melancholy, and,\nat others, as I have been told, she betrayed all the symptoms of\nfrantic madness. It was one night in the month of October, after she had\nrecovered from one of those fits of excess, and had sunk again into her\nusual melancholy, that she retired alone to her chamber, and forbade all\ninterruption. It was the chamber at the end of the corridor, Signors,\nwhere we had the affray, last night. From that hour, she was seen no\nmore.'\n\n'How! seen no more!' said Bertolini, 'was not her body found in the\nchamber?'\n\n'Were her remains never found?' cried the rest of the company all\ntogether.\n\n'Never!' replied Montoni.\n\n'What reasons were there to suppose she destroyed herself, then?' said\nBertolini.--'Aye, what reasons?' said Verezzi.--'How happened it, that\nher remains were never found? Although she killed herself, she could\nnot bury herself.' Montoni looked indignantly at Verezzi, who began to\napologize. 'Your pardon, Signor,' said he: 'I did not consider, that the\nlady was your relative, when I spoke of her so lightly.'\n\nMontoni accepted the apology.\n\n'But the Signor will oblige us with the reasons, which urged him to\nbelieve, that the lady committed suicide.'\n\n'Those I will explain hereafter,' said Montoni: 'at present let me\nrelate a most extraordinary circumstance. This conversation goes no\nfurther, Signors. Listen, then, to what I am going to say.'\n\n'Listen!' said a voice.\n\nThey were all again silent, and the countenance of Montoni changed.\n'This is no illusion of the fancy,' said Cavigni, at length breaking the\nprofound silence.--'No,' said Bertolini; 'I heard it myself, now. Yet\nhere is no person in the room but ourselves!'\n\n'This is very extraordinary,' said Montoni, suddenly rising. 'This is\nnot to be borne; here is some deception, some trick. I will know what it\nmeans.'\n\nAll the company rose from their chairs in confusion.\n\n'It is very odd!' said Bertolini. 'Here is really no stranger in the\nroom. If it is a trick, Signor, you will do well to punish the author of\nit severely.'\n\n'A trick! what else can it be?' said Cavigni, affecting a laugh.\n\nThe servants were now summoned, and the chamber was searched, but\nno person was found. The surprise and consternation of the company\nincreased. Montoni was discomposed. 'We will leave this room,' said he,\n'and the subject of our conversation also; it is too solemn.' His guests\nwere equally ready to quit the apartment; but the subject had roused\ntheir curiosity, and they entreated Montoni to withdraw to another\nchamber, and finish it; no entreaties could, however, prevail with\nhim. Notwithstanding his efforts to appear at ease, he was visibly and\ngreatly disordered.\n\n'Why, Signor, you are not superstitious,' cried Verezzi, jeeringly;\n'you, who have so often laughed at the credulity of others!'\n\n'I am not superstitious,' replied Montoni, regarding him with stern\ndispleasure, 'though I know how to despise the common-place sentences,\nwhich are frequently uttered against superstition. I will enquire\nfurther into this affair.' He then left the room; and his guests,\nseparating for the night, retired to their respective apartments.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\n He wears the rose of youth upon his cheek.\n     SHAKESPEARE\n\nWe now return to Valancourt, who, it may be remembered, remained\nat Tholouse, some time after the departure of Emily, restless and\nmiserable. Each morrow that approached, he designed should carry\nhim from thence; yet to-morrow and to-morrow came, and still saw him\nlingering in the scene of his former happiness. He could not immediately\ntear himself from the spot, where he had been accustomed to converse\nwith Emily, or from the objects they had viewed together, which appeared\nto him memorials of her affection, as well as a kind of surety for its\nfaithfulness; and, next to the pain of bidding her adieu, was that of\nleaving the scenes which so powerfully awakened her image. Sometimes he\nhad bribed a servant, who had been left in the care of Madame Montoni's\nchateau, to permit him to visit the gardens, and there he would wander,\nfor hours together, rapt in a melancholy, not unpleasing. The terrace,\nand the pavilion at the end of it, where he had taken leave of Emily, on\nthe eve of her departure from Tholouse, were his most favourite haunts.\nThere, as he walked, or leaned from the window of the building, he would\nendeavour to recollect all she had said, on that night; to catch the\ntones of her voice, as they faintly vibrated on his memory, and to\nremember the exact expression of her countenance, which sometimes came\nsuddenly to his fancy, like a vision; that beautiful countenance, which\nawakened, as by instantaneous magic, all the tenderness of his heart,\nand seemed to tell with irresistible eloquence--that he had lost her\nforever! At these moments, his hurried steps would have discovered to a\nspectator the despair of his heart. The character of Montoni, such as\nhe had received from hints, and such as his fears represented it, would\nrise to his view, together with all the dangers it seemed to threaten\nto Emily and to his love. He blamed himself, that he had not urged these\nmore forcibly to her, while it might have been in his power to detain\nher, and that he had suffered an absurd and criminal delicacy, as he\ntermed it, to conquer so soon the reasonable arguments he had opposed to\nthis journey. Any evil, that might have attended their marriage, seemed\nso inferior to those, which now threatened their love, or even to the\nsufferings, that absence occasioned, that he wondered how he could have\nceased to urge his suit, till he had convinced her of its propriety; and\nhe would certainly now have followed her to Italy, if he could have been\nspared from his regiment for so long a journey. His regiment, indeed,\nsoon reminded him, that he had other duties to attend, than those of\nlove.\n\nA short time after his arrival at his brother's house, he was summoned\nto join his brother officers, and he accompanied a battalion to Paris;\nwhere a scene of novelty and gaiety opened upon him, such as, till then,\nhe had only a faint idea of. But gaiety disgusted, and company fatigued,\nhis sick mind; and he became an object of unceasing raillery to his\ncompanions, from whom, whenever he could steal an opportunity, he\nescaped, to think of Emily. The scenes around him, however, and the\ncompany with whom he was obliged to mingle, engaged his attention,\nthough they failed to amuse his fancy, and thus gradually weakened the\nhabit of yielding to lamentation, till it appeared less a duty to his\nlove to indulge it. Among his brother-officers were many, who added\nto the ordinary character of a French soldier's gaiety some of those\nfascinating qualities, which too frequently throw a veil over folly, and\nsometimes even soften the features of vice into smiles. To these men\nthe reserved and thoughtful manners of Valancourt were a kind of tacit\ncensure on their own, for which they rallied him when present, and\nplotted against him when absent; they gloried in the thought of reducing\nhim to their own level, and, considering it to be a spirited frolic,\ndetermined to accomplish it.\n\nValancourt was a stranger to the gradual progress of scheme and\nintrigue, against which he could not be on his guard. He had not been\naccustomed to receive ridicule, and he could ill endure its sting; he\nresented it, and this only drew upon him a louder laugh. To escape from\nsuch scenes, he fled into solitude, and there the image of Emily met\nhim, and revived the pangs of love and despair. He then sought to renew\nthose tasteful studies, which had been the delight of his early years;\nbut his mind had lost the tranquillity, which is necessary for their\nenjoyment. To forget himself and the grief and anxiety, which the idea\nof her recalled, he would quit his solitude, and again mingle in the\ncrowd--glad of a temporary relief, and rejoicing to snatch amusement for\nthe moment.\n\nThus passed weeks after weeks, time gradually softening his sorrow, and\nhabit strengthening his desire of amusement, till the scenes around him\nseemed to awaken into a new character, and Valancourt, to have fallen\namong them from the clouds.\n\nHis figure and address made him a welcome visitor, wherever he had been\nintroduced, and he soon frequented the most gay and fashionable circles\nof Paris. Among these, was the assembly of the Countess Lacleur, a woman\nof eminent beauty and captivating manners. She had passed the spring of\nyouth, but her wit prolonged the triumph of its reign, and they mutually\nassisted the fame of each other; for those, who were charmed by her\nloveliness, spoke with enthusiasm of her talents; and others, who\nadmired her playful imagination, declared, that her personal graces were\nunrivalled. But her imagination was merely playful, and her wit, if such\nit could be called, was brilliant, rather than just; it dazzled, and its\nfallacy escaped the detection of the moment; for the accents, in which\nshe pronounced it, and the smile, that accompanied them, were a spell\nupon the judgment of the auditors. Her petits soupers were the most\ntasteful of any in Paris, and were frequented by many of the second\nclass of literati. She was fond of music, was herself a scientific\nperformer, and had frequently concerts at her house. Valancourt, who\npassionately loved music, and who sometimes assisted at these concerts,\nadmired her execution, but remembered with a sigh the eloquent\nsimplicity of Emily's songs and the natural expression of her manner,\nwhich waited not to be approved by the judgment, but found their way at\nonce to the heart.\n\nMadame La Comtesse had often deep play at her house, which she affected\nto restrain, but secretly encouraged; and it was well known among her\nfriends, that the splendour of her establishment was chiefly supplied\nfrom the profits of her tables. But her petits soupers were the most\ncharming imaginable! Here were all the delicacies of the four quarters\nof the world, all the wit and the lighter efforts of genius, all the\ngraces of conversation--the smiles of beauty, and the charm of music;\nand Valancourt passed his pleasantest, as well as most dangerous hours\nin these parties.\n\nHis brother, who remained with his family in Gascony, had contented\nhimself with giving him letters of introduction to such of his\nrelations, residing at Paris, as the latter was not already known to.\nAll these were persons of some distinction; and, as neither the person,\nmind, or manners of Valancourt the younger threatened to disgrace their\nalliance, they received him with as much kindness as their nature,\nhardened by uninterrupted prosperity, would admit of; but their\nattentions did not extend to acts of real friendship; for they were too\nmuch occupied by their own pursuits, to feel any interest in his; and\nthus he was set down in the midst of Paris, in the pride of youth, with\nan open, unsuspicious temper and ardent affections, without one friend,\nto warn him of the dangers, to which he was exposed. Emily, who, had\nshe been present, would have saved him from these evils by awakening\nhis heart, and engaging him in worthy pursuits, now only increased\nhis danger;--it was to lose the grief, which the remembrance of her\noccasioned, that he first sought amusement; and for this end he pursued\nit, till habit made it an object of abstract interest.\n\nThere was also a Marchioness Champfort, a young widow, at whose\nassemblies he passed much of his time. She was handsome, still more\nartful, gay and fond of intrigue. The society, which she drew round her,\nwas less elegant and more vicious, than that of the Countess Lacleur:\nbut, as she had address enough to throw a veil, though but a slight\none, over the worst part of her character, she was still visited by many\npersons of what is called distinction. Valancourt was introduced to her\nparties by two of his brother officers, whose late ridicule he had now\nforgiven so far, that he could sometimes join in the laugh, which a\nmention of his former manners would renew.\n\nThe gaiety of the most splendid court in Europe, the magnificence of\nthe palaces, entertainments, and equipages, that surrounded him--all\nconspired to dazzle his imagination, and re-animate his spirits, and\nthe example and maxims of his military associates to delude his mind.\nEmily's image, indeed, still lived there; but it was no longer the\nfriend, the monitor, that saved him from himself, and to which he\nretired to weep the sweet, yet melancholy, tears of tenderness. When\nhe had recourse to it, it assumed a countenance of mild reproach, that\nwrung his soul, and called forth tears of unmixed misery; his only\nescape from which was to forget the object of it, and he endeavoured,\ntherefore, to think of Emily as seldom as he could.\n\nThus dangerously circumstanced was Valancourt, at the time, when Emily\nwas suffering at Venice, from the persecuting addresses of Count Morano,\nand the unjust authority of Montoni; at which period we leave him.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\n The image of a wicked, heinous fault\n Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his\n Does shew the mood of a much-troubled breast.\n     KING JOHN\n\nLeaving the gay scenes of Paris, we return to those of the gloomy\nApennine, where Emily's thoughts were still faithful to Valancourt.\nLooking to him as to her only hope, she recollected, with jealous\nexactness, every assurance and every proof she had witnessed of his\naffection; read again and again the letters she had received from him;\nweighed, with intense anxiety, the force of every word, that spoke of\nhis attachment; and dried her tears, as she trusted in his truth.\n\nMontoni, meanwhile, had made strict enquiry concerning the strange\ncircumstance of his alarm, without obtaining information; and was, at\nlength, obliged to account for it by the reasonable supposition, that\nit was a mischievous trick played off by one of his domestics. His\ndisagreements with Madame Montoni, on the subject of her settlements,\nwere now more frequent than ever; he even confined her entirely to her\nown apartment, and did not scruple to threaten her with much greater\nseverity, should she persevere in a refusal.\n\nReason, had she consulted it, would now have perplexed her in the choice\nof a conduct to be adopted. It would have pointed out the danger of\nirritating by further opposition a man, such as Montoni had proved\nhimself to be, and to whose power she had so entirely committed herself;\nand it would also have told her, of what extreme importance to her\nfuture comfort it was, to reserve for herself those possessions, which\nwould enable her to live independently of Montoni, should she ever\nescape from his immediate controul. But she was directed by a more\ndecisive guide than reason--the spirit of revenge, which urged her to\noppose violence to violence, and obstinacy to obstinacy.\n\nWholly confined to the solitude of her apartment, she was now reduced\nto solicit the society she had lately rejected; for Emily was the only\nperson, except Annette, with whom she was permitted to converse.\n\nGenerously anxious for her peace, Emily, therefore, tried to persuade,\nwhen she could not convince, and sought by every gentle means to induce\nher to forbear that asperity of reply, which so greatly irritated\nMontoni. The pride of her aunt did sometimes soften to the soothing\nvoice of Emily, and there even were moments, when she regarded her\naffectionate attentions with goodwill.\n\nThe scenes of terrible contention, to which Emily was frequently\ncompelled to be witness, exhausted her spirits more than any\ncircumstances, that had occurred since her departure from Tholouse. The\ngentleness and goodness of her parents, together with the scenes of her\nearly happiness, often stole on her mind, like the visions of a higher\nworld; while the characters and circumstances, now passing beneath her\neye, excited both terror and surprise. She could scarcely have\nimagined, that passions so fierce and so various, as those which Montoni\nexhibited, could have been concentrated in one individual; yet what\nmore surprised her, was, that, on great occasions, he could bend these\npassions, wild as they were, to the cause of his interest, and generally\ncould disguise in his countenance their operation on his mind; but she\nhad seen him too often, when he had thought it unnecessary to conceal\nhis nature, to be deceived on such occasions.\n\nHer present life appeared like the dream of a distempered imagination,\nor like one of those frightful fictions, in which the wild genius of\nthe poets sometimes delighted. Reflection brought only regret, and\nanticipation terror. How often did she wish to 'steal the lark's wing,\nand mount the swiftest gale,' that Languedoc and repose might once more\nbe hers!\n\nOf Count Morano's health she made frequent enquiry; but Annette heard\nonly vague reports of his danger, and that his surgeon had said he would\nnever leave the cottage alive; while Emily could not but be shocked to\nthink, that she, however innocently, might be the means of his death;\nand Annette, who did not fail to observe her emotion, interpreted it in\nher own way.\n\nBut a circumstance soon occurred, which entirely withdrew Annette's\nattention from this subject, and awakened the surprise and curiosity so\nnatural to her. Coming one day to Emily's apartment, with a countenance\nfull of importance, 'What can all this mean, ma'amselle?' said she.\n'Would I was once safe in Languedoc again, they should never catch me\ngoing on my travels any more! I must think it a fine thing, truly, to\ncome abroad, and see foreign parts! I little thought I was coming to be\ncatched up in a old castle, among such dreary mountains, with the chance\nof being murdered, or, what is as good, having my throat cut!'\n\n'What can all this mean, indeed, Annette?' said Emily, in astonishment.\n\n'Aye, ma'amselle, you may look surprised; but you won't believe it,\nperhaps, till they have murdered you, too. You would not believe about\nthe ghost I told you of, though I shewed you the very place, where it\nused to appear!--You will believe nothing, ma'amselle.'\n\n'Not till you speak more reasonably, Annette; for Heaven's sake, explain\nyour meaning. You spoke of murder!'\n\n'Aye, ma'amselle, they are coming to murder us all, perhaps; but what\nsignifies explaining?--you will not believe.'\n\nEmily again desired her to relate what she had seen, or heard.\n\n'O, I have seen enough, ma'am, and heard too much, as Ludovico can\nprove. Poor soul! they will murder him, too! I little thought, when\nhe sung those sweet verses under my lattice, at Venice!'--Emily looked\nimpatient and displeased. 'Well, ma'amselle, as I was saying, these\npreparations about the castle, and these strange-looking people, that\nare calling here every day, and the Signor's cruel usage of my lady, and\nhis odd goings-on--all these, as I told Ludovico, can bode no good. And\nhe bid me hold my tongue. So, says I, the Signor's strangely altered,\nLudovico, in this gloomy castle, to what he was in France; there, all so\ngay! Nobody so gallant to my lady, then; and he could smile, too, upon\na poor servant, sometimes, and jeer her, too, good-naturedly enough.\nI remember once, when he said to me, as I was going out of my lady's\ndressing-room--Annette, says he--'\n\n'Never mind what the Signor said,' interrupted Emily; 'but tell me, at\nonce, the circumstance, which has thus alarmed you.'\n\n'Aye, ma'amselle,' rejoined Annette, 'that is just what Ludovico said:\nsays he, Never mind what the Signor says to you. So I told him what I\nthought about the Signor. He is so strangely altered, said I: for now he\nis so haughty, and so commanding, and so sharp with my lady; and, if he\nmeets one, he'll scarcely look at one, unless it be to frown. So much\nthe better, says Ludovico, so much the better. And to tell you the\ntruth, ma'amselle, I thought this was a very ill-natured speech of\nLudovico: but I went on. And then, says I, he is always knitting his\nbrows; and if one speaks to him, he does not hear; and then he sits up\ncounselling so, of a night, with the other Signors--there they are, till\nlong past midnight, discoursing together! Aye, but says Ludovico,\nyou don't know what they are counselling about. No, said I, but I\ncan guess--it is about my young lady. Upon that, Ludovico burst out\na-laughing, quite loud; so he put me in a huff, for I did not like that\neither I or you, ma'amselle, should be laughed at; and I turned away\nquick, but he stopped me. \"Don't be affronted, Annette,\" said he, \"but I\ncannot help laughing;\" and with that he laughed again. \"What!\" says he,\n\"do you think the Signors sit up, night after night, only to counsel\nabout thy young lady! No, no, there is something more in the wind than\nthat. And these repairs about the castle, and these preparations about\nthe ramparts--they are not making about young ladies.\" Why, surely, said\nI, the Signor, my master, is not going to make war? \"Make war!\" said\nLudovico, \"what, upon the mountains and the woods? for here is no living\nsoul to make war upon that I see.\"\n\n'What are these preparations for, then? said I; why surely nobody\nis coming to take away my master's castle! \"Then there are so many\nill-looking fellows coming to the castle every day,\" says Ludovico,\nwithout answering my question, \"and the Signor sees them all, and talks\nwith them all, and they all stay in the neighbourhood! By holy St.\nMarco! some of them are the most cut-throat-looking dogs I ever set my\neyes upon.\"\n\n'I asked Ludovico again, if he thought they were coming to take away my\nmaster's castle; and he said, No, he did not think they were, but he did\nnot know for certain. \"Then yesterday,\" said he, but you must not tell\nthis, ma'amselle, \"yesterday, a party of these men came, and left all\ntheir horses in the castle stables, where, it seems, they are to\nstay, for the Signor ordered them all to be entertained with the\nbest provender in the manger; but the men are, most of them, in the\nneighbouring cottages.\"\n\n'So, ma'amselle, I came to tell you all this, for I never heard any\nthing so strange in my life. But what can these ill-looking men be come\nabout, if it is not to murder us? And the Signor knows this, or why\nshould he be so civil to them? And why should he fortify the castle, and\ncounsel so much with the other Signors, and be so thoughtful?'\n\n'Is this all you have to tell, Annette?' said Emily. 'Have you heard\nnothing else, that alarms you?'\n\n'Nothing else, ma'amselle!' said Annette; 'why, is not this enough?'\n'Quite enough for my patience, Annette, but not quite enough to convince\nme we are all to be murdered, though I acknowledge here is sufficient\nfood for curiosity.' She forbore to speak her apprehensions, because\nshe would not encourage Annette's wild terrors; but the present\ncircumstances of the castle both surprised, and alarmed her. Annette,\nhaving told her tale, left the chamber, on the wing for new wonders.\n\nIn the evening, Emily had passed some melancholy hours with Madame\nMontoni, and was retiring to rest, when she was alarmed by a strange and\nloud knocking at her chamber door, and then a heavy weight fell against\nit, that almost burst it open. She called to know who was there, and\nreceiving no answer, repeated the call; but a chilling silence followed.\nIt occurred to her--for, at this moment, she could not reason on the\nprobability of circumstances--that some one of the strangers, lately\narrived at the castle, had discovered her apartment, and was come with\nsuch intent, as their looks rendered too possible--to rob, perhaps to\nmurder, her. The moment she admitted this possibility, terror supplied\nthe place of conviction, and a kind of instinctive remembrance of her\nremote situation from the family heightened it to a degree, that almost\novercame her senses. She looked at the door, which led to the staircase,\nexpecting to see it open, and listening, in fearful silence, for a\nreturn of the noise, till she began to think it had proceeded from this\ndoor, and a wish of escaping through the opposite one rushed upon her\nmind. She went to the gallery door, and then, fearing to open it, lest\nsome person might be silently lurking for her without, she stopped,\nbut with her eyes fixed in expectation upon the opposite door of the\nstair-case. As thus she stood, she heard a faint breathing near her, and\nbecame convinced, that some person was on the other side of the door,\nwhich was already locked. She sought for other fastening, but there was\nnone.\n\nWhile she yet listened, the breathing was distinctly heard, and her\nterror was not soothed, when, looking round her wide and lonely chamber,\nshe again considered her remote situation. As she stood hesitating\nwhether to call for assistance, the continuance of the stillness\nsurprised her; and her spirits would have revived, had she not continued\nto hear the faint breathing, that convinced her, the person, whoever it\nwas, had not quitted the door.\n\nAt length, worn out with anxiety, she determined to call loudly for\nassistance from her casement, and was advancing to it, when, whether the\nterror of her mind gave her ideal sounds, or that real ones did come,\nshe thought footsteps were ascending the private stair-case; and,\nexpecting to see its door unclose, she forgot all other cause of alarm,\nand retreated towards the corridor. Here she endeavoured to make her\nescape, but, on opening the door, was very near falling over a person,\nwho lay on the floor without. She screamed, and would have passed, but\nher trembling frame refused to support her; and the moment, in which she\nleaned against the wall of the gallery, allowed her leisure to observe\nthe figure before her, and to recognise the features of Annette. Fear\ninstantly yielded to surprise. She spoke in vain to the poor girl, who\nremained senseless on the floor, and then, losing all consciousness of\nher own weakness, hurried to her assistance.\n\nWhen Annette recovered, she was helped by Emily into the chamber, but\nwas still unable to speak, and looked round her, as if her eyes followed\nsome person in the room. Emily tried to sooth her disturbed spirits, and\nforbore, at present, to ask her any questions; but the faculty of speech\nwas never long with-held from Annette, and she explained, in broken\nsentences, and in her tedious way, the occasion of her disorder. She\naffirmed, and with a solemnity of conviction, that almost staggered\nthe incredulity of Emily, that she had seen an apparition, as she was\npassing to her bedroom, through the corridor.\n\n'I had heard strange stories of that chamber before,' said Annette:\n'but as it was so near yours, ma'amselle, I would not tell them to you,\nbecause they would frighten you. The servants had told me, often and\noften, that it was haunted, and that was the reason why it was shut up:\nnay, for that matter, why the whole string of these rooms, here, are\nshut up. I quaked whenever I went by, and I must say, I did sometimes\nthink I heard odd noises within it. But, as I said, as I was passing\nalong the corridor, and not thinking a word about the matter, or even\nof the strange voice that the Signors heard the other night, all of a\nsudden comes a great light, and, looking behind me, there was a tall\nfigure, (I saw it as plainly, ma'amselle, as I see you at this moment),\na tall figure gliding along (Oh! I cannot describe how!) into the room,\nthat is always shut up, and nobody has the key of it but the Signor, and\nthe door shut directly.'\n\n'Then it doubtless was the Signor,' said Emily.\n\n'O no, ma'amselle, it could not be him, for I left him busy\na-quarrelling in my lady's dressing-room!'\n\n'You bring me strange tales, Annette,' said Emily: 'it was but this\nmorning, that you would have terrified me with the apprehension of\nmurder; and now you would persuade me, you have seen a ghost! These\nwonderful stories come too quickly.'\n\n'Nay, ma'amselle, I will say no more, only, if I had not been\nfrightened, I should not have fainted dead away, so. I ran as fast as I\ncould, to get to your door; but, what was worst of all, I could not call\nout; then I thought something must be strangely the matter with me, and\ndirectly I dropt down.'\n\n'Was it the chamber where the black veil hangs?' said Emily. 'O! no,\nma'amselle, it was one nearer to this. What shall I do, to get to my\nroom? I would not go out into the corridor again, for the whole world!'\nEmily, whose spirits had been severely shocked, and who, therefore,\ndid not like the thought of passing the night alone, told her she might\nsleep where she was. 'O, no, ma'amselle,' replied Annette, 'I would not\nsleep in the room, now, for a thousand sequins!'\n\nWearied and disappointed, Emily first ridiculed, though she shared, her\nfears, and then tried to sooth them; but neither attempt succeeded, and\nthe girl persisted in believing and affirming, that what she had seen\nwas nothing human. It was not till some time after Emily had recovered\nher composure, that she recollected the steps she had heard on the\nstair-case--a remembrance, however, which made her insist that Annette\nshould pass the night with her, and, with much difficulty, she, at\nlength, prevailed, assisted by that part of the girl's fear, which\nconcerned the corridor.\n\nEarly on the following morning, as Emily crossed the hall to the\nramparts, she heard a noisy bustle in the court-yard, and the clatter of\nhorses' hoofs. Such unusual sounds excited her curiosity; and, instead\nof going to the ramparts, she went to an upper casement, from whence\nshe saw, in the court below, a large party of horsemen, dressed in a\nsingular, but uniform, habit, and completely, though variously, armed.\nThey wore a kind of short jacket, composed of black and scarlet, and\nseveral of them had a cloak, of plain black, which, covering the person\nentirely, hung down to the stirrups. As one of these cloaks glanced\naside, she saw, beneath, daggers, apparently of different sizes, tucked\ninto the horseman's belt. She further observed, that these were carried,\nin the same manner, by many of the horsemen without cloaks, most of whom\nbore also pikes, or javelins. On their heads, were the small Italian\ncaps, some of which were distinguished by black feathers. Whether these\ncaps gave a fierce air to the countenance, or that the countenances\nthey surmounted had naturally such an appearance, Emily thought she had\nnever, till then, seen an assemblage of faces so savage and terrific.\nWhile she gazed, she almost fancied herself surrounded by banditti; and\na vague thought glanced athwart her fancy--that Montoni was the captain\nof the group before her, and that this castle was to be the place of\nrendezvous. The strange and horrible supposition was but momentary,\nthough her reason could supply none more probable, and though she\ndiscovered, among the band, the strangers she had formerly noticed with\nso much alarm, who were now distinguished by the black plume.\n\nWhile she continued gazing, Cavigni, Verezzi, and Bertolini came forth\nfrom the hall, habited like the rest, except that they wore hats, with\na mixed plume of black and scarlet, and that their arms differed from\nthose of the rest of the party. As they mounted their horses, Emily was\nstruck with the exulting joy, expressed on the visage of Verezzi, while\nCavigni was gay, yet with a shade of thought on his countenance; and, as\nhe managed his horse with dexterity, his graceful and commanding figure,\nwhich exhibited the majesty of a hero, had never appeared to more\nadvantage. Emily, as she observed him, thought he somewhat resembled\nValancourt, in the spirit and dignity of his person; but she looked in\nvain for the noble, benevolent countenance--the soul's intelligence,\nwhich overspread the features of the latter.\n\nAs she was hoping, she scarcely knew why, that Montoni would accompany\nthe party, he appeared at the hall door, but un-accoutred. Having\ncarefully observed the horsemen, conversed awhile with the cavaliers,\nand bidden them farewel, the band wheeled round the court, and, led by\nVerezzi, issued forth under the portcullis; Montoni following to the\nportal, and gazing after them for some time. Emily then retired from\nthe casement, and, now certain of being unmolested, went to walk on the\nramparts, from whence she soon after saw the party winding among the\nmountains to the west, appearing and disappearing between the woods,\ntill distance confused their figures, consolidated their numbers, and\nonly a dingy mass appeared moving along the heights.\n\nEmily observed, that no workmen were on the ramparts, and that the\nrepairs of the fortifications seemed to be completed. While she\nsauntered thoughtfully on, she heard distant footsteps, and, raising her\neyes, saw several men lurking under the castle walls, who were evidently\nnot workmen, but looked as if they would have accorded well with the\nparty, which was gone. Wondering where Annette had hid herself so\nlong, who might have explained some of the late circumstances, and then\nconsidering that Madame Montoni was probably risen, she went to her\ndressing-room, where she mentioned what had occurred; but Madame Montoni\neither would not, or could not, give any explanation of the event. The\nSignor's reserve to his wife, on this subject, was probably nothing\nmore than usual; yet, to Emily, it gave an air of mystery to the whole\naffair, that seemed to hint, there was danger, if not villany, in his\nschemes.\n\nAnnette presently came, and, as usual, was full of alarm; to her lady's\neager enquiries of what she had heard among the servants, she replied:\n\n'Ah, madam! nobody knows what it is all about, but old Carlo; he knows\nwell enough, I dare say, but he is as close as his master. Some say the\nSignor is going out to frighten the enemy, as they call it: but where is\nthe enemy? Then others say, he is going to take away some body's castle:\nbut I am sure he has room enough in his own, without taking other\npeople's; and I am sure I should like it a great deal better, if there\nwere more people to fill it.'\n\n'Ah! you will soon have your wish, I fear,' replied Madame Montoni.\n\n'No, madam, but such ill-looking fellows are not worth having. I mean\nsuch gallant, smart, merry fellows as Ludovico, who is always telling\ndroll stories, to make one laugh. It was but yesterday, he told me such\na HUMOURSOME tale! I can't help laughing at it now.--Says he--'\n\n'Well, we can dispense with the story,' said her lady. 'Ah!' continued\nAnnette, 'he sees a great way further than other people! Now he sees\ninto all the Signor's meaning, without knowing a word about the matter!'\n\n'How is that?' said Madame Montoni.\n\n'Why he says--but he made me promise not to tell, and I would not\ndisoblige him for the world.'\n\n'What is it he made you promise not to tell?' said her lady, sternly. 'I\ninsist upon knowing immediately--what is it he made you promise?'\n\n'O madam,' cried Annette, 'I would not tell for the universe!' 'I insist\nupon your telling this instant,' said Madame Montoni. 'O dear madam!\nI would not tell for a hundred sequins! You would not have me forswear\nmyself madam!' exclaimed Annette.\n\n'I will not wait another moment,' said Madame Montoni. Annette was\nsilent.\n\n'The Signor shall be informed of this directly,' rejoined her mistress:\n'he will make you discover all.'\n\n'It is Ludovico, who has discovered,' said Annette: 'but for mercy's\nsake, madam, don't tell the Signor, and you shall know all directly.'\nMadame Montoni said, that she would not.\n\n'Well then, madam, Ludovico says, that the Signor, my master,\nis--is--that is, he only thinks so, and any body, you know, madam, is\nfree to think--that the Signor, my master, is--is--'\n\n'Is what?' said her lady, impatiently.\n\n'That the Signor, my master, is going to be--a great robber--that is--he\nis going to rob on his own account;--to be, (but I am sure I don't\nunderstand what he means) to be a--captain of--robbers.'\n\n'Art thou in thy senses, Annette?' said Madame Montoni; 'or is this a\ntrick to deceive me? Tell me, this instant, what Ludovico DID say to\nthee;--no equivocation;--this instant.'\n\n'Nay, madam,' cried Annette, 'if this is all I am to get for having\ntold the secret'--Her mistress thus continued to insist, and Annette to\nprotest, till Montoni, himself, appeared, who bade the latter leave the\nroom, and she withdrew, trembling for the fate of her story. Emily also\nwas retiring, but her aunt desired she would stay; and Montoni had so\noften made her a witness of their contention, that he no longer had\nscruples on that account.\n\n'I insist upon knowing this instant, Signor, what all this means:' said\nhis wife--'what are all these armed men, whom they tell me of, gone\nout about?' Montoni answered her only with a look of scorn; and Emily\nwhispered something to her. 'It does not signify,' said her aunt: 'I\nwill know; and I will know, too, what the castle has been fortified\nfor.'\n\n'Come, come,' said Montoni, 'other business brought me here. I must\nbe trifled with no longer. I have immediate occasion for what I\ndemand--those estates must be given up, without further contention; or I\nmay find a way--'\n\n'They never shall be given up,' interrupted Madame Montoni: 'they never\nshall enable you to carry on your wild schemes;--but what are these?\nI will know. Do you expect the castle to be attacked? Do you expect\nenemies? Am I to be shut up here, to be killed in a siege?'\n\n'Sign the writings,' said Montoni, 'and you shall know more.'\n\n'What enemy can be coming?' continued his wife. 'Have you entered into\nthe service of the state? Am I to be blocked up here to die?'\n\n'That may possibly happen,' said Montoni, 'unless you yield to my\ndemand: for, come what may, you shall not quit the castle till then.'\nMadame Montoni burst into loud lamentation, which she as suddenly\nchecked, considering, that her husband's assertions might be only\nartifices, employed to extort her consent. She hinted this suspicion,\nand, in the next moment, told him also, that his designs were not so\nhonourable as to serve the state, and that she believed he had only\ncommenced a captain of banditti, to join the enemies of Venice, in\nplundering and laying waste the surrounding country.\n\nMontoni looked at her for a moment with a steady and stern countenance;\nwhile Emily trembled, and his wife, for once, thought she had said too\nmuch. 'You shall be removed, this night,' said he, 'to the east turret:\nthere, perhaps, you may understand the danger of offending a man, who\nhas an unlimited power over you.'\n\nEmily now fell at his feet, and, with tears of terror, supplicated for\nher aunt, who sat, trembling with fear, and indignation; now ready to\npour forth execrations, and now to join the intercessions of Emily.\nMontoni, however, soon interrupted these entreaties with an horrible\noath; and, as he burst from Emily, leaving his cloak, in her hand, she\nfell to the floor, with a force, that occasioned her a severe blow on\nthe forehead. But he quitted the room, without attempting to raise her,\nwhose attention was called from herself, by a deep groan from Madame\nMontoni, who continued otherwise unmoved in her chair, and had not\nfainted. Emily, hastening to her assistance, saw her eyes rolling, and\nher features convulsed.\n\nHaving spoken to her, without receiving an answer, she brought\nwater, and supported her head, while she held it to her lips; but the\nincreasing convulsions soon compelled Emily to call for assistance. On\nher way through the hall, in search of Annette, she met Montoni, whom\nshe told what had happened, and conjured to return and comfort her aunt;\nbut he turned silently away, with a look of indifference, and went out\nupon the ramparts. At length she found old Carlo and Annette, and they\nhastened to the dressing-room, where Madame Montoni had fallen on the\nfloor, and was lying in strong convulsions. Having lifted her into the\nadjoining room, and laid her on the bed, the force of her disorder still\nmade all their strength necessary to hold her, while Annette trembled\nand sobbed, and old Carlo looked silently and piteously on, as his\nfeeble hands grasped those of his mistress, till, turning his eyes upon\nEmily, he exclaimed, 'Good God! Signora, what is the matter?'\n\nEmily looked calmly at him, and saw his enquiring eyes fixed on her: and\nAnnette, looking up, screamed loudly; for Emily's face was stained\nwith blood, which continued to fall slowly from her forehead: but her\nattention had been so entirely occupied by the scene before her, that\nshe had felt no pain from the wound. She now held an handkerchief to\nher face, and, notwithstanding her faintness, continued to watch Madame\nMontoni, the violence of whose convulsions was abating, till at length\nthey ceased, and left her in a kind of stupor.\n\n'My aunt must remain quiet,' said Emily. 'Go, good Carlo; if we should\nwant your assistance, I will send for you. In the mean time, if you have\nan opportunity, speak kindly of your mistress to your master.'\n\n'Alas!' said Carlo, 'I have seen too much! I have little influence with\nthe Signor. But do, dear young lady, take some care of yourself; that is\nan ugly wound, and you look sadly.'\n\n'Thank you, my friend, for your consideration,' said Emily, smiling\nkindly: 'the wound is trifling, it came by a fall.'\n\nCarlo shook his head, and left the room; and Emily, with Annette,\ncontinued to watch by her aunt. 'Did my lady tell the Signor what\nLudovico said, ma'amselle?' asked Annette in a whisper; but Emily\nquieted her fears on the subject.\n\n'I thought what this quarrelling would come to,' continued Annette: 'I\nsuppose the Signor has been beating my lady.'\n\n'No, no, Annette, you are totally mistaken, nothing extra-ordinary has\nhappened.'\n\n'Why, extraordinary things happen here so often, ma'amselle, that there\nis nothing in them. Here is another legion of those ill-looking fellows,\ncome to the castle, this morning.'\n\n'Hush! Annette, you will disturb my aunt; we will talk of that by and\nbye.'\n\nThey continued watching silently, till Madame Montoni uttered a low\nsigh, when Emily took her hand, and spoke soothingly to her; but the\nformer gazed with unconscious eyes, and it was long before she knew her\nniece. Her first words then enquired for Montoni; to which Emily replied\nby an entreaty, that she would compose her spirits, and consent to be\nkept quiet, adding, that, if she wished any message to be conveyed to\nhim, she would herself deliver it. 'No,' said her aunt faintly, 'no--I\nhave nothing new to tell him. Does he persist in saying I shall be\nremoved from my chamber?'\n\nEmily replied, that he had not spoken, on the subject, since Madame\nMontoni heard him; and then she tried to divert her attention to some\nother topic; but her aunt seemed to be inattentive to what she said, and\nlost in secret thoughts. Emily, having brought her some refreshment, now\nleft her to the care of Annette, and went in search of Montoni, whom she\nfound on a remote part of the rampart, conversing among a group of\nthe men described by Annette. They stood round him with fierce, yet\nsubjugated, looks, while he, speaking earnestly, and pointing to the\nwalls, did not perceive Emily, who remained at some distance, waiting\ntill he should be at leisure, and observing involuntarily the appearance\nof one man, more savage than his fellows, who stood resting on his pike,\nand looking, over the shoulders of a comrade, at Montoni, to whom he\nlistened with uncommon earnestness. This man was apparently of low\ncondition; yet his looks appeared not to acknowledge the superiority of\nMontoni, as did those of his companions; and sometimes they even assumed\nan air of authority, which the decisive manner of the Signor could not\nrepress. Some few words of Montoni then passed in the wind; and, as the\nmen were separating, she heard him say, 'This evening, then, begin the\nwatch at sun-set.'\n\n'At sun-set, Signor,' replied one or two of them, and walked away; while\nEmily approached Montoni, who appeared desirous of avoiding her: but,\nthough she observed this, she had courage to proceed. She endeavoured to\nintercede once more for her aunt, represented to him her sufferings,\nand urged the danger of exposing her to a cold apartment in her present\nstate. 'She suffers by her own folly,' said Montoni, 'and is not to be\npitied;--she knows how she may avoid these sufferings in future--if she\nis removed to the turret, it will be her own fault. Let her be obedient,\nand sign the writings you heard of, and I will think no more of it.'\n\nWhen Emily ventured still to plead, he sternly silenced and rebuked her\nfor interfering in his domestic affairs, but, at length, dismissed her\nwith this concession--That he would not remove Madame Montoni, on the\nensuing night, but allow her till the next to consider, whether she\nwould resign her settlements, or be imprisoned in the east turret of\nthe castle, 'where she shall find,' he added, 'a punishment she may not\nexpect.'\n\nEmily then hastened to inform her aunt of this short respite and of the\nalternative, that awaited her, to which the latter made no reply,\nbut appeared thoughtful, while Emily, in consideration of her extreme\nlanguor, wished to sooth her mind by leading it to less interesting\ntopics: and, though these efforts were unsuccessful, and Madame Montoni\nbecame peevish, her resolution, on the contended point, seemed somewhat\nto relax, and Emily recommended, as her only means of safety, that she\nshould submit to Montoni's demand. 'You know not what you advise,' said\nher aunt. 'Do you understand, that these estates will descend to you at\nmy death, if I persist in a refusal?'\n\n'I was ignorant of that circumstance, madam,' replied Emily, 'but the\nknowledge of it cannot with-hold me from advising you to adopt the\nconduct, which not only your peace, but, I fear, your safety requires,\nand I entreat, that you will not suffer a consideration comparatively so\ntrifling, to make you hesitate a moment in resigning them.'\n\n'Are you sincere, niece?' 'Is it possible you can doubt it, madam?' Her\naunt appeared to be affected. 'You are not unworthy of these estates,\nniece,' said she: 'I would wish to keep them for your sake--you shew a\nvirtue I did not expect.'\n\n'How have I deserved this reproof, madam?' said Emily sorrowfully.\n\n'Reproof!' replied Madame Montoni: 'I meant to praise your virtue.'\n\n'Alas! here is no exertion of virtue,' rejoined Emily, 'for here is no\ntemptation to be overcome.'\n\n'Yet Monsieur Valancourt'--said her aunt. 'O, madam!' interrupted Emily,\nanticipating what she would have said, 'do not let me glance on that\nsubject: do not let my mind be stained with a wish so shockingly\nself-interested.' She immediately changed the topic, and continued with\nMadame Montoni, till she withdrew to her apartment for the night.\n\nAt that hour, the castle was perfectly still, and every inhabitant of\nit, except herself, seemed to have retired to rest. As she passed along\nthe wide and lonely galleries, dusky and silent, she felt forlorn\nand apprehensive of--she scarcely knew what; but when, entering the\ncorridor, she recollected the incident of the preceding night, a dread\nseized her, lest a subject of alarm, similar to that, which had befallen\nAnnette, should occur to her, and which, whether real, or ideal, would,\nshe felt, have an almost equal effect upon her weakened spirits. The\nchamber, to which Annette had alluded, she did not exactly know, but\nunderstood it to be one of those she must pass in the way to her own;\nand, sending a fearful look forward into the gloom, she stepped lightly\nand cautiously along, till, coming to a door, from whence issued a low\nsound, she hesitated and paused; and, during the delay of that moment,\nher fears so much increased, that she had no power to move from the\nspot. Believing, that she heard a human voice within, she was somewhat\nrevived; but, in the next moment, the door was opened, and a person,\nwhom she conceived to be Montoni, appeared, who instantly started back,\nand closed it, though not before she had seen, by the light that burned\nin the chamber, another person, sitting in a melancholy attitude by the\nfire. Her terror vanished, but her astonishment only began, which was\nnow roused by the mysterious secrecy of Montoni's manner, and by\nthe discovery of a person, whom he thus visited at midnight, in an\napartment, which had long been shut up, and of which such extraordinary\nreports were circulated.\n\nWhile she thus continued hesitating, strongly prompted to watch\nMontoni's motions, yet fearing to irritate him by appearing to notice\nthem, the door was again opened cautiously, and as instantly closed as\nbefore. She then stepped softly to her chamber, which was the next\nbut one to this, but, having put down her lamp, returned to an obscure\ncorner of the corridor, to observe the proceedings of this half-seen\nperson, and to ascertain, whether it was indeed Montoni.\n\nHaving waited in silent expectation for a few minutes, with her eyes\nfixed on the door, it was again opened, and the same person appeared,\nwhom she now knew to be Montoni. He looked cautiously round, without\nperceiving her, then, stepping forward, closed the door, and left the\ncorridor. Soon after, Emily heard the door fastened on the inside, and\nshe withdrew to her chamber, wondering at what she had witnessed.\n\nIt was now twelve o'clock. As she closed her casement, she heard\nfootsteps on the terrace below, and saw imperfectly, through the gloom,\nseveral persons advancing, who passed under the casement. She then\nheard the clink of arms, and, in the next moment, the watch-word; when,\nrecollecting the command she had overheard from Montoni, and the hour\nof the night, she understood, that these men were, for the first time,\nrelieving guard in the castle. Having listened till all was again still,\nshe retired to sleep.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\n And shall no lay of death\n With pleasing murmur sooth\n Her parted soul?\n Shall no tear wet her grave?\n     SAYERS\n\nOn the following morning, Emily went early to the apartment of Madame\nMontoni, who had slept well, and was much recovered. Her spirits had\nalso returned with her health, and her resolution to oppose Montoni's\ndemands revived, though it yet struggled with her fears, which Emily,\nwho trembled for the consequence of further opposition, endeavoured to\nconfirm.\n\nHer aunt, as has been already shewn, had a disposition, which delighted\nin contradiction, and which taught her, when unpleasant circumstances\nwere offered to her understanding, not to enquire into their truth, but\nto seek for arguments, by which she might make them appear false. Long\nhabit had so entirely confirmed this natural propensity, that she\nwas not conscious of possessing it. Emily's remonstrances and\nrepresentations, therefore, roused her pride, instead of alarming, or\nconvincing her judgment, and she still relied upon the discovery of\nsome means, by which she might yet avoid submitting to the demand of her\nhusband. Considering, that, if she could once escape from his castle,\nshe might defy his power, and, obtaining a decisive separation, live in\ncomfort on the estates, that yet remained for her, she mentioned this to\nher niece, who accorded with her in the wish, but differed from her, as\nto the probability of its completion. She represented the impossibility\nof passing the gates, secured and guarded as they were, and the extreme\ndanger of committing her design to the discretion of a servant, who\nmight either purposely betray, or accidentally disclose it.--Montoni's\nvengeance would also disdain restraint, if her intention was detected:\nand, though Emily wished, as fervently as she could do, to regain her\nfreedom, and return to France, she consulted only Madame Montoni's\nsafety, and persevered in advising her to relinquish her settlement,\nwithout braving further outrage.\n\nThe struggle of contrary emotions, however, continued to rage in her\naunt's bosom, and she still brooded over the chance of effecting an\nescape. While she thus sat, Montoni entered the room, and, without\nnoticing his wife's indisposition, said, that he came to remind her of\nthe impolicy of trifling with him, and that he gave her only till the\nevening to determine, whether she would consent to his demand, or compel\nhim, by a refusal, to remove her to the east turret. He added, that a\nparty of cavaliers would dine with him, that day, and that he expected\nthat she would sit at the head of the table, where Emily, also, must\nbe present. Madame Montoni was now on the point of uttering an absolute\nrefusal, but, suddenly considering, that her liberty, during this\nentertainment, though circumscribed, might favour her further plans, she\nacquiesced, with seeming reluctance, and Montoni, soon after, left the\napartment. His command struck Emily with surprise and apprehension, who\nshrank from the thought of being exposed to the gaze of strangers, such\nas her fancy represented these to be, and the words of Count Morano, now\nagain recollected, did not sooth her fears.\n\nWhen she withdrew to prepare for dinner, she dressed herself with even\nmore simplicity than usual, that she might escape observation--a policy,\nwhich did not avail her, for, as she re-passed to her aunt's apartment,\nshe was met by Montoni, who censured what he called her prudish\nappearance, and insisted, that she should wear the most splendid dress\nshe had, even that, which had been prepared for her intended nuptials\nwith Count Morano, and which, it now appeared, her aunt had carefully\nbrought with her from Venice. This was made, not in the Venetian, but,\nin the Neapolitan fashion, so as to set off the shape and figure, to the\nutmost advantage. In it, her beautiful chestnut tresses were negligently\nbound up in pearls, and suffered to fall back again on her neck. The\nsimplicity of a better taste, than Madame Montoni's, was conspicuous in\nthis dress, splendid as it was, and Emily's unaffected beauty never had\nappeared more captivatingly. She had now only to hope, that Montoni's\norder was prompted, not by any extraordinary design, but by an\nostentation of displaying his family, richly attired, to the eyes\nof strangers; yet nothing less than his absolute command could have\nprevailed with her to wear a dress, that had been designed for such an\noffensive purpose, much less to have worn it on this occasion. As she\ndescended to dinner, the emotion of her mind threw a faint blush over\nher countenance, and heightened its interesting expression; for timidity\nhad made her linger in her apartment, till the utmost moment, and,\nwhen she entered the hall, in which a kind of state dinner was spread,\nMontoni and his guests were already seated at the table. She was then\ngoing to place herself by her aunt; but Montoni waved his hand, and two\nof the cavaliers rose, and seated her between them.\n\nThe eldest of these was a tall man, with strong Italian features, an\naquiline nose, and dark penetrating eyes, that flashed with fire, when\nhis mind was agitated, and, even in its state of rest, retained somewhat\nof the wildness of the passions. His visage was long and narrow, and his\ncomplexion of a sickly yellow.\n\nThe other, who appeared to be about forty, had features of a different\ncast, yet Italian, and his look was slow, subtle and penetrating; his\neyes, of a dark grey, were small, and hollow; his complexion was a\nsun-burnt brown, and the contour of his face, though inclined to oval,\nwas irregular and ill-formed.\n\nEight other guests sat round the table, who were all dressed in an\nuniform, and had all an expression, more or less, of wild fierceness,\nof subtle design, or of licentious passions. As Emily timidly surveyed\nthem, she remembered the scene of the preceding morning, and again\nalmost fancied herself surrounded by banditti; then, looking back to\nthe tranquillity of her early life, she felt scarcely less astonishment,\nthan grief, at her present situation. The scene, in which they sat,\nassisted the illusion; it was an antient hall, gloomy from the style\nof its architecture, from its great extent, and because almost the only\nlight it received was from one large gothic window, and from a pair of\nfolding doors, which, being open, admitted likewise a view of the west\nrampart, with the wild mountains of the Apennine beyond.\n\nThe middle compartment of this hall rose into a vaulted roof, enriched\nwith fretwork, and supported, on three sides, by pillars of marble;\nbeyond these, long colonnades retired in gloomy grandeur, till their\nextent was lost in twilight. The lightest footsteps of the servants,\nas they advanced through these, were returned in whispering echoes,\nand their figures, seen at a distance imperfectly through the dusk,\nfrequently awakened Emily's imagination. She looked alternately\nat Montoni, at his guests and on the surrounding scene; and then,\nremembering her dear native province, her pleasant home and the\nsimplicity and goodness of the friends, whom she had lost, grief and\nsurprise again occupied her mind.\n\nWhen her thoughts could return from these considerations, she fancied\nshe observed an air of authority towards his guests, such as she had\nnever before seen him assume, though he had always been distinguished\nby an haughty carriage; there was something also in the manners of the\nstrangers, that seemed perfectly, though not servilely, to acknowledge\nhis superiority.\n\nDuring dinner, the conversation was chiefly on war and politics. They\ntalked with energy of the state of Venice, its dangers, the character of\nthe reigning Doge and of the chief senators; and then spoke of the state\nof Rome. When the repast was over, they rose, and, each filling his\ngoblet with wine from the gilded ewer, that stood beside him, drank\n'Success to our exploits!' Montoni was lifting his goblet to his lips to\ndrink this toast, when suddenly the wine hissed, rose to the brim, and,\nas he held the glass from him, it burst into a thousand pieces.\n\nTo him, who constantly used that sort of Venice glass, which had the\nquality of breaking, upon receiving poisoned liquor, a suspicion, that\nsome of his guests had endeavoured to betray him, instantly occurred,\nand he ordered all the gates to be closed, drew his sword, and, looking\nround on them, who stood in silent amazement, exclaimed, 'Here is a\ntraitor among us; let those, that are innocent, assist in discovering\nthe guilty.'\n\nIndignation flashed from the eyes of the cavaliers, who all drew their\nswords; and Madame Montoni, terrified at what might ensue, was hastening\nfrom the hall, when her husband commanded her to stay; but his further\nwords could not now be distinguished, for the voice of every person rose\ntogether. His order, that all the servants should appear, was at length\nobeyed, and they declared their ignorance of any deceit--a protestation\nwhich could not be believed; for it was evident, that, as Montoni's\nliquor, and his only, had been poisoned, a deliberate design had been\nformed against his life, which could not have been carried so far\ntowards its accomplishment, without the connivance of the servant, who\nhad the care of the wine ewers.\n\nThis man, with another, whose face betrayed either the consciousness\nof guilt, or the fear of punishment, Montoni ordered to be chained\ninstantly, and confined in a strong room, which had formerly been used\nas a prison. Thither, likewise, he would have sent all his guests,\nhad he not foreseen the consequence of so bold and unjustifiable a\nproceeding. As to those, therefore, he contented himself with swearing,\nthat no man should pass the gates, till this extraordinary affair\nhad been investigated, and then sternly bade his wife retire to her\napartment, whither he suffered Emily to attend her.\n\nIn about half an hour, he followed to the dressing-room; and Emily\nobserved, with horror, his dark countenance and quivering lip, and heard\nhim denounce vengeance on her aunt.\n\n'It will avail you nothing,' said he to his wife, 'to deny the fact;\nI have proof of your guilt. Your only chance of mercy rests on a full\nconfession;--there is nothing to hope from sullenness, or falsehood;\nyour accomplice has confessed all.'\n\nEmily's fainting spirits were roused by astonishment, as she heard her\naunt accused of a crime so atrocious, and she could not, for a moment,\nadmit the possibility of her guilt. Meanwhile Madame Montoni's agitation\ndid not permit her to reply; alternately her complexion varied from\nlivid paleness to a crimson flush; and she trembled,--but, whether with\nfear, or with indignation, it were difficult to decide.\n\n'Spare your words,' said Montoni, seeing her about to speak, 'your\ncountenance makes full confession of your crime.--You shall be instantly\nremoved to the east turret.'\n\n'This accusation,' said Madame Montoni, speaking with difficulty, 'is\nused only as an excuse for your cruelty; I disdain to reply to it. You\ndo not believe me guilty.'\n\n'Signor!' said Emily solemnly, 'this dreadful charge, I would answer\nwith my life, is false. Nay, Signor,' she added, observing the severity\nof his countenance, 'this is no moment for restraint, on my part; I do\nnot scruple to tell you, that you are deceived--most wickedly deceived,\nby the suggestion of some person, who aims at the ruin of my aunt:--it\nis impossible, that you could yourself have imagined a crime so\nhideous.'\n\nMontoni, his lips trembling more than before, replied only, 'If you\nvalue your own safety,' addressing Emily, 'you will be silent. I shall\nknow how to interpret your remonstrances, should you persevere in them.'\n\nEmily raised her eyes calmly to heaven. 'Here is, indeed, then, nothing\nto hope!' said she.\n\n'Peace!' cried Montoni, 'or you shall find there is something to fear.'\n\nHe turned to his wife, who had now recovered her spirits, and who\nvehemently and wildly remonstrated upon this mysterious suspicion: but\nMontoni's rage heightened with her indignation, and Emily, dreading\nthe event of it, threw herself between them, and clasped his knees in\nsilence, looking up in his face with an expression, that might have\nsoftened the heart of a fiend. Whether his was hardened by a conviction\nof Madame Montoni's guilt, or that a bare suspicion of it made him\neager to exercise vengeance, he was totally and alike insensible to the\ndistress of his wife, and to the pleading looks of Emily, whom he made\nno attempt to raise, but was vehemently menacing both, when he was\ncalled out of the room by some person at the door. As he shut the door,\nEmily heard him turn the lock and take out the key; so that Madame\nMontoni and herself were now prisoners; and she saw that his designs\nbecame more and more terrible. Her endeavours to explain his motives\nfor this circumstance were almost as ineffectual as those to sooth the\ndistress of her aunt, whose innocence she could not doubt; but she, at\nlength, accounted for Montoni's readiness to suspect his wife by his own\nconsciousness of cruelty towards her, and for the sudden violence of\nhis present conduct against both, before even his suspicions could be\ncompletely formed, by his general eagerness to effect suddenly whatever\nhe was led to desire and his carelessness of justice, or humanity, in\naccomplishing it.\n\nMadame Montoni, after some time, again looked round, in search of a\npossibility of escape from the castle, and conversed with Emily on the\nsubject, who was now willing to encounter any hazard, though she forbore\nto encourage a hope in her aunt, which she herself did not admit. How\nstrongly the edifice was secured, and how vigilantly guarded, she knew\ntoo well; and trembled to commit their safety to the caprice of\nthe servant, whose assistance they must solicit. Old Carlo was\ncompassionate, but he seemed to be too much in his master's interest to\nbe trusted by them; Annette could of herself do little, and Emily knew\nLudovico only from her report. At present, however, these considerations\nwere useless, Madame Montoni and her niece being shut up from all\nintercourse, even with the persons, whom there might be these reasons to\nreject.\n\nIn the hall, confusion and tumult still reigned. Emily, as she listened\nanxiously to the murmur, that sounded along the gallery, sometimes\nfancied she heard the clashing of swords, and, when she considered the\nnature of the provocation, given by Montoni, and his impetuosity, it\nappeared probable, that nothing less than arms would terminate the\ncontention. Madame Montoni, having exhausted all her expressions of\nindignation, and Emily, hers of comfort, they remained silent, in that\nkind of breathless stillness, which, in nature, often succeeds to the\nuproar of conflicting elements; a stillness, like the morning, that\ndawns upon the ruins of an earthquake.\n\nAn uncertain kind of terror pervaded Emily's mind; the circumstances\nof the past hour still came dimly and confusedly to her memory; and her\nthoughts were various and rapid, though without tumult.\n\nFrom this state of waking visions she was recalled by a knocking at the\nchamber-door, and, enquiring who was there, heard the whispering voice\nof Annette.\n\n'Dear madam, let me come in, I have a great deal to say,' said the poor\ngirl.\n\n'The door is locked,' answered the lady.\n\n'Yes, ma'am, but do pray open it.'\n\n'The Signor has the key,' said Madame Montoni.\n\n'O blessed Virgin! what will become of us?' exclaimed Annette.\n\n'Assist us to escape,' said her mistress. 'Where is Ludovico?'\n\n'Below in the hall, ma'am, amongst them all, fighting with the best of\nthem!'\n\n'Fighting! Who are fighting?' cried Madame Montoni.\n\n'Why the Signor, ma'am, and all the Signors, and a great many more.'\n\n'Is any person much hurt?' said Emily, in a tremulous voice. 'Hurt!\nYes, ma'amselle,--there they lie bleeding, and the swords are clashing,\nand--O holy saints! Do let me in, ma'am, they are coming this way--I\nshall be murdered!'\n\n'Fly!' cried Emily, 'fly! we cannot open the door.'\n\nAnnette repeated, that they were coming, and in the same moment fled.\n\n'Be calm, madam,' said Emily, turning to her aunt, 'I entreat you to be\ncalm, I am not frightened--not frightened in the least, do not you be\nalarmed.'\n\n'You can scarcely support yourself,' replied her aunt; 'Merciful God!\nwhat is it they mean to do with us?'\n\n'They come, perhaps, to liberate us,' said Emily, 'Signor Montoni\nperhaps is--is conquered.'\n\nThe belief of his death gave her spirits a sudden shock, and she grew\nfaint as she saw him in imagination, expiring at her feet.\n\n'They are coming!' cried Madame Montoni--'I hear their steps--they are\nat the door!'\n\nEmily turned her languid eyes to the door, but terror deprived her of\nutterance. The key sounded in the lock; the door opened, and Montoni\nappeared, followed by three ruffian-like men. 'Execute your orders,'\nsaid he, turning to them, and pointing to his wife, who shrieked, but\nwas immediately carried from the room; while Emily sunk, senseless, on\na couch, by which she had endeavoured to support herself. When she\nrecovered, she was alone, and recollected only, that Madame Montoni had\nbeen there, together with some unconnected particulars of the preceding\ntransaction, which were, however, sufficient to renew all her terror.\nShe looked wildly round the apartment, as if in search of some means of\nintelligence, concerning her aunt, while neither her own danger, or an\nidea of escaping from the room, immediately occurred.\n\nWhen her recollection was more complete, she raised herself and went,\nbut with only a faint hope, to examine whether the door was unfastened.\nIt was so, and she then stepped timidly out into the gallery, but paused\nthere, uncertain which way she should proceed. Her first wish was to\ngather some information, as to her aunt, and she, at length, turned her\nsteps to go to the lesser hall, where Annette and the other servants\nusually waited.\n\nEvery where, as she passed, she heard, from a distance, the uproar of\ncontention, and the figures and faces, which she met, hurrying along the\npassages, struck her mind with dismay. Emily might now have appeared,\nlike an angel of light, encompassed by fiends. At length, she reached\nthe lesser hall, which was silent and deserted, but, panting for breath,\nshe sat down to recover herself. The total stillness of this place was\nas awful as the tumult, from which she had escaped: but she had now time\nto recall her scattered thoughts, to remember her personal danger, and\nto consider of some means of safety. She perceived, that it was useless\nto seek Madame Montoni, through the wide extent and intricacies of the\ncastle, now, too, when every avenue seemed to be beset by ruffians; in\nthis hall she could not resolve to stay, for she knew not how soon it\nmight become their place of rendezvous; and, though she wished to go to\nher chamber, she dreaded again to encounter them on the way.\n\nThus she sat, trembling and hesitating, when a distant murmur broke on\nthe silence, and grew louder and louder, till she distinguished voices\nand steps approaching. She then rose to go, but the sounds came along\nthe only passage, by which she could depart, and she was compelled to\nawait in the hall, the arrival of the persons, whose steps she heard.\nAs these advanced, she distinguished groans, and then saw a man borne\nslowly along by four others. Her spirits faltered at the sight, and she\nleaned against the wall for support. The bearers, meanwhile, entered the\nhall, and, being too busily occupied to detain, or even notice Emily,\nshe attempted to leave it, but her strength failed, and she again sat\ndown on the bench. A damp chillness came over her; her sight became\nconfused; she knew not what had passed, or where she was, yet the groans\nof the wounded person still vibrated on her heart. In a few moments, the\ntide of life seemed again to flow; she began to breathe more freely, and\nher senses revived. She had not fainted, nor had ever totally lost her\nconsciousness, but had contrived to support herself on the bench; still\nwithout courage to turn her eyes upon the unfortunate object, which\nremained near her, and about whom the men were yet too much engaged to\nattend to her.\n\nWhen her strength returned, she rose, and was suffered to leave\nthe hall, though her anxiety, having produced some vain enquiries,\nconcerning Madame Montoni, had thus made a discovery of herself. Towards\nher chamber she now hastened, as fast as her steps would bear her, for\nshe still perceived, upon her passage, the sounds of confusion at a\ndistance, and she endeavoured, by taking her way through some obscure\nrooms, to avoid encountering the persons, whose looks had terrified her\nbefore, as well as those parts of the castle, where the tumult might\nstill rage.\n\nAt length, she reached her chamber, and, having secured the door of the\ncorridor, felt herself, for a moment, in safety. A profound stillness\nreigned in this remote apartment, which not even the faint murmur of\nthe most distant sounds now reached. She sat down, near one of the\ncasements, and, as she gazed on the mountain-view beyond, the deep\nrepose of its beauty struck her with all the force of contrast, and she\ncould scarcely believe herself so near a scene of savage discord. The\ncontending elements seemed to have retired from their natural spheres,\nand to have collected themselves into the minds of men, for there alone\nthe tempest now reigned.\n\nEmily tried to tranquillize her spirits, but anxiety made her constantly\nlisten for some sound, and often look out upon the ramparts, where all,\nhowever, was lonely and still. As a sense of her own immediate danger\nhad decreased, her apprehension concerning Madame Montoni heightened,\nwho, she remembered, had been fiercely threatened with confinement in\nthe east turret, and it was possible, that her husband had satisfied his\npresent vengeance with this punishment. She, therefore, determined, when\nnight should return, and the inhabitants of the castle should be asleep,\nto explore the way to the turret, which, as the direction it stood in\nwas mentioned, appeared not very difficult to be done. She knew, indeed,\nthat although her aunt might be there, she could afford her no effectual\nassistance, but it might give her some comfort even to know, that she\nwas discovered, and to hear the sound of her niece's voice; for\nherself, any certainty, concerning Madame Montoni's fate, appeared more\ntolerable, than this exhausting suspense.\n\nMeanwhile, Annette did not appear, and Emily was surprised, and somewhat\nalarmed for her, whom, in the confusion of the late scene, various\naccidents might have befallen, and it was improbable, that she would\nhave failed to come to her apartment, unless something unfortunate had\nhappened.\n\nThus the hours passed in solitude, in silence, and in anxious\nconjecturing. Being not once disturbed by a message, or a sound, it\nappeared, that Montoni had wholly forgotten her, and it gave her some\ncomfort to find, that she could be so unnoticed. She endeavoured to\nwithdraw her thoughts from the anxiety, that preyed upon them, but they\nrefused controul; she could neither read, or draw, and the tones of her\nlute were so utterly discordant with the present state of her feelings,\nthat she could not endure them for a moment.\n\nThe sun, at length, set behind the western mountains; his fiery beams\nfaded from the clouds, and then a dun melancholy purple drew over them,\nand gradually involved the features of the country below. Soon after,\nthe sentinels passed on the rampart to commence the watch.\n\nTwilight had now spread its gloom over every object; the dismal\nobscurity of her chamber recalled fearful thoughts, but she remembered,\nthat to procure a light she must pass through a great extent of the\ncastle, and, above all, through the halls, where she had already\nexperienced so much horror. Darkness, indeed, in the present state of\nher spirits, made silence and solitude terrible to her; it would also\nprevent the possibility of her finding her way to the turret, and\ncondemn her to remain in suspense, concerning the fate of her aunt; yet\nshe dared not to venture forth for a lamp.\n\nContinuing at the casement, that she might catch the last lingering\ngleam of evening, a thousand vague images of fear floated on her fancy.\n'What if some of these ruffians,' said she, 'should find out the private\nstair-case, and in the darkness of night steal into my chamber!' Then,\nrecollecting the mysterious inhabitant of the neighbouring apartment,\nher terror changed its object. 'He is not a prisoner,' said she, 'though\nhe remains in one chamber, for Montoni did not fasten the door, when he\nleft it; the unknown person himself did this; it is certain, therefore,\nhe can come out when he pleases.'\n\nShe paused, for, notwithstanding the terrors of darkness, she considered\nit to be very improbable, whoever he was, that he could have any\ninterest in intruding upon her retirement; and again the subject of her\nemotion changed, when, remembering her nearness to the chamber, where\nthe veil had formerly disclosed a dreadful spectacle, she doubted\nwhether some passage might not communicate between it and the insecure\ndoor of the stair-case.\n\nIt was now entirely dark, and she left the casement. As she sat with\nher eyes fixed on the hearth, she thought she perceived there a spark\nof light; it twinkled and disappeared, and then again was visible. At\nlength, with much care, she fanned the embers of a wood fire, that had\nbeen lighted in the morning, into flame, and, having communicated it to\na lamp, which always stood in her room, felt a satisfaction not to be\nconceived, without a review of her situation. Her first care was to\nguard the door of the stair-case, for which purpose she placed against\nit all the furniture she could move, and she was thus employed, for\nsome time, at the end of which she had another instance how much more\noppressive misfortune is to the idle, than to the busy; for, having then\nleisure to think over all the circumstances of her present afflictions,\nshe imagined a thousand evils for futurity, and these real and ideal\nsubjects of distress alike wounded her mind.\n\nThus heavily moved the hours till midnight, when she counted the sullen\nnotes of the great clock, as they rolled along the rampart, unmingled\nwith any sound, except the distant foot-fall of a sentinel, who came\nto relieve guard. She now thought she might venture towards the turret,\nand, having gently opened the chamber door to examine the corridor, and\nto listen if any person was stirring in the castle, found all around\nin perfect stillness. Yet no sooner had she left the room, than she\nperceived a light flash on the walls of the corridor, and, without\nwaiting to see by whom it was carried, she shrunk back, and closed her\ndoor. No one approaching, she conjectured, that it was Montoni going to\npay his mid-night visit to her unknown neighbour, and she determined to\nwait, till he should have retired to his own apartment.\n\nWhen the chimes had tolled another half hour, she once more opened\nthe door, and, perceiving that no person was in the corridor, hastily\ncrossed into a passage, that led along the south side of the castle\ntowards the stair-case, whence she believed she could easily find her\nway to the turret. Often pausing on her way, listening apprehensively to\nthe murmurs of the wind, and looking fearfully onward into the gloom of\nthe long passages, she, at length, reached the stair-case; but there her\nperplexity began. Two passages appeared, of which she knew not how to\nprefer one, and was compelled, at last, to decide by chance, rather than\nby circumstances. That she entered, opened first into a wide gallery,\nalong which she passed lightly and swiftly; for the lonely aspect of the\nplace awed her, and she started at the echo of her own steps.\n\nOn a sudden, she thought she heard a voice, and, not distinguishing\nfrom whence it came, feared equally to proceed, or to return. For some\nmoments, she stood in an attitude of listening expectation, shrinking\nalmost from herself and scarcely daring to look round her. The voice\ncame again, but, though it was now near her, terror did not allow her to\njudge exactly whence it proceeded. She thought, however, that it was the\nvoice of complaint, and her belief was soon confirmed by a low moaning\nsound, that seemed to proceed from one of the chambers, opening into\nthe gallery. It instantly occurred to her, that Madame Montoni might be\nthere confined, and she advanced to the door to speak, but was checked\nby considering, that she was, perhaps, going to commit herself to a\nstranger, who might discover her to Montoni; for, though this person,\nwhoever it was, seemed to be in affliction, it did not follow, that he\nwas a prisoner.\n\nWhile these thoughts passed over her mind, and left her still in\nhesitation, the voice spoke again, and, calling 'Ludovico,' she then\nperceived it to be that of Annette; on which, no longer hesitating, she\nwent in joy to answer her.\n\n'Ludovico!' cried Annette, sobbing--'Ludovico!'\n\n'It is not Ludovico, it is I--Mademoiselle Emily.'\n\nAnnette ceased sobbing, and was silent.\n\n'If you can open the door, let me in,' said Emily, 'here is no person to\nhurt you.'\n\n'Ludovico!--O, Ludovico!' cried Annette.\n\nEmily now lost her patience, and her fear of being overheard increasing,\nshe was even nearly about to leave the door, when she considered, that\nAnnette might, possibly, know something of the situation of Madame\nMontoni, or direct her to the turret. At length, she obtained a reply,\nthough little satisfactory, to her questions, for Annette knew nothing\nof Madame Montoni, and only conjured Emily to tell her what was become\nof Ludovico. Of him she had no information to give, and she again asked\nwho had shut Annette up.\n\n'Ludovico,' said the poor girl, 'Ludovico shut me up. When I ran away\nfrom the dressing-room door to-day, I went I scarcely knew where, for\nsafety; and, in this gallery, here, I met Ludovico, who hurried me into\nthis chamber, and locked me up to keep me out of harm, as he said. But\nhe was in such a hurry himself, he hardly spoke ten words, but he told\nme he would come, and let me out, when all was quiet, and he took away\nthe key with him. Now all these hours are passed, and I have neither\nseen, or heard a word of him; they have murdered him--I know they have!'\n\nEmily suddenly remembered the wounded person, whom she had seen borne\ninto the servants' hall, and she scarcely doubted, that he was Ludovico,\nbut she concealed the circumstance from Annette, and endeavoured to\ncomfort her. Then, impatient to learn something of her aunt, she again\nenquired the way to the turret.\n\n'O! you are not going, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'for Heaven's sake, do\nnot go, and leave me here by myself.'\n\n'Nay, Annette, you do not think I can wait in the gallery all night,'\nreplied Emily. 'Direct me to the turret; in the morning I will endeavour\nto release you.'\n\n'O holy Mary!' exclaimed Annette, 'am I to stay here by myself all\nnight! I shall be frightened out of my senses, and I shall die of\nhunger; I have had nothing to eat since dinner!'\n\nEmily could scarcely forbear smiling at the heterogeneous distresses of\nAnnette, though she sincerely pitied them, and said what she could to\nsooth her. At length, she obtained something like a direction to the\neast turret, and quitted the door, from whence, after many intricacies\nand perplexities, she reached the steep and winding stairs of the\nturret, at the foot of which she stopped to rest, and to re-animate her\ncourage with a sense of her duty. As she surveyed this dismal place, she\nperceived a door on the opposite side of the stair-case, and, anxious\nto know whether it would lead her to Madame Montoni, she tried to undraw\nthe bolts, which fastened it. A fresher air came to her face, as she\nunclosed the door, which opened upon the east rampart, and the sudden\ncurrent had nearly extinguished her light, which she now removed to a\ndistance; and again, looking out upon the obscure terrace, she perceived\nonly the faint outline of the walls and of some towers, while, above,\nheavy clouds, borne along the wind, seemed to mingle with the stars, and\nwrap the night in thicker darkness. As she gazed, now willing to defer\nthe moment of certainty, from which she expected only confirmation of\nevil, a distant footstep reminded her, that she might be observed by\nthe men on watch, and, hastily closing the door, she took her lamp,\nand passed up the stair-case. Trembling came upon her, as she ascended\nthrough the gloom. To her melancholy fancy this seemed to be a place of\ndeath, and the chilling silence, that reigned, confirmed its character.\nHer spirits faltered. 'Perhaps,' said she, 'I am come hither only to\nlearn a dreadful truth, or to witness some horrible spectacle; I feel\nthat my senses would not survive such an addition of horror.'\n\nThe image of her aunt murdered--murdered, perhaps, by the hand of\nMontoni, rose to her mind; she trembled, gasped for breath--repented\nthat she had dared to venture hither, and checked her steps. But, after\nshe had paused a few minutes, the consciousness of her duty returned,\nand she went on. Still all was silent. At length a track of blood, upon\na stair, caught her eye; and instantly she perceived, that the wall and\nseveral other steps were stained. She paused, again struggled to support\nherself, and the lamp almost fell from her trembling hand. Still\nno sound was heard, no living being seemed to inhabit the turret; a\nthousand times she wished herself again in her chamber; dreaded to\nenquire farther--dreaded to encounter some horrible spectacle, and\nyet could not resolve, now that she was so near the termination of her\nefforts, to desist from them. Having again collected courage to proceed,\nafter ascending about half way up the turret, she came to another door,\nbut here again she stopped in hesitation; listened for sounds within,\nand then, summoning all her resolution, unclosed it, and entered a\nchamber, which, as her lamp shot its feeble rays through the darkness,\nseemed to exhibit only dew-stained and deserted walls. As she stood\nexamining it, in fearful expectation of discovering the remains of her\nunfortunate aunt, she perceived something lying in an obscure corner of\nthe room, and, struck with an horrible conviction, she became, for\nan instant, motionless and nearly insensible. Then, with a kind of\ndesperate resolution, she hurried towards the object that excited her\nterror, when, perceiving the clothes of some person, on the floor,\nshe caught hold of them, and found in her grasp the old uniform of a\nsoldier, beneath which appeared a heap of pikes and other arms. Scarcely\ndaring to trust her sight, she continued, for some moments, to gaze\non the object of her late alarm, and then left the chamber, so much\ncomforted and occupied by the conviction, that her aunt was not there,\nthat she was going to descend the turret, without enquiring farther;\nwhen, on turning to do so, she observed upon some steps on the second\nflight an appearance of blood, and remembering, that there was yet\nanother chamber to be explored, she again followed the windings of\nthe ascent. Still, as she ascended, the track of blood glared upon the\nstairs.\n\nIt led her to the door of a landing-place, that terminated them, but she\nwas unable to follow it farther. Now that she was so near the sought-for\ncertainty, she dreaded to know it, even more than before, and had not\nfortitude sufficient to speak, or to attempt opening the door.\n\nHaving listened, in vain, for some sound, that might confirm, or destroy\nher fears, she, at length, laid her hand on the lock, and, finding it\nfastened, called on Madame Montoni; but only a chilling silence ensued.\n\n'She is dead!' she cried,--'murdered!--her blood is on the stairs!'\n\nEmily grew very faint; could support herself no longer, and had scarcely\npresence of mind to set down the lamp, and place herself on a step.\n\nWhen her recollection returned, she spoke again at the door, and again\nattempted to open it, and, having lingered for some time, without\nreceiving any answer, or hearing a sound, she descended the turret,\nand, with all the swiftness her feebleness would permit, sought her own\napartment.\n\nAs she turned into the corridor, the door of a chamber opened, from\nwhence Montoni came forth; but Emily, more terrified than ever to behold\nhim, shrunk back into the passage soon enough to escape being noticed,\nand heard him close the door, which she had perceived was the same she\nformerly observed. Having here listened to his departing steps, till\ntheir faint sound was lost in distance, she ventured to her apartment,\nand, securing it once again, retired to her bed, leaving the lamp\nburning on the hearth. But sleep was fled from her harassed mind, to\nwhich images of horror alone occurred. She endeavoured to think it\npossible, that Madame Montoni had not been taken to the turret; but,\nwhen she recollected the former menaces of her husband and the terrible\nspirit of vengeance, which he had displayed on a late occasion; when she\nremembered his general character, the looks of the men, who had forced\nMadame Montoni from her apartment, and the written traces on the stairs\nof the turret--she could not doubt, that her aunt had been carried\nthither, and could scarcely hope, that she had not been carried to be\nmurdered.\n\nThe grey of morning had long dawned through her casements, before Emily\nclosed her eyes in sleep; when wearied nature, at length, yielded her a\nrespite from suffering.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\n Who rears the bloody hand?\n     SAYERS\n\nEmily remained in her chamber, on the following morning, without\nreceiving any notice from Montoni, or seeing a human being, except the\narmed men, who sometimes passed on the terrace below. Having tasted no\nfood since the dinner of the preceding day, extreme faintness made her\nfeel the necessity of quitting the asylum of her apartment to obtain\nrefreshment, and she was also very anxious to procure liberty for\nAnnette. Willing, however, to defer venturing forth, as long as\npossible, and considering, whether she should apply to Montoni, or to\nthe compassion of some other person, her excessive anxiety concerning\nher aunt, at length, overcame her abhorrence of his presence, and she\ndetermined to go to him, and to entreat, that he would suffer her to see\nMadame Montoni.\n\nMeanwhile, it was too certain, from the absence of Annette, that some\naccident had befallen Ludovico, and that she was still in confinement;\nEmily, therefore, resolved also to visit the chamber, where she had\nspoken to her, on the preceding night, and, if the poor girl was yet\nthere, to inform Montoni of her situation.\n\nIt was near noon, before she ventured from her apartment, and went\nfirst to the south gallery, whither she passed without meeting a single\nperson, or hearing a sound, except, now and then, the echo of a distant\nfootstep.\n\nIt was unnecessary to call Annette, whose lamentations were audible\nupon the first approach to the gallery, and who, bewailing her own and\nLudovico's fate, told Emily, that she should certainly be starved to\ndeath, if she was not let out immediately. Emily replied, that she\nwas going to beg her release of Montoni; but the terrors of hunger now\nyielded to those of the Signor, and, when Emily left her, she was loudly\nentreating, that her place of refuge might be concealed from him.\n\nAs Emily drew near the great hall, the sounds she heard and the people\nshe met in the passages renewed her alarm. The latter, however, were\npeaceable, and did not interrupt her, though they looked earnestly at\nher, as she passed, and sometimes spoke. On crossing the hall towards\nthe cedar room, where Montoni usually sat, she perceived, on the\npavement, fragments of swords, some tattered garments stained with\nblood, and almost expected to have seen among them a dead body; but\nfrom such a spectacle she was, at present, spared. As she approached\nthe room, the sound of several voices issued from within, and a dread\nof appearing before many strangers, as well as of irritating Montoni\nby such an intrusion, made her pause and falter from her purpose. She\nlooked up through the long arcades of the hall, in search of a servant,\nwho might bear a message, but no one appeared, and the urgency of what\nshe had to request made her still linger near the door. The voices\nwithin were not in contention, though she distinguished those of several\nof the guests of the preceding day; but still her resolution failed,\nwhenever she would have tapped at the door, and she had determined to\nwalk in the hall, till some person should appear, who might call Montoni\nfrom the room, when, as she turned from the door, it was suddenly opened\nby himself. Emily trembled, and was confused, while he almost started\nwith surprise, and all the terrors of his countenance unfolded\nthemselves. She forgot all she would have said, and neither enquired for\nher aunt, or entreated for Annette, but stood silent and embarrassed.\n\nAfter closing the door he reproved her for a meanness, of which she had\nnot been guilty, and sternly questioned her what she had overheard; an\naccusation, which revived her recollection so far, that she assured\nhim she had not come thither with an intention to listen to his\nconversation, but to entreat his compassion for her aunt, and for\nAnnette. Montoni seemed to doubt this assertion, for he regarded her\nwith a scrutinizing look; and the doubt evidently arose from no trifling\ninterest. Emily then further explained herself, and concluded with\nentreating him to inform her, where her aunt was placed, and to permit,\nthat she might visit her; but he looked upon her only with a malignant\nsmile, which instantaneously confirmed her worst fears for her aunt,\nand, at that moment, she had not courage to renew her entreaties.\n\n'For Annette,' said he,--'if you go to Carlo, he will release the\ngirl; the foolish fellow, who shut her up, died yesterday.' Emily\nshuddered.--'But my aunt, Signor'--said she, 'O tell me of my aunt!'\n\n'She is taken care of,' replied Montoni hastily, 'I have no time to\nanswer idle questions.'\n\nHe would have passed on, but Emily, in a voice of agony, that could not\nbe wholly resisted, conjured him to tell her, where Madame Montoni was;\nwhile he paused, and she anxiously watched his countenance, a trumpet\nsounded, and, in the next moment, she heard the heavy gates of the\nportal open, and then the clattering of horses' hoofs in the court, with\nthe confusion of many voices. She stood for a moment hesitating whether\nshe should follow Montoni, who, at the sound of the trumpet, had passed\nthrough the hall, and, turning her eyes whence it came, she saw through\nthe door, that opened beyond a long perspective of arches into the\ncourts, a party of horsemen, whom she judged, as well as the distance\nand her embarrassment would allow, to be the same she had seen depart, a\nfew days before. But she staid not to scrutinize, for, when the trumpet\nsounded again, the chevaliers rushed out of the cedar room, and men came\nrunning into the hall from every quarter of the castle. Emily once more\nhurried for shelter to her own apartment. Thither she was still pursued\nby images of horror. She re-considered Montoni's manner and words, when\nhe had spoken of his wife, and they served only to confirm her most\nterrible suspicions. Tears refused any longer to relieve her distress,\nand she had sat for a considerable time absorbed in thought, when a\nknocking at the chamber door aroused her, on opening which she found old\nCarlo.\n\n'Dear young lady,' said he, 'I have been so flurried, I never once\nthought of you till just now. I have brought you some fruit and wine,\nand I am sure you must stand in need of them by this time.'\n\n'Thank you, Carlo,' said Emily, 'this is very good of you Did the Signor\nremind you of me?'\n\n'No, Signora,' replied Carlo, 'his excellenza has business enough on his\nhands.' Emily then renewed her enquiries, concerning Madame Montoni, but\nCarlo had been employed at the other end of the castle, during the time,\nthat she was removed, and he had heard nothing since, concerning her.\n\nWhile he spoke, Emily looked steadily at him, for she scarcely knew\nwhether he was really ignorant, or concealed his knowledge of the truth\nfrom a fear of offending his master. To several questions, concerning\nthe contentions of yesterday, he gave very limited answers; but told,\nthat the disputes were now amicably settled, and that the Signor\nbelieved himself to have been mistaken in his suspicions of his guests.\n'The fighting was about that, Signora,' said Carlo; 'but I trust I shall\nnever see such another day in this castle, though strange things are\nabout to be done.'\n\nOn her enquiring his meaning, 'Ah, Signora!' added he, 'it is not for me\nto betray secrets, or tell all I think, but time will tell.'\n\nShe then desired him to release Annette, and, having described the\nchamber in which the poor girl was confined, he promised to obey her\nimmediately, and was departing, when she remembered to ask who were the\npersons just arrived. Her late conjecture was right; it was Verezzi,\nwith his party.\n\nHer spirits were somewhat soothed by this short conversation with Carlo;\nfor, in her present circumstances, it afforded some comfort to hear the\naccents of compassion, and to meet the look of sympathy.\n\nAn hour passed before Annette appeared, who then came weeping and\nsobbing. 'O Ludovico--Ludovico!' cried she.\n\n'My poor Annette!' said Emily, and made her sit down.\n\n'Who could have foreseen this, ma'amselle? O miserable, wretched,\nday--that ever I should live to see it!' and she continued to moan and\nlament, till Emily thought it necessary to check her excess of grief.\n'We are continually losing dear friends by death,' said she, with\na sigh, that came from her heart. 'We must submit to the will of\nHeaven--our tears, alas! cannot recall the dead!'\n\nAnnette took the handkerchief from her face.\n\n'You will meet Ludovico in a better world, I hope,' added Emily.\n\n'Yes--yes,--ma'amselle,' sobbed Annette, 'but I hope I shall meet him\nagain in this--though he is so wounded!'\n\n'Wounded!' exclaimed Emily, 'does he live?'\n\n'Yes, ma'am, but--but he has a terrible wound, and could not come to\nlet me out. They thought him dead, at first, and he has not been rightly\nhimself, till within this hour.'\n\n'Well, Annette, I rejoice to hear he lives.'\n\n'Lives! Holy Saints! why he will not die, surely!'\n\nEmily said she hoped not, but this expression of hope Annette thought\nimplied fear, and her own increased in proportion, as Emily endeavoured\nto encourage her. To enquiries, concerning Madame Montoni, she could\ngive no satisfactory answers.\n\n'I quite forgot to ask among the servants, ma'amselle,' said she, 'for I\ncould think of nobody but poor Ludovico.'\n\nAnnette's grief was now somewhat assuaged, and Emily sent her to make\nenquiries, concerning her lady, of whom, however, she could obtain no\nintelligence, some of the people she spoke with being really ignorant of\nher fate, and others having probably received orders to conceal it.\n\nThis day passed with Emily in continued grief and anxiety for her aunt;\nbut she was unmolested by any notice from Montoni; and, now that Annette\nwas liberated, she obtained food, without exposing herself to danger, or\nimpertinence.\n\nTwo following days passed in the same manner, unmarked by any\noccurrence, during which she obtained no information of Madame Montoni.\nOn the evening of the second, having dismissed Annette, and retired to\nbed, her mind became haunted by the most dismal images, such as her long\nanxiety, concerning her aunt, suggested; and, unable to forget herself,\nfor a moment, or to vanquish the phantoms, that tormented her, she\nrose from her bed, and went to one of the casements of her chamber, to\nbreathe a freer air.\n\nAll without was silent and dark, unless that could be called light,\nwhich was only the faint glimmer of the stars, shewing imperfectly\nthe outline of the mountains, the western towers of the castle and the\nramparts below, where a solitary sentinel was pacing. What an image of\nrepose did this scene present! The fierce and terrible passions, too,\nwhich so often agitated the inhabitants of this edifice, seemed now\nhushed in sleep;--those mysterious workings, that rouse the elements of\nman's nature into tempest--were calm. Emily's heart was not so; but her\nsufferings, though deep, partook of the gentle character of her mind.\nHers was a silent anguish, weeping, yet enduring; not the wild energy of\npassion, inflaming imagination, bearing down the barriers of reason and\nliving in a world of its own.\n\nThe air refreshed her, and she continued at the casement, looking on the\nshadowy scene, over which the planets burned with a clear light, amid\nthe deep blue aether, as they silently moved in their destined course.\nShe remembered how often she had gazed on them with her dear father, how\noften he had pointed out their way in the heavens, and explained their\nlaws; and these reflections led to others, which, in an almost equal\ndegree, awakened her grief and astonishment.\n\nThey brought a retrospect of all the strange and mournful events, which\nhad occurred since she lived in peace with her parents. And to Emily,\nwho had been so tenderly educated, so tenderly loved, who once knew\nonly goodness and happiness--to her, the late events and her present\nsituation--in a foreign land--in a remote castle--surrounded by vice\nand violence--seemed more like the visions of a distempered imagination,\nthan the circumstances of truth. She wept to think of what her parents\nwould have suffered, could they have foreseen the events of her future\nlife.\n\nWhile she raised her streaming eyes to heaven, she observed the same\nplanet, which she had seen in Languedoc, on the night, preceding her\nfather's death, rise above the eastern towers of the castle, while she\nremembered the conversation, which has passed, concerning the probable\nstate of departed souls; remembered, also, the solemn music she had\nheard, and to which the tenderness of her spirits had, in spite of her\nreason, given a superstitious meaning. At these recollections she wept\nagain, and continued musing, when suddenly the notes of sweet music\npassed on the air. A superstitious dread stole over her; she stood\nlistening, for some moments, in trembling expectation, and then\nendeavoured to re-collect her thoughts, and to reason herself into\ncomposure; but human reason cannot establish her laws on subjects, lost\nin the obscurity of imagination, any more than the eye can ascertain the\nform of objects, that only glimmer through the dimness of night.\n\nHer surprise, on hearing such soothing and delicious sounds, was, at\nleast, justifiable; for it was long--very long, since she had listened\nto any thing like melody. The fierce trumpet and the shrill fife were\nthe only instruments she had heard, since her arrival at Udolpho.\n\nWhen her mind was somewhat more composed, she tried to ascertain from\nwhat quarter the sounds proceeded, and thought they came from below; but\nwhether from a room of the castle, or from the terrace, she could not\nwith certainty judge. Fear and surprise now yielded to the enchantment\nof a strain, that floated on the silent night, with the most soft\nand melancholy sweetness. Suddenly, it seemed removed to a distance,\ntrembled faintly, and then entirely ceased.\n\nShe continued to listen, sunk in that pleasing repose, which soft music\nleaves on the mind--but it came no more. Upon this strange circumstance\nher thoughts were long engaged, for strange it certainly was to hear\nmusic at midnight, when every inhabitant of the castle had long since\nretired to rest, and in a place, where nothing like harmony had been\nheard before, probably, for many years. Long-suffering had made her\nspirits peculiarly sensible to terror, and liable to be affected by the\nillusions of superstition.--It now seemed to her, as if her dead father\nhad spoken to her in that strain, to inspire her with comfort and\nconfidence, on the subject, which had then occupied her mind. Yet reason\ntold her, that this was a wild conjecture, and she was inclined to\ndismiss it; but, with the inconsistency so natural, when imagination\nguides the thoughts, she then wavered towards a belief as wild. She\nremembered the singular event, connected with the castle, which had\ngiven it into the possession of its present owner; and, when she\nconsidered the mysterious manner, in which its late possessor had\ndisappeared, and that she had never since been heard of, her mind was\nimpressed with an high degree of solemn awe; so that, though there\nappeared no clue to connect that event with the late music, she was\ninclined fancifully to think they had some relation to each other. At\nthis conjecture, a sudden chillness ran through her frame; she looked\nfearfully upon the duskiness of her chamber, and the dead silence, that\nprevailed there, heightened to her fancy its gloomy aspect.\n\nAt length, she left the casement, but her steps faltered, as she\napproached the bed, and she stopped and looked round. The single lamp,\nthat burned in her spacious chamber, was expiring; for a moment, she\nshrunk from the darkness beyond; and then, ashamed of the weakness,\nwhich, however, she could not wholly conquer, went forward to the bed,\nwhere her mind did not soon know the soothings of sleep. She still mused\non the late occurrence, and looked with anxiety to the next night, when,\nat the same hour, she determined to watch whether the music returned.\n'If those sounds were human,' said she, 'I shall probably hear them\nagain.'\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\n  Then, oh, you blessed ministers above,\n Keep me in patience; and, in ripen'd time,\n Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up\n In countenance.\n     SHAKESPEARE\n\nAnnette came almost breathless to Emily's apartment in the morning. 'O\nma'amselle!' said she, in broken sentences, 'what news I have to tell! I\nhave found out who the prisoner is--but he was no prisoner, neither;--he\nthat was shut up in the chamber I told you of. I must think him a ghost,\nforsooth!'\n\n'Who was the prisoner?' enquired Emily, while her thoughts glanced back\nto the circumstance of the preceding night.\n\n'You mistake, ma'am,' said Annette; 'he was not a prisoner, after all.'\n\n'Who is the person, then?'\n\n'Holy Saints!' rejoined Annette; 'How I was surprised! I met him just\nnow, on the rampart below, there. I never was so surprised in my life!\nAh! ma'amselle! this is a strange place! I should never have done\nwondering, if I was to live here an hundred years. But, as I was saying,\nI met him just now on the rampart, and I was thinking of nobody less\nthan of him.'\n\n'This trifling is insupportable,' said Emily; 'prythee, Annette, do not\ntorture my patience any longer.'\n\n'Nay, ma'amselle, guess--guess who it was; it was somebody you know very\nwell.'\n\n'I cannot guess,' said Emily impatiently.\n\n'Nay, ma'amselle, I'll tell you something to guess by--A tall Signor,\nwith a longish face, who walks so stately, and used to wear such a high\nfeather in his hat; and used often to look down upon the ground, when\npeople spoke to him; and to look at people from under his eyebrows, as\nit were, all so dark and frowning. You have seen him, often and often,\nat Venice, ma'am. Then he was so intimate with the Signor, too. And, now\nI think of it, I wonder what he could be afraid of in this lonely old\ncastle, that he should shut himself up for. But he is come abroad now,\nfor I met him on the rampart just this minute. I trembled when I saw\nhim, for I always was afraid of him, somehow; but I determined I would\nnot let him see it; so I went up to him, and made him a low curtesy,\n\"You are welcome to the castle, Signor Orsino,\" said I.'\n\n'O, it was Signor Orsino, then!' said Emily.\n\n'Yes, ma'amselle, Signor Orsino, himself, who caused that Venetian\ngentleman to be killed, and has been popping about from place to place,\never since, as I hear.'\n\n'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, recovering from the shock of this\nintelligence; 'and is HE come to Udolpho! He does well to endeavour to\nconceal himself.'\n\n'Yes, ma'amselle, but if that was all, this desolate place would conceal\nhim, without his shutting himself up in one room. Who would think of\ncoming to look for him here? I am sure I should as soon think of going\nto look for any body in the other world.'\n\n'There is some truth in that,' said Emily, who would now have concluded\nit was Orsino's music, which she had heard, on the preceding night,\nhad she not known, that he had neither taste, or skill in the art. But,\nthough she was unwilling to add to the number of Annette's surprises, by\nmentioning the subject of her own, she enquired, whether any person in\nthe castle played on a musical instrument?\n\n'O yes, ma'amselle! there is Benedetto plays the great drum to\nadmiration; and then, there is Launcelot the trumpeter; nay, for that\nmatter, Ludovico himself can play on the trumpet;--but he is ill now. I\nremember once'--\n\nEmily interrupted her; 'Have you heard no other music since you came to\nthe castle--none last night?'\n\n'Why, did YOU hear any last night, ma'amselle?'\n\nEmily evaded this question, by repeating her own.\n\n'Why, no, ma'am,' replied Annette; 'I never heard any music here, I\nmust say, but the drums and the trumpet; and, as for last night, I did\nnothing but dream I saw my late lady's ghost.'\n\n'Your LATE lady's,' said Emily in a tremulous voice; 'you have heard\nmore, then. Tell me--tell me all, Annette, I entreat; tell me the worst\nat once.'\n\n'Nay, ma'amselle, you know the worst already.'\n\n'I know nothing,' said Emily.\n\n'Yes, you do, ma'amselle; you know, that nobody knows any thing about\nher; and it is plain, therefore, she is gone, the way of the first lady\nof the castle--nobody ever knew any thing about her.'\n\nEmily leaned her head upon her hand, and was, for some time, silent;\nthen, telling Annette she wished to be alone, the latter left the room.\n\nThe remark of Annette had revived Emily's terrible suspicion, concerning\nthe fate of Madame Montoni; and she resolved to make another effort to\nobtain certainty on this subject, by applying to Montoni once more.\n\nWhen Annette returned, a few hours after, she told Emily, that the\nporter of the castle wished very much to speak with her, for that he had\nsomething of importance to say; her spirits had, however, of late been\nso subject to alarm, that any new circumstance excited it; and this\nmessage from the porter, when her first surprise was over, made her look\nround for some lurking danger, the more suspiciously, perhaps, because\nshe had frequently remarked the unpleasant air and countenance of this\nman. She now hesitated, whether to speak with him, doubting even, that\nthis request was only a pretext to draw her into some danger; but a\nlittle reflection shewed her the improbability of this, and she blushed\nat her weak fears.\n\n'I will speak to him, Annette,' said she; 'desire him to come to the\ncorridor immediately.'\n\nAnnette departed, and soon after returned.\n\n'Barnardine, ma'amselle,' said she, 'dare not come to the corridor, lest\nhe should be discovered, it is so far from his post; and he dare not\neven leave the gates for a moment now; but, if you will come to him\nat the portal, through some roundabout passages he told me of, without\ncrossing the courts, he has that to tell, which will surprise you. But\nyou must not come through the courts, lest the Signor should see you.'\n\nEmily, neither approving these 'roundabout passage,' nor the other part\nof the request, now positively refused to go. 'Tell him,' said she,\n'if he has any thing of consequence to impart, I will hear him in the\ncorridor, whenever he has an opportunity of coming thither.'\n\nAnnette went to deliver this message, and was absent a considerable\ntime. When she returned, 'It won't do, ma'amselle,' said she.\n'Barnardine has been considering all this time what can be done, for it\nis as much as his place is worth to leave his post now. But, if you will\ncome to the east rampart in the dusk of the evening, he can, perhaps,\nsteal away, and tell you all he has to say.'\n\nEmily was surprised and alarmed, at the secrecy which this man seemed\nto think so necessary, and hesitated whether to meet him, till,\nconsidering, that he might mean to warn her of some serious danger, she\nresolved to go.\n\n'Soon after sun-set,' said she, 'I will be at the end of the east\nrampart. But then the watch will be set,' she added, recollecting\nherself, 'and how can Barnardine pass unobserved?'\n\n'That is just what I said to him, ma'am, and he answered me, that he had\nthe key of the gate, at the end of the rampart, that leads towards\nthe courts, and could let himself through that way; and as for the\nsentinels, there were none at this end of the terrace, because the place\nis guarded enough by the high walls of the castle, and the east turret;\nand he said those at the other end were too far off to see him, if it\nwas pretty duskyish.'\n\n'Well,' said Emily, 'I must hear what he has to tell; and, therefore,\ndesire you will go with me to the terrace, this evening.'\n\n'He desired it might be pretty duskyish, ma'amselle,' repeated Annette,\n'because of the watch.'\n\nEmily paused, and then said she would be on the terrace, an hour after\nsun-set;--'and tell Barnardine,' she added, 'to be punctual to the\ntime; for that I, also, may be observed by Signor Montoni. Where is the\nSignor? I would speak with him.'\n\n'He is in the cedar chamber, ma'am, counselling with the other Signors.\nHe is going to give them a sort of treat to-day, to make up for what\npassed at the last, I suppose; the people are all very busy in the\nkitchen.'\n\nEmily now enquired, if Montoni expected any new guests? and Annette\nbelieved that he did not. 'Poor Ludovico!' added she, 'he would be as\nmerry as the best of them, if he was well; but he may recover yet. Count\nMorano was wounded as bad, as he, and he is got well again, and is gone\nback to Venice.'\n\n'Is he so?' said Emily, 'when did you hear this?'\n\n'I heard it, last night, ma'amselle, but I forgot to tell it.'\n\nEmily asked some further questions, and then, desiring Annette would\nobserve and inform her, when Montoni was alone, the girl went to deliver\nher message to Barnardine.\n\nMontoni was, however, so much engaged, during the whole day, that Emily\nhad no opportunity of seeking a release from her terrible suspense,\nconcerning her aunt. Annette was employed in watching his steps, and in\nattending upon Ludovico, whom she, assisted by Caterina, nursed with\nthe utmost care; and Emily was, of course, left much alone. Her\nthoughts dwelt often on the message of the porter, and were employed\nin conjecturing the subject, that occasioned it, which she sometimes\nimagined concerned the fate of Madame Montoni; at others, that it\nrelated to some personal danger, which threatened herself. The cautious\nsecrecy which Barnardine observed in his conduct, inclined her to\nbelieve the latter.\n\nAs the hour of appointment drew near, her impatience increased. At\nlength, the sun set; she heard the passing steps of the sentinels going\nto their posts; and waited only for Annette to accompany her to the\nterrace, who, soon after, came, and they descended together. When Emily\nexpressed apprehensions of meeting Montoni, or some of his guests, 'O,\nthere is no fear of that, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'they are all set\nin to feasting yet, and that Barnardine knows.'\n\nThey reached the first terrace, where the sentinels demanded who passed;\nand Emily, having answered, walked on to the east rampart, at the\nentrance of which they were again stopped; and, having again replied,\nwere permitted to proceed. But Emily did not like to expose herself to\nthe discretion of these men, at such an hour; and, impatient to withdraw\nfrom the situation, she stepped hastily on in search of Barnardine. He\nwas not yet come. She leaned pensively on the wall of the rampart,\nand waited for him. The gloom of twilight sat deep on the surrounding\nobjects, blending in soft confusion the valley, the mountains, and the\nwoods, whose tall heads, stirred by the evening breeze, gave the only\nsounds, that stole on silence, except a faint, faint chorus of distant\nvoices, that arose from within the castle.\n\n'What voices are those?' said Emily, as she fearfully listened.\n\n'It is only the Signor and his guests, carousing,' replied Annette.\n\n'Good God!' thought Emily, 'can this man's heart be so gay, when he has\nmade another being so wretched; if, indeed, my aunt is yet suffered to\nfeel her wretchedness? O! whatever are my own sufferings, may my heart\nnever, never be hardened against those of others!'\n\nShe looked up, with a sensation of horror, to the east turret, near\nwhich she then stood; a light glimmered through the grates of the lower\nchamber, but those of the upper one were dark. Presently, she perceived\na person moving with a lamp across the lower room; but this circumstance\nrevived no hope, concerning Madame Montoni, whom she had vainly\nsought in that apartment, which had appeared to contain only soldiers'\naccoutrements. Emily, however, determined to attempt the outer door\nof the turret, as soon as Barnardine should withdraw; and, if it was\nunfastened, to make another effort to discover her aunt.\n\nThe moments passed, but still Barnardine did not appear; and Emily,\nbecoming uneasy, hesitated whether to wait any longer. She would have\nsent Annette to the portal to hasten him, but feared to be left alone,\nfor it was now almost dark, and a melancholy streak of red, that still\nlingered in the west, was the only vestige of departed day. The strong\ninterest, however, which Barnardine's message had awakened, overcame\nother apprehensions, and still detained her.\n\nWhile she was conjecturing with Annette what could thus occasion his\nabsence, they heard a key turn in the lock of the gate near them, and\npresently saw a man advancing. It was Barnardine, of whom Emily hastily\nenquired what he had to communicate, and desired, that he would tell her\nquickly, 'for I am chilled with this evening air,' said she.\n\n'You must dismiss your maid, lady,' said the man in a voice, the deep\ntone of which shocked her, 'what I have to tell is to you only.'\n\nEmily, after some hesitation, desired Annette to withdraw to a little\ndistance. 'Now, my friend, what would you say?'\n\nHe was silent a moment, as if considering, and then said,--\n\n'That which would cost me my place, at least, if it came to the Signor's\nears. You must promise, lady, that nothing shall ever make you tell a\nsyllable of the matter; I have been trusted in this affair, and, if it\nwas known, that I betrayed my trust, my life, perhaps, might answer\nit. But I was concerned for you, lady, and I resolved to tell you.' He\npaused.--\n\nEmily thanked him, assured him that he might repose on her discretion,\nand entreated him to dispatch.\n\n'Annette told us in the hall how unhappy you was about Signora Montoni,\nand how much you wished to know what was become of her.'\n\n'Most true,' said Emily eagerly, 'and you can inform me. I conjure you\ntell me the worst, without hesitation.' She rested her trembling arm\nupon the wall.\n\n'I can tell you,' said Barnardine, and paused.--\n\nEmily had no power to enforce her entreaties.\n\n'I CAN tell you,' resumed Barnardine,--'but'--\n\n'But what?' exclaimed Emily, recovering her resolution.\n\n'Here I am, ma'amselle,' said Annette, who, having heard the eager tone,\nin which Emily pronounced these words, came running towards her.\n\n'Retire!' said Barnardine, sternly; 'you are not wanted;' and, as Emily\nsaid nothing, Annette obeyed.\n\n'I CAN tell you,' repeated the porter,--'but I know not how--you was\nafflicted before.'--\n\n'I am prepared for the worst, my friend,' said Emily, in a firm and\nsolemn voice. 'I can support any certainty better than this suspense.'\n\n'Well, Signora, if that is the case, you shall hear.--You know, I\nsuppose, that the Signor and his lady used sometimes to disagree. It is\nnone of my concerns to enquire what it was about, but I believe you know\nit was so.'\n\n'Well,' said Emily, 'proceed.'\n\n'The Signor, it seems, had lately been very wrath against her. I saw\nall, and heard all,--a great deal more than people thought for; but it\nwas none of my business, so I said nothing. A few days ago, the Signor\nsent for me. \"Barnardine,\" says he, \"you are--an honest man, I think I\ncan trust you.\" I assured his excellenza that he could. \"Then,\" says he,\nas near as I can remember, \"I have an affair in hand, which I want you\nto assist me in.\"--Then he told me what I was to do; but that I shall\nsay nothing about--it concerned only the Signora.'\n\n'O Heavens!' exclaimed Emily--'what have you done?'\n\nBarnardine hesitated, and was silent.\n\n'What fiend could tempt him, or you, to such an act!' cried Emily,\nchilled with horror, and scarcely able to support her fainting spirits.\n\n'It was a fiend,' said Barnardine in a gloomy tone of voice. They\nwere now both silent;--Emily had not courage to enquire further, and\nBarnardine seemed to shrink from telling more. At length he said, 'It\nis of no use to think of the past; the Signor was cruel enough, but he\nwould be obeyed. What signified my refusing? He would have found others,\nwho had no scruples.'\n\n'You have murdered her, then!' said Emily, in a hollow and inward\nvoice--'I am talking with a murderer!' Barnardine stood silent; while\nEmily turned from him, and attempted to leave the place.\n\n'Stay, lady!' said he, 'You deserve to think so still--since you can\nbelieve me capable of such a deed.'\n\n'If you are innocent, tell me quickly,' said Emily, in faint accents,\n'for I feel I shall not be able to hear you long.'\n\n'I will tell you no more,' said he, and walked away. Emily had just\nstrength enough to bid him stay, and then to call Annette, on whose arm\nshe leaned, and they walked slowly up the rampart, till they heard steps\nbehind them. It was Barnardine again.\n\n'Send away the girl,' said he, 'and I will tell you more.'\n\n'She must not go,' said Emily; 'what you have to say, she may hear.'\n\n'May she so, lady?' said he. 'You shall know no more, then;' and he was\ngoing, though slowly, when Emily's anxiety, overcoming the resentment\nand fear, which the man's behaviour had roused, she desired him to stay,\nand bade Annette retire.\n\n'The Signora is alive,' said he, 'for me. She is my prisoner, though;\nhis excellenza has shut her up in the chamber over the great gates of\nthe court, and I have the charge of her. I was going to have told you,\nyou might see her--but now--'\n\nEmily, relieved from an unutterable load of anguish by this speech, had\nnow only to ask Barnardine's forgiveness, and to conjure, that he would\nlet her visit her aunt.\n\nHe complied with less reluctance, than she expected, and told her, that,\nif she would repair, on the following night, when the Signor was retired\nto rest, to the postern-gate of the castle, she should, perhaps, see\nMadame Montoni.\n\nAmid all the thankfulness, which Emily felt for this concession,\nshe thought she observed a malicious triumph in his manner, when he\npronounced the last words; but, in the next moment, she dismissed the\nthought, and, having again thanked him, commended her aunt to his\npity, and assured him, that she would herself reward him, and would\nbe punctual to her appointment, she bade him good night, and retired,\nunobserved, to her chamber. It was a considerable time, before\nthe tumult of joy, which Barnardine's unexpected intelligence had\noccasioned, allowed Emily to think with clearness, or to be conscious of\nthe real dangers, that still surrounded Madame Montoni and herself.\nWhen this agitation subsided, she perceived, that her aunt was yet the\nprisoner of a man, to whose vengeance, or avarice, she might fall a\nsacrifice; and, when she further considered the savage aspect of the\nperson, who was appointed to guard Madame Montoni, her doom appeared to\nbe already sealed, for the countenance of Barnardine seemed to bear the\nstamp of a murderer; and, when she had looked upon it, she felt inclined\nto believe, that there was no deed, however black, which he might not be\nprevailed upon to execute. These reflections brought to her remembrance\nthe tone of voice, in which he had promised to grant her request to\nsee his prisoner; and she mused upon it long in uneasiness and doubt.\nSometimes, she even hesitated, whether to trust herself with him at the\nlonely hour he had appointed; and once, and only once, it struck her,\nthat Madame Montoni might be already murdered, and that this ruffian was\nappointed to decoy herself to some secret place, where her life also\nwas to be sacrificed to the avarice of Montoni, who then would claim\nsecurely the contested estates in Languedoc. The consideration of the\nenormity of such guilt did, at length, relieve her from the belief\nof its probability, but not from all the doubts and fears, which a\nrecollection of Barnardine's manner had occasioned. From these subjects,\nher thoughts, at length, passed to others; and, as the evening advanced,\nshe remembered, with somewhat more than surprise, the music she had\nheard, on the preceding night, and now awaited its return, with more\nthan curiosity.\n\nShe distinguished, till a late hour, the distant carousals of Montoni\nand his companions--the loud contest, the dissolute laugh and the choral\nsong, that made the halls re-echo. At length, she heard the heavy gates\nof the castle shut for the night, and those sounds instantly sunk into\na silence, which was disturbed only by the whispering steps of persons,\npassing through the galleries to their remote rooms. Emily now judging\nit to be about the time, when she had heard the music, on the preceding\nnight, dismissed Annette, and gently opened the casement to watch\nfor its return. The planet she had so particularly noticed, at the\nrecurrence of the music, was not yet risen; but, with superstitious\nweakness, she kept her eyes fixed on that part of the hemisphere, where\nit would rise, almost expecting, that, when it appeared, the sounds\nwould return. At length, it came, serenely bright, over the eastern\ntowers of the castle. Her heart trembled, when she perceived it, and she\nhad scarcely courage to remain at the casement, lest the returning\nmusic should confirm her terror, and subdue the little strength she yet\nretained. The clock soon after struck one, and, knowing this to be about\nthe time, when the sounds had occurred, she sat down in a chair, near\nthe casement, and endeavoured to compose her spirits; but the anxiety\nof expectation yet disturbed them. Every thing, however, remained still;\nshe heard only the solitary step of a sentinel, and the lulling murmur\nof the woods below, and she again leaned from the casement, and again\nlooked, as if for intelligence, to the planet, which was now risen high\nabove the towers.\n\nEmily continued to listen, but no music came. 'Those were surely no\nmortal sounds!' said she, recollecting their entrancing melody. 'No\ninhabitant of this castle could utter such; and, where is the feeling,\nthat could modulate such exquisite expression? We all know, that it\nhas been affirmed celestial sounds have sometimes been heard on earth.\nFather Pierre and Father Antoine declared, that they had sometimes heard\nthem in the stillness of night, when they alone were waking to offer\ntheir orisons to heaven. Nay, my dear father himself, once said, that,\nsoon after my mother's death, as he lay watchful in grief, sounds of\nuncommon sweetness called him from his bed; and, on opening his window,\nhe heard lofty music pass along the midnight air. It soothed him, he\nsaid; he looked up with confidence to heaven, and resigned her to his\nGod.'\n\nEmily paused to weep at this recollection. 'Perhaps,' resumed she,\n'perhaps, those strains I heard were sent to comfort,--to encourage me!\nNever shall I forget those I heard, at this hour, in Languedoc!\nPerhaps, my father watches over me, at this moment!' She wept again in\ntenderness. Thus passed the hour in watchfulness and solemn thought; but\nno sounds returned; and, after remaining at the casement, till the\nlight tint of dawn began to edge the mountain-tops and steal upon the\nnight-shade, she concluded, that they would not return, and retired\nreluctantly to repose.\n\n\n\n\nVOLUME 3\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\n I will advise you where to plant yourselves;\n Acquaint you with the perfect spy o' the time,\n The moment on 't; for 't must be done to-night.\n     MACBETH\n\nEmily was somewhat surprised, on the following day, to find that Annette\nhad heard of Madame Montoni's confinement in the chamber over the\nportal, as well as of her purposed visit there, on the approaching\nnight. That the circumstance, which Barnardine had so solemnly enjoined\nher to conceal, he had himself told to so indiscreet an hearer as\nAnnette, appeared very improbable, though he had now charged her with\na message, concerning the intended interview. He requested, that Emily\nwould meet him, unattended, on the terrace, at a little after midnight,\nwhen he himself would lead her to the place he had promised; a proposal,\nfrom which she immediately shrunk, for a thousand vague fears darted\nathwart her mind, such as had tormented her on the preceding night,\nand which she neither knew how to trust, or to dismiss. It frequently\noccurred to her, that Barnardine might have deceived her, concerning\nMadame Montoni, whose murderer, perhaps, he really was; and that he had\ndeceived her by order of Montoni, the more easily to draw her into some\nof the desperate designs of the latter. The terrible suspicion, that\nMadame Montoni no longer lived, thus came, accompanied by one not less\ndreadful for herself. Unless the crime, by which the aunt had suffered,\nwas instigated merely by resentment, unconnected with profit, a motive,\nupon which Montoni did not appear very likely to act, its object must be\nunattained, till the niece was also dead, to whom Montoni knew that\nhis wife's estates must descend. Emily remembered the words, which had\ninformed her, that the contested estates in France would devolve to her,\nif Madame Montoni died, without consigning them to her husband, and the\nformer obstinate perseverance of her aunt made it too probable, that\nshe had, to the last, withheld them. At this instant, recollecting\nBarnardine's manner, on the preceding night, she now believed, what she\nhad then fancied, that it expressed malignant triumph. She shuddered at\nthe recollection, which confirmed her fears, and determined not to\nmeet him on the terrace. Soon after, she was inclined to consider these\nsuspicions as the extravagant exaggerations of a timid and harassed\nmind, and could not believe Montoni liable to such preposterous\ndepravity as that of destroying, from one motive, his wife and her\nniece. She blamed herself for suffering her romantic imagination to\ncarry her so far beyond the bounds of probability, and determined to\nendeavour to check its rapid flights, lest they should sometimes extend\ninto madness. Still, however, she shrunk from the thought of meeting\nBarnardine, on the terrace, at midnight; and still the wish to be\nrelieved from this terrible suspense, concerning her aunt, to see her,\nand to sooth her sufferings, made her hesitate what to do.\n\n'Yet how is it possible, Annette, I can pass to the terrace at that\nhour?' said she, recollecting herself, 'the sentinels will stop me, and\nSignor Montoni will hear of the affair.'\n\n'O ma'amselle! that is well thought of,' replied Annette. 'That is\nwhat Barnardine told me about. He gave me this key, and bade me say it\nunlocks the door at the end of the vaulted gallery, that opens near the\nend of the east rampart, so that you need not pass any of the men on\nwatch. He bade me say, too, that his reason for requesting you to come\nto the terrace was, because he could take you to the place you want\nto go to, without opening the great doors of the hall, which grate so\nheavily.'\n\nEmily's spirits were somewhat calmed by this explanation, which seemed\nto be honestly given to Annette. 'But why did he desire I would come\nalone, Annette?' said she.\n\n'Why that was what I asked him myself, ma'amselle. Says I, Why is my\nyoung lady to come alone?--Surely I may come with her!--What harm can I\ndo? But he said \"No--no--I tell you not,\" in his gruff way. Nay, says I,\nI have been trusted in as great affairs as this, I warrant, and it's a\nhard matter if _I_ can't keep a secret now. Still he would say nothing\nbut--\"No--no--no.\" Well, says I, if you will only trust me, I will\ntell you a great secret, that was told me a month ago, and I have never\nopened my lips about it yet--so you need not be afraid of telling me.\nBut all would not do. Then, ma'amselle, I went so far as to offer him a\nbeautiful new sequin, that Ludovico gave me for a keep sake, and I would\nnot have parted with it for all St. Marco's Place; but even that would\nnot do! Now what can be the reason of this? But I know, you know, ma'am,\nwho you are going to see.'\n\n'Pray did Barnardine tell you this?'\n\n'He! No, ma'amselle, that he did not.'\n\nEmily enquired who did, but Annette shewed, that she COULD keep a\nsecret.\n\nDuring the remainder of the day, Emily's mind was agitated with doubts\nand fears and contrary determinations, on the subject of meeting this\nBarnardine on the rampart, and submitting herself to his guidance,\nshe scarcely knew whither. Pity for her aunt and anxiety for herself\nalternately swayed her determination, and night came, before she\nhad decided upon her conduct. She heard the castle clock strike\neleven--twelve--and yet her mind wavered. The time, however, was now\ncome, when she could hesitate no longer: and then the interest she felt\nfor her aunt overcame other considerations, and, bidding Annette follow\nher to the outer door of the vaulted gallery, and there await her\nreturn, she descended from her chamber. The castle was perfectly\nstill, and the great hall, where so lately she had witnessed a scene of\ndreadful contention, now returned only the whispering footsteps of the\ntwo solitary figures gliding fearfully between the pillars, and gleamed\nonly to the feeble lamp they carried. Emily, deceived by the long\nshadows of the pillars and by the catching lights between, often\nstopped, imagining she saw some person, moving in the distant obscurity\nof the perspective; and, as she passed these pillars, she feared to turn\nher eyes toward them, almost expecting to see a figure start out from\nbehind their broad shaft. She reached, however, the vaulted gallery,\nwithout interruption, but unclosed its outer door with a trembling hand,\nand, charging Annette not to quit it and to keep it a little open, that\nshe might be heard if she called, she delivered to her the lamp, which\nshe did not dare to take herself because of the men on watch, and,\nalone, stepped out upon the dark terrace. Every thing was so still,\nthat she feared, lest her own light steps should be heard by the distant\nsentinels, and she walked cautiously towards the spot, where she had\nbefore met Barnardine, listening for a sound, and looking onward through\nthe gloom in search of him. At length, she was startled by a deep voice,\nthat spoke near her, and she paused, uncertain whether it was his, till\nit spoke again, and she then recognized the hollow tones of Barnardine,\nwho had been punctual to the moment, and was at the appointed place,\nresting on the rampart wall. After chiding her for not coming sooner,\nand saying, that he had been waiting nearly half an hour, he desired\nEmily, who made no reply, to follow him to the door, through which he\nhad entered the terrace.\n\nWhile he unlocked it, she looked back to that she had left, and,\nobserving the rays of the lamp stream through a small opening, was\ncertain, that Annette was still there. But her remote situation could\nlittle befriend Emily, after she had quitted the terrace; and, when\nBarnardine unclosed the gate, the dismal aspect of the passage beyond,\nshewn by a torch burning on the pavement, made her shrink from following\nhim alone, and she refused to go, unless Annette might accompany her.\nThis, however, Barnardine absolutely refused to permit, mingling at the\nsame time with his refusal such artful circumstances to heighten the\npity and curiosity of Emily towards her aunt, that she, at length,\nconsented to follow him alone to the portal.\n\nHe then took up the torch, and led her along the passage, at the\nextremity of which he unlocked another door, whence they descended,\na few steps, into a chapel, which, as Barnardine held up the torch\nto light her, Emily observed to be in ruins, and she immediately\nrecollected a former conversation of Annette, concerning it, with very\nunpleasant emotions. She looked fearfully on the almost roofless walls,\ngreen with damps, and on the gothic points of the windows, where the ivy\nand the briony had long supplied the place of glass, and ran mantling\namong the broken capitals of some columns, that had once supported the\nroof. Barnardine stumbled over the broken pavement, and his voice, as he\nuttered a sudden oath, was returned in hollow echoes, that made it more\nterrific. Emily's heart sunk; but she still followed him, and he turned\nout of what had been the principal aisle of the chapel. 'Down these\nsteps, lady,' said Barnardine, as he descended a flight, which appeared\nto lead into the vaults; but Emily paused on the top, and demanded, in a\ntremulous tone, whither he was conducting her.\n\n'To the portal,' said Barnardine.\n\n'Cannot we go through the chapel to the portal?' said Emily.\n\n'No, Signora, that leads to the inner court, which I don't choose to\nunlock. This way, and we shall reach the outer court presently.'\n\nEmily still hesitated; fearing not only to go on, but, since she had\ngone thus far, to irritate Barnardine by refusing to go further.\n\n'Come, lady,' said the man, who had nearly reached the bottom of the\nflight, 'make a little haste; I cannot wait here all night.'\n\n'Whither do these steps lead?' said Emily, yet pausing.\n\n'To the portal,' repeated Barnardine, in an angry tone, 'I will wait no\nlonger.' As he said this, he moved on with the light, and Emily, fearing\nto provoke him by further delay, reluctantly followed. From the steps,\nthey proceeded through a passage, adjoining the vaults, the walls of\nwhich were dropping with unwholesome dews, and the vapours, that crept\nalong the ground, made the torch burn so dimly, that Emily expected\nevery moment to see it extinguished, and Barnardine could scarcely find\nhis way. As they advanced, these vapours thickened, and Barnardine,\nbelieving the torch was expiring, stopped for a moment to trim it. As he\nthen rested against a pair of iron gates, that opened from the passage,\nEmily saw, by uncertain flashes of light, the vaults beyond, and, near\nher, heaps of earth, that seemed to surround an open grave. Such an\nobject, in such a scene, would, at any time, have disturbed her; but\nnow she was shocked by an instantaneous presentiment, that this was the\ngrave of her unfortunate aunt, and that the treacherous Barnardine was\nleading herself to destruction. The obscure and terrible place, to which\nhe had conducted her, seemed to justify the thought; it was a place\nsuited for murder, a receptacle for the dead, where a deed of horror\nmight be committed, and no vestige appear to proclaim it. Emily was so\noverwhelmed with terror, that, for a moment, she was unable to determine\nwhat conduct to pursue. She then considered, that it would be vain to\nattempt an escape from Barnardine, by flight, since the length and the\nintricacy of the way she had passed would soon enable him to overtake\nher, who was unacquainted with the turnings, and whose feebleness\nwould not suffer her to run long with swiftness. She feared equally\nto irritate him by a disclosure of her suspicions, which a refusal to\naccompany him further certainly would do; and, since she was already\nas much in his power as it was possible she could be, if she proceeded,\nshe, at length, determined to suppress, as far as she could, the\nappearance of apprehension, and to follow silently whither he designed\nto lead her. Pale with horror and anxiety, she now waited till\nBarnardine had trimmed the torch, and, as her sight glanced again upon\nthe grave, she could not forbear enquiring, for whom it was prepared.\nHe took his eyes from the torch, and fixed them upon her face without\nspeaking. She faintly repeated the question, but the man, shaking the\ntorch, passed on; and she followed, trembling, to a second flight of\nsteps, having ascended which, a door delivered them into the first court\nof the castle. As they crossed it, the light shewed the high black walls\naround them, fringed with long grass and dank weeds, that found a scanty\nsoil among the mouldering stones; the heavy buttresses, with, here and\nthere, between them, a narrow grate, that admitted a freer circulation\nof air to the court, the massy iron gates, that led to the castle, whose\nclustering turrets appeared above, and, opposite, the huge towers and\narch of the portal itself. In this scene the large, uncouth person of\nBarnardine, bearing the torch, formed a characteristic figure. This\nBarnardine was wrapt in a long dark cloak, which scarcely allowed\nthe kind of half-boots, or sandals, that were laced upon his legs, to\nappear, and shewed only the point of a broad sword, which he usually\nwore, slung in a belt across his shoulders. On his head was a heavy flat\nvelvet cap, somewhat resembling a turban, in which was a short feather;\nthe visage beneath it shewed strong features, and a countenance furrowed\nwith the lines of cunning and darkened by habitual discontent.\n\nThe view of the court, however, reanimated Emily, who, as she crossed\nsilently towards the portal, began to hope, that her own fears, and not\nthe treachery of Barnardine, had deceived her. She looked anxiously\nup at the first casement, that appeared above the lofty arch of the\nportcullis; but it was dark, and she enquired, whether it belonged to\nthe chamber, where Madame Montoni was confined. Emily spoke low, and\nBarnardine, perhaps, did not hear her question, for he returned no\nanswer; and they, soon after, entered the postern door of the gate-way,\nwhich brought them to the foot of a narrow stair-case, that wound up one\nof the towers.\n\n'Up this stair-case the Signora lies,' said Barnardine.\n\n'Lies!' repeated Emily faintly, as she began to ascend.\n\n'She lies in the upper chamber,' said Barnardine.\n\nAs they passed up, the wind, which poured through the narrow cavities in\nthe wall, made the torch flare, and it threw a stronger gleam upon the\ngrim and sallow countenance of Barnardine, and discovered more fully the\ndesolation of the place--the rough stone walls, the spiral stairs, black\nwith age, and a suit of antient armour, with an iron visor, that hung\nupon the walls, and appeared a trophy of some former victory.\n\nHaving reached a landing-place, 'You may wait here, lady,' said he,\napplying a key to the door of a chamber, 'while I go up, and tell the\nSignora you are coming.'\n\n'That ceremony is unnecessary,' replied Emily, 'my aunt will rejoice to\nsee me.'\n\n'I am not so sure of that,' said Barnardine, pointing to the room he had\nopened: 'Come in here, lady, while I step up.'\n\nEmily, surprised and somewhat shocked, did not dare to oppose him\nfurther, but, as he was turning away with the torch, desired he would\nnot leave her in darkness. He looked around, and, observing a tripod\nlamp, that stood on the stairs, lighted and gave it to Emily, who\nstepped forward into a large old chamber, and he closed the door. As\nshe listened anxiously to his departing steps, she thought he descended,\ninstead of ascending, the stairs; but the gusts of wind, that whistled\nround the portal, would not allow her to hear distinctly any other\nsound. Still, however, she listened, and, perceiving no step in the\nroom above, where he had affirmed Madame Montoni to be, her anxiety\nincreased, though she considered, that the thickness of the floor in\nthis strong building might prevent any sound reaching her from the upper\nchamber. The next moment, in a pause of the wind, she distinguished\nBarnardine's step descending to the court, and then thought she heard\nhis voice; but, the rising gust again overcoming other sounds, Emily, to\nbe certain on this point, moved softly to the door, which, on attempting\nto open it, she discovered was fastened. All the horrid apprehensions,\nthat had lately assailed her, returned at this instant with redoubled\nforce, and no longer appeared like the exaggerations of a timid spirit,\nbut seemed to have been sent to warn her of her fate. She now did not\ndoubt, that Madame Montoni had been murdered, perhaps in this very\nchamber; or that she herself was brought hither for the same purpose.\nThe countenance, the manners and the recollected words of Barnardine,\nwhen he had spoken of her aunt, confirmed her worst fears. For some\nmoments, she was incapable of considering of any means, by which she\nmight attempt an escape. Still she listened, but heard footsteps neither\non the stairs, or in the room above; she thought, however, that she\nagain distinguished Barnardine's voice below, and went to a grated\nwindow, that opened upon the court, to enquire further. Here, she\nplainly heard his hoarse accents, mingling with the blast, that swept\nby, but they were lost again so quickly, that their meaning could not be\ninterpreted; and then the light of a torch, which seemed to issue from\nthe portal below, flashed across the court, and the long shadow of a\nman, who was under the arch-way, appeared upon the pavement. Emily,\nfrom the hugeness of this sudden portrait, concluded it to be that\nof Barnardine; but other deep tones, which passed in the wind, soon\nconvinced her he was not alone, and that his companion was not a person\nvery liable to pity.\n\nWhen her spirits had overcome the first shock of her situation, she\nheld up the lamp to examine, if the chamber afforded a possibility of an\nescape. It was a spacious room, whose walls, wainscoted with rough oak,\nshewed no casement but the grated one, which Emily had left, and no\nother door than that, by which she had entered. The feeble rays of the\nlamp, however, did not allow her to see at once its full extent; she\nperceived no furniture, except, indeed, an iron chair, fastened in the\ncentre of the chamber, immediately over which, depending on a chain from\nthe ceiling, hung an iron ring. Having gazed upon these, for some time,\nwith wonder and horror, she next observed iron bars below, made for the\npurpose of confining the feet, and on the arms of the chair were rings\nof the same metal. As she continued to survey them, she concluded, that\nthey were instruments of torture, and it struck her, that some poor\nwretch had once been fastened in this chair, and had there been starved\nto death. She was chilled by the thought; but, what was her agony, when,\nin the next moment, it occurred to her, that her aunt might have been\none of these victims, and that she herself might be the next! An acute\npain seized her head, she was scarcely able to hold the lamp, and,\nlooking round for support, was seating herself, unconsciously, in the\niron chair itself; but suddenly perceiving where she was, she started\nfrom it in horror, and sprung towards a remote end of the room. Here\nagain she looked round for a seat to sustain her, and perceived only a\ndark curtain, which, descending from the ceiling to the floor, was drawn\nalong the whole side of the chamber. Ill as she was, the appearance of\nthis curtain struck her, and she paused to gaze upon it, in wonder and\napprehension.\n\nIt seemed to conceal a recess of the chamber; she wished, yet dreaded,\nto lift it, and to discover what it veiled: twice she was withheld by\na recollection of the terrible spectacle her daring hand had formerly\nunveiled in an apartment of the castle, till, suddenly conjecturing,\nthat it concealed the body of her murdered aunt, she seized it, in a fit\nof desperation, and drew it aside. Beyond, appeared a corpse, stretched\non a kind of low couch, which was crimsoned with human blood, as was\nthe floor beneath. The features, deformed by death, were ghastly and\nhorrible, and more than one livid wound appeared in the face. Emily,\nbending over the body, gazed, for a moment, with an eager, frenzied eye;\nbut, in the next, the lamp dropped from her hand, and she fell senseless\nat the foot of the couch.\n\nWhen her senses returned, she found herself surrounded by men, among\nwhom was Barnardine, who were lifting her from the floor, and then bore\nher along the chamber. She was sensible of what passed, but the extreme\nlanguor of her spirits did not permit her to speak, or move, or even to\nfeel any distinct fear. They carried her down the stair-case, by which\nshe had ascended; when, having reached the arch-way, they stopped, and\none of the men, taking the torch from Barnardine, opened a small door,\nthat was cut in the great gate, and, as he stepped out upon the road,\nthe light he bore shewed several men on horseback, in waiting. Whether\nit was the freshness of the air, that revived Emily, or that the objects\nshe now saw roused the spirit of alarm, she suddenly spoke, and made an\nineffectual effort to disengage herself from the grasp of the ruffians,\nwho held her.\n\nBarnardine, meanwhile, called loudly for the torch, while distant voices\nanswered, and several persons approached, and, in the same instant, a\nlight flashed upon the court of the castle. Again he vociferated for the\ntorch, and the men hurried Emily through the gate. At a short distance,\nunder the shelter of the castle walls, she perceived the fellow, who had\ntaken the light from the porter, holding it to a man, busily employed\nin altering the saddle of a horse, round which were several horsemen,\nlooking on, whose harsh features received the full glare of the torch;\nwhile the broken ground beneath them, the opposite walls, with the\ntufted shrubs, that overhung their summits, and an embattled watch-tower\nabove, were reddened with the gleam, which, fading gradually away, left\nthe remoter ramparts and the woods below to the obscurity of night.\n\n'What do you waste time for, there?' said Barnardine with an oath, as he\napproached the horsemen. 'Dispatch--dispatch!'\n\n'The saddle will be ready in a minute,' replied the man who was buckling\nit, at whom Barnardine now swore again, for his negligence, and Emily,\ncalling feebly for help, was hurried towards the horses, while the\nruffians disputed on which to place her, the one designed for her not\nbeing ready. At this moment a cluster of lights issued from the great\ngates, and she immediately heard the shrill voice of Annette above\nthose of several other persons, who advanced. In the same moment, she\ndistinguished Montoni and Cavigni, followed by a number of ruffian-faced\nfellows, to whom she no longer looked with terror, but with hope, for,\nat this instant, she did not tremble at the thought of any dangers, that\nmight await her within the castle, whence so lately, and so anxiously\nshe had wished to escape. Those, which threatened her from without, had\nengrossed all her apprehensions.\n\nA short contest ensued between the parties, in which that of Montoni,\nhowever, were presently victors, and the horsemen, perceiving that\nnumbers were against them, and being, perhaps, not very warmly\ninterested in the affair they had undertaken, galloped off, while\nBarnardine had run far enough to be lost in the darkness, and Emily was\nled back into the castle. As she re-passed the courts, the remembrance\nof what she had seen in the portal-chamber came, with all its horror, to\nher mind; and when, soon after, she heard the gate close, that shut\nher once more within the castle walls, she shuddered for herself, and,\nalmost forgetting the danger she had escaped, could scarcely think, that\nany thing less precious than liberty and peace was to be found beyond\nthem.\n\nMontoni ordered Emily to await him in the cedar parlour, whither he soon\nfollowed, and then sternly questioned her on this mysterious affair.\nThough she now viewed him with horror, as the murderer of her aunt, and\nscarcely knew what she said in reply to his impatient enquiries, her\nanswers and her manner convinced him, that she had not taken a voluntary\npart in the late scheme, and he dismissed her upon the appearance of his\nservants, whom he had ordered to attend, that he might enquire further\ninto the affair, and discover those, who had been accomplices in it.\n\nEmily had been some time in her apartment, before the tumult of her mind\nallowed her to remember several of the past circumstances. Then, again,\nthe dead form, which the curtain in the portal-chamber had disclosed,\ncame to her fancy, and she uttered a groan, which terrified Annette the\nmore, as Emily forbore to satisfy her curiosity, on the subject of\nit, for she feared to trust her with so fatal a secret, lest her\nindiscretion should call down the immediate vengeance of Montoni on\nherself.\n\nThus compelled to bear within her own mind the whole horror of the\nsecret, that oppressed it, her reason seemed to totter under the\nintolerable weight. She often fixed a wild and vacant look on Annette,\nand, when she spoke, either did not hear her, or answered from the\npurpose. Long fits of abstraction succeeded; Annette spoke repeatedly,\nbut her voice seemed not to make any impression on the sense of the long\nagitated Emily, who sat fixed and silent, except that, now and then, she\nheaved a heavy sigh, but without tears.\n\nTerrified at her condition, Annette, at length, left the room, to inform\nMontoni of it, who had just dismissed his servants, without having made\nany discoveries on the subject of his enquiry. The wild description,\nwhich this girl now gave of Emily, induced him to follow her immediately\nto the chamber.\n\nAt the sound of his voice, Emily turned her eyes, and a gleam of\nrecollection seemed to shoot athwart her mind, for she immediately rose\nfrom her seat, and moved slowly to a remote part of the room. He spoke\nto her in accents somewhat softened from their usual harshness, but\nshe regarded him with a kind of half curious, half terrified look,\nand answered only 'yes,' to whatever he said. Her mind still seemed to\nretain no other impression, than that of fear.\n\nOf this disorder Annette could give no explanation, and Montoni, having\nattempted, for some time, to persuade Emily to talk, retired, after\nordering Annette to remain with her, during the night, and to inform\nhim, in the morning, of her condition.\n\nWhen he was gone, Emily again came forward, and asked who it was, that\nhad been there to disturb her. Annette said it was the Signor-Signor\nMontoni. Emily repeated the name after her, several times, as if she\ndid not recollect it, and then suddenly groaned, and relapsed into\nabstraction.\n\nWith some difficulty, Annette led her to the bed, which Emily examined\nwith an eager, frenzied eye, before she lay down, and then, pointing,\nturned with shuddering emotion, to Annette, who, now more terrified,\nwent towards the door, that she might bring one of the female servants\nto pass the night with them; but Emily, observing her going, called her\nby name, and then in the naturally soft and plaintive tone of her voice,\nbegged, that she, too, would not forsake her.--'For since my father\ndied,' added she, sighing, 'every body forsakes me.'\n\n'Your father, ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'he was dead before you knew\nme.'\n\n'He was, indeed!' rejoined Emily, and her tears began to flow. She now\nwept silently and long, after which, becoming quite calm, she at length\nsunk to sleep, Annette having had discretion enough not to interrupt\nher tears. This girl, as affectionate as she was simple, lost in these\nmoments all her former fears of remaining in the chamber, and watched\nalone by Emily, during the whole night.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\n     unfold\n What worlds, or what vast regions, hold\n Th' immortal mind, that hath forsook\n Her mansion in this fleshly nook!\n     IL PENSEROSO\n\nEmily's mind was refreshed by sleep. On waking in the morning, she\nlooked with surprise on Annette, who sat sleeping in a chair beside the\nbed, and then endeavoured to recollect herself; but the circumstances of\nthe preceding night were swept from her memory, which seemed to retain\nno trace of what had passed, and she was still gazing with surprise on\nAnnette, when the latter awoke.\n\n'O dear ma'amselle! do you know me?' cried she.\n\n'Know you! Certainly,' replied Emily, 'you are Annette; but why are you\nsitting by me thus?'\n\n'O you have been very ill, ma'amselle,--very ill indeed! and I am sure I\nthought--'\n\n'This is very strange!' said Emily, still trying to recollect the\npast.--'But I think I do remember, that my fancy has been haunted by\nfrightful dreams. Good God!' she added, suddenly starting--'surely it\nwas nothing more than a dream!'\n\nShe fixed a terrified look upon Annette, who, intending to quiet her,\nsaid 'Yes, ma'amselle, it was more than a dream, but it is all over\nnow.'\n\n'She IS murdered, then!' said Emily in an inward voice, and shuddering\ninstantaneously. Annette screamed; for, being ignorant of the\ncircumstance to which Emily referred, she attributed her manner to a\ndisordered fancy; but, when she had explained to what her own speech\nalluded, Emily, recollecting the attempt that had been made to carry her\noff, asked if the contriver of it had been discovered. Annette replied,\nthat he had not, though he might easily be guessed at; and then told\nEmily she might thank her for her deliverance, who, endeavouring to\ncommand the emotion, which the remembrance of her aunt had occasioned,\nappeared calmly to listen to Annette, though, in truth, she heard\nscarcely a word that was said.\n\n'And so, ma'amselle,' continued the latter, 'I was determined to be even\nwith Barnardine for refusing to tell me the secret, by finding it out\nmyself; so I watched you, on the terrace, and, as soon as he had opened\nthe door at the end, I stole out from the castle, to try to follow you;\nfor, says I, I am sure no good can be planned, or why all this secrecy?\nSo, sure enough, he had not bolted the door after him, and, when I\nopened it, I saw, by the glimmer of the torch, at the other end of the\npassage, which way you were going. I followed the light, at a distance,\ntill you came to the vaults of the chapel, and there I was afraid to go\nfurther, for I had heard strange things about these vaults. But then,\nagain, I was afraid to go back, all in darkness, by myself; so by the\ntime Barnardine had trimmed the light, I had resolved to follow you, and\nI did so, till you came to the great court, and there I was afraid he\nwould see me; so I stopped at the door again, and watched you across to\nthe gates, and, when you was gone up the stairs, I whipt after. There,\nas I stood under the gate-way, I heard horses' feet without, and several\nmen talking; and I heard them swearing at Barnardine for not bringing\nyou out, and just then, he had like to have caught me, for he came down\nthe stairs again, and I had hardly time to get out of his way. But I had\nheard enough of his secret now, and I determined to be even with him,\nand to save you, too, ma'amselle, for I guessed it to be some new scheme\nof Count Morano, though he was gone away. I ran into the castle, but I\nhad hard work to find my way through the passage under the chapel, and\nwhat is very strange, I quite forgot to look for the ghosts they had\ntold me about, though I would not go into that place again by myself for\nall the world! Luckily the Signor and Signor Cavigni were up, so we had\nsoon a train at our heels, sufficient to frighten that Barnardine and\nhis rogues, all together.'\n\nAnnette ceased to speak, but Emily still appeared to listen. At length\nshe said, suddenly, 'I think I will go to him myself;--where is he?'\n\nAnnette asked who was meant.\n\n'Signor Montoni,' replied Emily. 'I would speak with him;' and Annette,\nnow remembering the order he had given, on the preceding night,\nrespecting her young lady, rose, and said she would seek him herself.\n\nThis honest girl's suspicions of Count Morano were perfectly just;\nEmily, too, when she thought on the scheme, had attributed it to\nhim; and Montoni, who had not a doubt on this subject, also, began\nto believe, that it was by the direction of Morano, that poison had\nformerly been mingled with his wine.\n\nThe professions of repentance, which Morano had made to Emily, under the\nanguish of his wound, was sincere at the moment he offered them; but\nhe had mistaken the subject of his sorrow, for, while he thought he was\ncondemning the cruelty of his late design, he was lamenting only the\nstate of suffering, to which it had reduced him. As these sufferings\nabated, his former views revived, till, his health being re-established,\nhe again found himself ready for enterprise and difficulty. The porter\nof the castle, who had served him, on a former occasion, willingly\naccepted a second bribe; and, having concerted the means of drawing\nEmily to the gates, Morano publicly left the hamlet, whither he had been\ncarried after the affray, and withdrew with his people to another\nat several miles distance. From thence, on a night agreed upon by\nBarnardine, who had discovered from the thoughtless prattle of Annette,\nthe most probable means of decoying Emily, the Count sent back his\nservants to the castle, while he awaited her arrival at the hamlet, with\nan intention of carrying her immediately to Venice. How this, his second\nscheme, was frustrated, has already appeared; but the violent, and\nvarious passions with which this Italian lover was now agitated, on his\nreturn to that city, can only be imagined.\n\nAnnette having made her report to Montoni of Emily's health and of her\nrequest to see him, he replied, that she might attend him in the cedar\nroom, in about an hour. It was on the subject, that pressed so heavily\non her mind, that Emily wished to speak to him, yet she did not\ndistinctly know what good purpose this could answer, and sometimes\nshe even recoiled in horror from the expectation of his presence. She\nwished, also, to petition, though she scarcely dared to believe the\nrequest would be granted, that he would permit her, since her aunt was\nno more, to return to her native country.\n\nAs the moment of interview approached, her agitation increased so much,\nthat she almost resolved to excuse herself under what could scarcely\nbe called a pretence of illness; and, when she considered what could\nbe said, either concerning herself, or the fate of her aunt, she was\nequally hopeless as to the event of her entreaty, and terrified as\nto its effect upon the vengeful spirit of Montoni. Yet, to pretend\nignorance of her death, appeared, in some degree, to be sharing its\ncriminality, and, indeed, this event was the only ground, on which Emily\ncould rest her petition for leaving Udolpho.\n\nWhile her thoughts thus wavered, a message was brought, importing, that\nMontoni could not see her, till the next day; and her spirits were\nthen relieved, for a moment, from an almost intolerable weight of\napprehension. Annette said, she fancied the Chevaliers were going out\nto the wars again, for the court-yard was filled with horses, and she\nheard, that the rest of the party, who went out before, were expected at\nthe castle. 'And I heard one of the soldiers, too,' added she, 'say\nto his comrade, that he would warrant they'd bring home a rare deal of\nbooty.--So, thinks I, if the Signor can, with a safe conscience, send\nhis people out a-robbing--why it is no business of mine. I only wish\nI was once safe out of this castle; and, if it had not been for poor\nLudovico's sake, I would have let Count Morano's people run away with\nus both, for it would have been serving you a good turn, ma'amselle, as\nwell as myself.'\n\nAnnette might have continued thus talking for hours for any interruption\nshe would have received from Emily, who was silent, inattentive,\nabsorbed in thought, and passed the whole of this day in a kind\nof solemn tranquillity, such as is often the result of faculties\noverstrained by suffering.\n\nWhen night returned, Emily recollected the mysterious strains of music,\nthat she had lately heard, in which she still felt some degree of\ninterest, and of which she hoped to hear again the soothing sweetness.\nThe influence of superstition now gained on the weakness of her\nlong-harassed mind; she looked, with enthusiastic expectation, to the\nguardian spirit of her father, and, having dismissed Annette for the\nnight, determined to watch alone for their return. It was not yet,\nhowever, near the time when she had heard the music on a former night,\nand anxious to call off her thoughts from distressing subjects, she sat\ndown with one of the few books, that she had brought from France; but\nher mind, refusing controul, became restless and agitated, and she went\noften to the casement to listen for a sound. Once, she thought she heard\na voice, but then, every thing without the casement remaining still, she\nconcluded, that her fancy had deceived her.\n\nThus passed the time, till twelve o'clock, soon after which the distant\nsounds, that murmured through the castle, ceased, and sleep seemed to\nreign over all. Emily then seated herself at the casement, where she\nwas soon recalled from the reverie, into which she sunk, by very unusual\nsounds, not of music, but like the low mourning of some person in\ndistress. As she listened, her heart faltered in terror, and she became\nconvinced, that the former sound was more than imaginary. Still,\nat intervals, she heard a kind of feeble lamentation, and sought to\ndiscover whence it came. There were several rooms underneath, adjoining\nthe rampart, which had been long shut up, and, as the sound probably\nrose from one of these, she leaned from the casement to observe, whether\nany light was visible there. The chambers, as far as she could perceive,\nwere quite dark, but, at a little distance, on the rampart below, she\nthought she saw something moving.\n\nThe faint twilight, which the stars shed, did not enable her to\ndistinguish what it was; but she judged it to be a sentinel, on watch,\nand she removed her light to a remote part of the chamber, that she\nmight escape notice, during her further observation.\n\nThe same object still appeared. Presently, it advanced along the\nrampart, towards her window, and she then distinguished something like\na human form, but the silence, with which it moved, convinced her it\nwas no sentinel. As it drew near, she hesitated whether to retire; a\nthrilling curiosity inclined her to stay, but a dread of she scarcely\nknew what warned her to withdraw.\n\nWhile she paused, the figure came opposite to her casement, and was\nstationary. Every thing remained quiet; she had not heard even a\nfoot-fall; and the solemnity of this silence, with the mysterious form\nshe saw, subdued her spirits, so that she was moving from the casement,\nwhen, on a sudden, she observed the figure start away, and glide down\nthe rampart, after which it was soon lost in the obscurity of night.\nEmily continued to gaze, for some time, on the way it had passed, and\nthen retired within her chamber, musing on this strange circumstance,\nand scarcely doubting, that she had witnessed a supernatural appearance.\n\nWhen her spirits recovered composure, she looked round for some other\nexplanation. Remembering what she had heard of the daring enterprises of\nMontoni, it occurred to her, that she had just seen some unhappy\nperson, who, having been plundered by his banditti, was brought hither a\ncaptive; and that the music she had formerly heard, came from him.\nYet, if they had plundered him, it still appeared improbable, that they\nshould have brought him to the castle, and it was also more consistent\nwith the manners of banditti to murder those they rob, than to make them\nprisoners. But what, more than any other circumstance, contradicted\nthe supposition, that it was a prisoner, was that it wandered on the\nterrace, without a guard: a consideration, which made her dismiss\nimmediately her first surmise.\n\nAfterwards, she was inclined to believe, that Count Morano had obtained\nadmittance into the castle; but she soon recollected the difficulties\nand dangers, that must have opposed such an enterprise, and that, if he\nhad so far succeeded, to come alone and in silence to her casement at\nmidnight was not the conduct he would have adopted, particularly since\nthe private stair-case, communicating with her apartment, was known to\nhim; neither would he have uttered the dismal sounds she had heard.\n\nAnother suggestion represented, that this might be some person, who had\ndesigns upon the castle; but the mournful sounds destroyed, also, that\nprobability. Thus, enquiry only perplexed her. Who, or what, it could be\nthat haunted this lonely hour, complaining in such doleful accents and\nin such sweet music (for she was still inclined to believe, that the\nformer strains and the late appearance were connected,) she had no means\nof ascertaining; and imagination again assumed her empire, and roused\nthe mysteries of superstition.\n\nShe determined, however, to watch on the following night, when her\ndoubts might, perhaps, be cleared up; and she almost resolved to address\nthe figure, if it should appear again.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\n Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp,\n Oft seen in charnel-vaults and sepulchres,\n Lingering, and sitting, by a new-made grave.\n     MILTON\n\nOn the following day, Montoni sent a second excuse to Emily, who was\nsurprised at the circumstance. 'This is very strange!' said she to\nherself. 'His conscience tells him the purport of my visit, and he\ndefers it, to avoid an explanation.' She now almost resolved to throw\nherself in his way, but terror checked the intention, and this day\npassed, as the preceding one, with Emily, except that a degree of awful\nexpectation, concerning the approaching night, now somewhat disturbed\nthe dreadful calmness that had pervaded her mind.\n\nTowards evening, the second part of the band, which had made the first\nexcursion among the mountains, returned to the castle, where, as they\nentered the courts, Emily, in her remote chamber, heard their loud\nshouts and strains of exultation, like the orgies of furies over\nsome horrid sacrifice. She even feared they were about to commit some\nbarbarous deed; a conjecture from which, however, Annette soon relieved\nher, by telling, that the people were only exulting over the plunder\nthey had brought with them. This circumstance still further confirmed\nher in the belief, that Montoni had really commenced to be a captain of\nbanditti, and meant to retrieve his broken fortunes by the plunder of\ntravellers! Indeed, when she considered all the circumstances of his\nsituation--in an armed, and almost inaccessible castle, retired far\namong the recesses of wild and solitary mountains, along whose distant\nskirts were scattered towns, and cities, whither wealthy travellers were\ncontinually passing--this appeared to be the situation of all others\nmost suited for the success of schemes of rapine, and she yielded to\nthe strange thought, that Montoni was become a captain of robbers. His\ncharacter also, unprincipled, dauntless, cruel and enterprising, seemed\nto fit him for the situation. Delighting in the tumult and in the\nstruggles of life, he was equally a stranger to pity and to fear; his\nvery courage was a sort of animal ferocity; not the noble impulse of\na principle, such as inspirits the mind against the oppressor, in the\ncause of the oppressed; but a constitutional hardiness of nerve, that\ncannot feel, and that, therefore, cannot fear.\n\nEmily's supposition, however natural, was in part erroneous, for she was\na stranger to the state of this country and to the circumstances, under\nwhich its frequent wars were partly conducted. The revenues of the many\nstates of Italy being, at that time, insufficient to the support of\nstanding armies, even during the short periods, which the turbulent\nhabits both of the governments and the people permitted to pass in\npeace, an order of men arose not known in our age, and but faintly\ndescribed in the history of their own. Of the soldiers, disbanded at\nthe end of every war, few returned to the safe, but unprofitable\noccupations, then usual in peace. Sometimes they passed into other\ncountries, and mingled with armies, which still kept the field.\nSometimes they formed themselves into bands of robbers, and occupied\nremote fortresses, where their desperate character, the weakness of the\ngovernments which they offended, and the certainty, that they could\nbe recalled to the armies, when their presence should be again wanted,\nprevented them from being much pursued by the civil power; and,\nsometimes, they attached themselves to the fortunes of a popular chief,\nby whom they were led into the service of any state, which could settle\nwith him the price of their valour. From this latter practice arose\ntheir name--CONDOTTIERI; a term formidable all over Italy, for a period,\nwhich concluded in the earlier part of the seventeenth century, but of\nwhich it is not so easy to ascertain the commencement.\n\nContests between the smaller states were then, for the most part,\naffairs of enterprize alone, and the probabilities of success were\nestimated, not from the skill, but from the personal courage of the\ngeneral, and the soldiers. The ability, which was necessary to the\nconduct of tedious operations, was little valued. It was enough to\nknow how a party might be led towards their enemies, with the greatest\nsecrecy, or conducted from them in the compactest order. The officer was\nto precipitate himself into a situation, where, but for his example,\nthe soldiers might not have ventured; and, as the opposed parties knew\nlittle of each other's strength, the event of the day was frequently\ndetermined by the boldness of the first movements. In such services the\ncondottieri were eminent, and in these, where plunder always followed\nsuccess, their characters acquired a mixture of intrepidity and\nprofligacy, which awed even those whom they served.\n\nWhen they were not thus engaged, their chief had usually his own\nfortress, in which, or in its neighbourhood, they enjoyed an irksome\nrest; and, though their wants were, at one time, partly supplied from\nthe property of the inhabitants, the lavish distribution of their\nplunder at others, prevented them from being obnoxious; and the peasants\nof such districts gradually shared the character of their warlike\nvisitors. The neighbouring governments sometimes professed, but seldom\nendeavoured, to suppress these military communities; both because it was\ndifficult to do so, and because a disguised protection of them ensured,\nfor the service of their wars, a body of men, who could not otherwise\nbe so cheaply maintained, or so perfectly qualified. The commanders\nsometimes even relied so far upon this policy of the several powers, as\nto frequent their capitals; and Montoni, having met them in the gaming\nparties of Venice and Padua, conceived a desire to emulate their\ncharacters, before his ruined fortunes tempted him to adopt their\npractices. It was for the arrangement of his present plan of life, that\nthe midnight councils were held at his mansion in Venice, and at which\nOrsino and some other members of the present community then assisted\nwith suggestions, which they had since executed with the wreck of their\nfortunes.\n\nOn the return of night, Emily resumed her station at the casement. There\nwas now a moon; and, as it rose over the tufted woods, its yellow light\nserved to shew the lonely terrace and the surrounding objects, more\ndistinctly, than the twilight of the stars had done, and promised Emily\nto assist her observations, should the mysterious form return. On this\nsubject, she again wavered in conjecture, and hesitated whether to speak\nto the figure, to which a strong and almost irresistible interest urged\nher; but terror, at intervals, made her reluctant to do so.\n\n'If this is a person who has designs upon the castle,' said she, 'my\ncuriosity may prove fatal to me; yet the mysterious music, and the\nlamentations I heard, must surely have proceeded from him: if so, he\ncannot be an enemy.'\n\nShe then thought of her unfortunate aunt, and, shuddering with grief\nand horror, the suggestions of imagination seized her mind with all\nthe force of truth, and she believed, that the form she had seen was\nsupernatural. She trembled, breathed with difficulty, an icy coldness\ntouched her cheeks, and her fears for a while overcame her judgment.\nHer resolution now forsook her, and she determined, if the figure should\nappear, not to speak to it.\n\nThus the time passed, as she sat at her casement, awed by expectation,\nand by the gloom and stillness of midnight; for she saw obscurely in\nthe moon-light only the mountains and woods, a cluster of towers, that\nformed the west angle of the castle, and the terrace below; and heard\nno sound, except, now and then, the lonely watch-word, passed by the\ncentinels on duty, and afterwards the steps of the men who came to\nrelieve guard, and whom she knew at a distance on the rampart by their\npikes, that glittered in the moonbeam, and then, by the few short words,\nin which they hailed their fellows of the night. Emily retired within\nher chamber, while they passed the casement. When she returned to\nit, all was again quiet. It was now very late, she was wearied with\nwatching, and began to doubt the reality of what she had seen on the\npreceding night; but she still lingered at the window, for her mind was\ntoo perturbed to admit of sleep. The moon shone with a clear lustre,\nthat afforded her a complete view of the terrace; but she saw only a\nsolitary centinel, pacing at one end of it; and, at length, tired with\nexpectation, she withdrew to seek rest.\n\nSuch, however, was the impression, left on her mind by the music, and\nthe complaining she had formerly heard, as well as by the figure, which\nshe fancied she had seen, that she determined to repeat the watch, on\nthe following night.\n\nMontoni, on the next day, took no notice of Emily's appointed visit, but\nshe, more anxious than before to see him, sent Annette to enquire, at\nwhat hour he would admit her. He mentioned eleven o'clock, and Emily\nwas punctual to the moment; at which she called up all her fortitude\nto support the shock of his presence and the dreadful recollections it\nenforced. He was with several of his officers, in the cedar room;\non observing whom she paused; and her agitation increased, while he\ncontinued to converse with them, apparently not observing her, till some\nof his officers, turning round, saw Emily, and uttered an exclamation.\nShe was hastily retiring, when Montoni's voice arrested her, and, in a\nfaultering accent, she said,--'I would speak with you, Signor Montoni,\nif you are at leisure.'\n\n'These are my friends,' he replied, 'whatever you would say, they may\nhear.'\n\nEmily, without replying, turned from the rude gaze of the chevaliers,\nand Montoni then followed her to the hall, whence he led her to a small\nroom, of which he shut the door with violence. As she looked on his dark\ncountenance, she again thought she saw the murderer of her aunt; and\nher mind was so convulsed with horror, that she had not power to recall\nthought enough to explain the purport of her visit; and to trust herself\nwith the mention of Madame Montoni was more than she dared.\n\nMontoni at length impatiently enquired what she had to say? 'I have no\ntime for trifling,' he added, 'my moments are important.'\n\nEmily then told him, that she wished to return to France, and came to\nbeg, that he would permit her to do so.--But when he looked surprised,\nand enquired for the motive of the request, she hesitated, became paler\nthan before, trembled, and had nearly sunk at his feet. He observed\nher emotion, with apparent indifference, and interrupted the silence\nby telling her, he must be gone. Emily, however, recalled her spirits\nsufficiently to enable her to repeat her request. And, when Montoni\nabsolutely refused it, her slumbering mind was roused.\n\n'I can no longer remain here with propriety, sir,' said she, 'and I may\nbe allowed to ask, by what right you detain me.'\n\n'It is my will that you remain here,' said Montoni, laying his hand on\nthe door to go; 'let that suffice you.'\n\nEmily, considering that she had no appeal from this will, forbore to\ndispute his right, and made a feeble effort to persuade him to be\njust. 'While my aunt lived, sir,' said she, in a tremulous voice, 'my\nresidence here was not improper; but now, that she is no more, I may\nsurely be permitted to depart. My stay cannot benefit you, sir, and will\nonly distress me.'\n\n'Who told you, that Madame Montoni was dead?' said Montoni, with an\ninquisitive eye. Emily hesitated, for nobody had told her so, and\nshe did not dare to avow the having seen that spectacle in the\nportal-chamber, which had compelled her to the belief.\n\n'Who told you so?' he repeated, more sternly.\n\n'Alas! I know it too well,' replied Emily: 'spare me on this terrible\nsubject!'\n\nShe sat down on a bench to support herself.\n\n'If you wish to see her,' said Montoni, 'you may; she lies in the east\nturret.'\n\nHe now left the room, without awaiting her reply, and returned to the\ncedar chamber, where such of the chevaliers as had not before seen\nEmily, began to rally him, on the discovery they had made; but Montoni\ndid not appear disposed to bear this mirth, and they changed the\nsubject.\n\nHaving talked with the subtle Orsino, on the plan of an excursion, which\nhe meditated for a future day, his friend advised, that they should lie\nin wait for the enemy, which Verezzi impetuously opposed, reproached\nOrsino with want of spirit, and swore, that, if Montoni would let him\nlead on fifty men, he would conquer all that should oppose him.\n\nOrsino smiled contemptuously; Montoni smiled too, but he also listened.\nVerezzi then proceeded with vehement declamation and assertion, till he\nwas stopped by an argument of Orsino, which he knew not how to answer\nbetter than by invective. His fierce spirit detested the cunning caution\nof Orsino, whom he constantly opposed, and whose inveterate, though\nsilent, hatred he had long ago incurred. And Montoni was a calm observer\nof both, whose different qualifications he knew, and how to bend their\nopposite character to the perfection of his own designs. But Verezzi,\nin the heat of opposition, now did not scruple to accuse Orsino of\ncowardice, at which the countenance of the latter, while he made no\nreply, was overspread with a livid paleness; and Montoni, who watched\nhis lurking eye, saw him put his hand hastily into his bosom. But\nVerezzi, whose face, glowing with crimson, formed a striking contrast to\nthe complexion of Orsino, remarked not the action, and continued boldly\ndeclaiming against cowards to Cavigni, who was slily laughing at his\nvehemence, and at the silent mortification of Orsino, when the latter,\nretiring a few steps behind, drew forth a stilletto to stab his\nadversary in the back. Montoni arrested his half-extended arm, and, with\na significant look, made him return the poinard into his bosom, unseen\nby all except himself; for most of the party were disputing at a\ndistant window, on the situation of a dell where they meant to form an\nambuscade.\n\nWhen Verezzi had turned round, the deadly hatred, expressed on the\nfeatures of his opponent, raising, for the first time, a suspicion\nof his intention, he laid his hand on his sword, and then, seeming to\nrecollect himself, strode up to Montoni.\n\n'Signor,' said he, with a significant look at Orsino, 'we are not a\nband of assassins; if you have business for brave men employ me on this\nexpedition: you shall have the last drop of my blood; if you have\nonly work for cowards--keep him,' pointing to Orsino, 'and let me quit\nUdolpho.'\n\nOrsino, still more incensed, again drew forth his stilletto, and rushed\ntowards Verezzi, who, at the same instant, advanced with his sword, when\nMontoni and the rest of the party interfered and separated them.\n\n'This is the conduct of a boy,' said Montoni to Verezzi, 'not of a man:\nbe more moderate in your speech.'\n\n'Moderation is the virtue of cowards,' retorted Verezzi; 'they are\nmoderate in every thing--but in fear.'\n\n'I accept your words,' said Montoni, turning upon him with a fierce and\nhaughty look, and drawing his sword out of the scabbard.\n\n'With all my heart,' cried Verezzi, 'though I did not mean them for\nyou.'\n\nHe directed a pass at Montoni; and, while they fought, the villain\nOrsino made another attempt to stab Verezzi, and was again prevented.\n\nThe combatants were, at length, separated; and, after a very long and\nviolent dispute, reconciled. Montoni then left the room with Orsino,\nwhom he detained in private consultation for a considerable time.\n\nEmily, meanwhile, stunned by the last words of Montoni, forgot, for the\nmoment, his declaration, that she should continue in the castle, while\nshe thought of her unfortunate aunt, who, he had said, was laid in\nthe east turret. In suffering the remains of his wife to lie thus long\nunburied, there appeared a degree of brutality more shocking than she\nhad suspected even Montoni could practise.\n\nAfter a long struggle, she determined to accept his permission to visit\nthe turret, and to take a last look of her ill-fated aunt: with which\ndesign she returned to her chamber, and, while she waited for Annette\nto accompany her, endeavoured to acquire fortitude sufficient to support\nher through the approaching scene; for, though she trembled to encounter\nit, she knew that to remember the performance of this last act of duty\nwould hereafter afford her consoling satisfaction.\n\nAnnette came, and Emily mentioned her purpose, from which the former\nendeavoured to dissuade her, though without effect, and Annette was,\nwith much difficulty, prevailed upon to accompany her to the turret; but\nno consideration could make her promise to enter the chamber of death.\n\nThey now left the corridor, and, having reached the foot of the\nstair-case, which Emily had formerly ascended, Annette declared she\nwould go no further, and Emily proceeded alone. When she saw the track\nof blood, which she had before observed, her spirits fainted, and, being\ncompelled to rest on the stairs, she almost determined to proceed no\nfurther. The pause of a few moments restored her resolution, and she\nwent on.\n\nAs she drew near the landing-place, upon which the upper chamber opened,\nshe remembered, that the door was formerly fastened, and apprehended,\nthat it might still be so. In this expectation, however, she was\nmistaken; for the door opened at once, into a dusky and silent chamber,\nround which she fearfully looked, and then slowly advanced, when a\nhollow voice spoke. Emily, who was unable to speak, or to move from\nthe spot, uttered no sound of terror. The voice spoke again; and, then,\nthinking that it resembled that of Madame Montoni, Emily's spirits were\ninstantly roused; she rushed towards a bed, that stood in a remote part\nof the room, and drew aside the curtains. Within, appeared a pale and\nemaciated face. She started back, then again advanced, shuddered as she\ntook up the skeleton hand, that lay stretched upon the quilt; then let\nit drop, and then viewed the face with a long, unsettled gaze. It\nwas that of Madame Montoni, though so changed by illness, that the\nresemblance of what it had been, could scarcely be traced in what it now\nappeared. She was still alive, and, raising her heavy eyes, she turned\nthem on her niece.\n\n'Where have you been so long?' said she, in the same tone, 'I\nthought you had forsaken me.'\n\n'Do you indeed live,' said Emily, at length, 'or is this but a terrible\napparition?' she received no answer, and again she snatched up the hand.\n'This is substance,' she exclaimed, 'but it is cold--cold as marble!'\nShe let it fall. 'O, if you really live, speak!' said Emily, in a voice\nof desperation, 'that I may not lose my senses--say you know me!'\n\n'I do live,' replied Madame Montoni, 'but--I feel that I am about to\ndie.'\n\nEmily clasped the hand she held, more eagerly, and groaned. They were\nboth silent for some moments. Then Emily endeavoured to soothe her, and\nenquired what had reduced her to this present deplorable state.\n\nMontoni, when he removed her to the turret under the improbable\nsuspicion of having attempted his life, had ordered the men employed on\nthe occasion, to observe a strict secrecy concerning her. To this he was\ninfluenced by a double motive. He meant to debar her from the comfort\nof Emily's visits, and to secure an opportunity of privately dispatching\nher, should any new circumstances occur to confirm the present\nsuggestions of his suspecting mind. His consciousness of the hatred he\ndeserved it was natural enough should at first led him to attribute to\nher the attempt that had been made upon his life; and, though there\nwas no other reason to believe that she was concerned in that atrocious\ndesign, his suspicions remained; he continued to confine her in the\nturret, under a strict guard; and, without pity or remorse, had suffered\nher to lie, forlorn and neglected, under a raging fever, till it had\nreduced her to the present state.\n\nThe track of blood, which Emily had seen on the stairs, had flowed from\nthe unbound wound of one of the men employed to carry Madame Montoni,\nand which he had received in the late affray. At night these men, having\ncontented themselves with securing the door of their prisoner's room,\nhad retired from guard; and then it was, that Emily, at the time of her\nfirst enquiry, had found the turret so silent and deserted.\n\nWhen she had attempted to open the door of the chamber, her aunt was\nsleeping, and this occasioned the silence, which had contributed to\ndelude her into a belief, that she was no more; yet had her terror\npermitted her to persevere longer in the call, she would probably\nhave awakened Madame Montoni, and have been spared much suffering. The\nspectacle in the portal-chamber, which afterwards confirmed Emily's\nhorrible suspicion, was the corpse of a man, who had fallen in the\naffray, and the same which had been borne into the servants' hall, where\nshe took refuge from the tumult. This man had lingered under his wounds\nfor some days; and, soon after his death, his body had been removed\non the couch, on which he died, for interment in the vault beneath the\nchapel, through which Emily and Barnardine had passed to the chamber.\n\nEmily, after asking Madame Montoni a thousand questions concerning\nherself, left her, and sought Montoni; for the more solemn interest\nshe felt for her aunt, made her now regardless of the resentment her\nremonstrances might draw upon herself, and of the improbability of his\ngranting what she meant to entreat.\n\n'Madame Montoni is now dying, sir,' said Emily, as soon as she saw\nhim--'Your resentment, surely will not pursue her to the last moment!\nSuffer her to be removed from that forlorn room to her own apartment,\nand to have necessary comforts administered.'\n\n'Of what service will that be, if she is dying?' said Montoni, with\napparent indifference.\n\n'The service, at leave, of saving you, sir, from a few of those pangs\nof conscience you must suffer, when you shall be in the same situation,'\nsaid Emily, with imprudent indignation, of which Montoni soon made her\nsensible, by commanding her to quit his presence. Then, forgetting her\nresentment, and impressed only by compassion for the piteous state of\nher aunt, dying without succour, she submitted to humble herself to\nMontoni, and to adopt every persuasive means, that might induce him to\nrelent towards his wife.\n\nFor a considerable time he was proof against all she said, and all she\nlooked; but at length the divinity of pity, beaming in Emily's eyes,\nseemed to touch his heart. He turned away, ashamed of his better\nfeelings, half sullen and half relenting; but finally consented, that\nhis wife should be removed to her own apartment, and that Emily should\nattend her. Dreading equally, that this relief might arrive too late,\nand that Montoni might retract his concession, Emily scarcely staid to\nthank him for it, but, assisted by Annette, she quickly prepared Madame\nMontoni's bed, and they carried her a cordial, that might enable her\nfeeble frame to sustain the fatigue of a removal.\n\nMadame was scarcely arrived in her own apartment, when an order was\ngiven by her husband, that she should remain in the turret; but Emily,\nthankful that she had made such dispatch, hastened to inform him of it,\nas well as that a second removal would instantly prove fatal, and he\nsuffered his wife to continue where she was.\n\nDuring this day, Emily never left Madame Montoni, except to prepare such\nlittle nourishing things as she judged necessary to sustain her, and\nwhich Madame Montoni received with quiet acquiescence, though she seemed\nsensible that they could not save her from approaching dissolution, and\nscarcely appeared to wish for life. Emily meanwhile watched over her\nwith the most tender solicitude, no longer seeing her imperious aunt in\nthe poor object before her, but the sister of her late beloved father,\nin a situation that called for all her compassion and kindness. When\nnight came, she determined to sit up with her aunt, but this the latter\npositively forbade, commanding her to retire to rest, and Annette alone\nto remain in her chamber. Rest was, indeed, necessary to Emily, whose\nspirits and frame were equally wearied by the occurrences and exertions\nof the day; but she would not leave Madame Montoni, till after the turn\nof midnight, a period then thought so critical by the physicians.\n\nSoon after twelve, having enjoined Annette to be wakeful, and to call\nher, should any change appear for the worse, Emily sorrowfully bade\nMadame Montoni good night, and withdrew to her chamber. Her spirits were\nmore than usually depressed by the piteous condition of her aunt, whose\nrecovery she scarcely dared to expect. To her own misfortunes she saw no\nperiod, inclosed as she was, in a remote castle, beyond the reach of any\nfriends, had she possessed such, and beyond the pity even of strangers;\nwhile she knew herself to be in the power of a man capable of any\naction, which his interest, or his ambition, might suggest.\n\nOccupied by melancholy reflections and by anticipations as sad, she\ndid not retire immediately to rest, but leaned thoughtfully on her open\ncasement. The scene before her of woods and mountains, reposing in the\nmoon-light, formed a regretted contrast with the state of her mind;\nbut the lonely murmur of these woods, and the view of this sleeping\nlandscape, gradually soothed her emotions and softened her to tears.\n\nShe continued to weep, for some time, lost to every thing, but to\na gentle sense of her misfortunes. When she, at length, took the\nhandkerchief from her eyes, she perceived, before her, on the terrace\nbelow, the figure she had formerly observed, which stood fixed and\nsilent, immediately opposite to her casement. On perceiving it, she\nstarted back, and terror for some time overcame curiosity;--at length,\nshe returned to the casement, and still the figure was before it, which\nshe now compelled herself to observe, but was utterly unable to speak,\nas she had formerly intended. The moon shone with a clear light, and\nit was, perhaps, the agitation of her mind, that prevented her\ndistinguishing, with any degree of accuracy, the form before her. It\nwas still stationary, and she began to doubt, whether it was really\nanimated.\n\nHer scattered thoughts were now so far returned as to remind her, that\nher light exposed her to dangerous observation, and she was stepping\nback to remove it, when she perceived the figure move, and then wave\nwhat seemed to be its arm, as if to beckon her; and, while she gazed,\nfixed in fear, it repeated the action. She now attempted to speak, but\nthe words died on her lips, and she went from the casement to remove her\nlight; as she was doing which, she heard, from without, a faint groan.\nListening, but not daring to return, she presently heard it repeated.\n\n'Good God!--what can this mean!' said she.\n\nAgain she listened, but the sound came no more; and, after a long\ninterval of silence, she recovered courage enough to go to the casement,\nwhen she again saw the same appearance! It beckoned again, and again\nuttered a low sound.\n\n'That groan was surely human!' said she. 'I WILL speak.' 'Who is it,'\ncried Emily in a faint voice, 'that wanders at this late hour?'\n\nThe figure raised its head but suddenly started away, and glided down\nthe terrace. She watched it, for a long while, passing swiftly in\nthe moon-light, but heard no footstep, till a sentinel from the other\nextremity of the rampart walked slowly along. The man stopped under\nher window, and, looking up, called her by name. She was retiring\nprecipitately, but, a second summons inducing her to reply, the\nsoldier then respectfully asked if she had seen any thing pass. On\nher answering, that she had; he said no more, but walked away down the\nterrace, Emily following him with her eyes, till he was lost in the\ndistance. But, as he was on guard, she knew he could not go beyond the\nrampart, and, therefore, resolved to await his return.\n\nSoon after, his voice was heard, at a distance, calling loudly; and\nthen a voice still more distant answered, and, in the next moment, the\nwatch-word was given, and passed along the terrace. As the soldiers\nmoved hastily under the casement, she called to enquire what had\nhappened, but they passed without regarding her.\n\nEmily's thoughts returning to the figure she had seen, 'It cannot be a\nperson, who has designs upon the castle,' said she; 'such an one would\nconduct himself very differently. He would not venture where sentinels\nwere on watch, nor fix himself opposite to a window, where he perceived\nhe must be observed; much less would he beckon, or utter a sound of\ncomplaint. Yet it cannot be a prisoner, for how could he obtain the\nopportunity to wander thus?'\n\nIf she had been subject to vanity, she might have supposed this figure\nto be some inhabitant of the castle, who wandered under her casement in\nthe hope of seeing her, and of being allowed to declare his admiration;\nbut this opinion never occurred to Emily, and, if it had, she would have\ndismissed it as improbable, on considering, that, when the opportunity\nof speaking had occurred, it had been suffered to pass in silence; and\nthat, even at the moment in which she had spoken, the form had abruptly\nquitted the place.\n\nWhile she mused, two sentinels walked up the rampart in earnest\nconversation, of which she caught a few words, and learned from these,\nthat one of their comrades had fallen down senseless. Soon after, three\nother soldiers appeared slowly advancing from the bottom of the terrace,\nbut she heard only a low voice, that came at intervals. As they drew\nnear, she perceived this to be the voice of him, who walked in the\nmiddle, apparently supported by his comrades; and she again called\nto them, enquiring what had happened. At the sound of her voice, they\nstopped, and looked up, while she repeated her question, and was told,\nthat Roberto, their fellow of the watch, had been seized with a fit, and\nthat his cry, as he fell, had caused a false alarm.\n\n'Is he subject to fits?' said Emily.\n\n'Yes, Signora,' replied Roberto; 'but if I had not, what I saw was\nenough to have frightened the Pope himself.'\n\n'What was it?' enquired Emily, trembling.\n\n'I cannot tell what it was, lady, or what I saw, or how it vanished,'\nreplied the soldier, who seemed to shudder at the recollection.\n\n'Was it the person, whom you followed down the rampart, that has\noccasioned you this alarm?' said Emily, endeavouring to conceal her own.\n\n'Person!' exclaimed the man,--'it was the devil, and this is not the\nfirst time I have seen him!'\n\n'Nor will it be the last,' observed one of his comrades, laughing.\n\n'No, no, I warrant not,' said another.\n\n'Well,' rejoined Roberto, 'you may be as merry now, as you please; you\nwas none so jocose the other night, Sebastian, when you was on watch\nwith Launcelot.'\n\n'Launcelot need not talk of that,' replied Sebastian, 'let him remember\nhow he stood trembling, and unable to give the WORD, till the man was\ngone, If the man had not come so silently upon us, I would have seized\nhim, and soon made him tell who he was.'\n\n'What man?' enquired Emily.\n\n'It was no man, lady,' said Launcelot, who stood by, 'but the devil\nhimself, as my comrade says. What man, who does not live in the castle,\ncould get within the walls at midnight? Why, I might just as well\npretend to march to Venice, and get among all the Senators, when they\nare counselling; and I warrant I should have more chance of getting\nout again alive, than any fellow, that we should catch within the gates\nafter dark. So I think I have proved plainly enough, that this can be\nnobody that lives out of the castle; and now I will prove, that it can\nbe nobody that lives in the castle--for, if he did--why should he be\nafraid to be seen? So after this, I hope nobody will pretend to tell\nme it was anybody. No, I say again, by holy Pope! it was the devil, and\nSebastian, there, knows this is not the first time we have seen him.'\n\n'When did you see the figure, then, before?' said Emily half smiling,\nwho, though she thought the conversation somewhat too much, felt an\ninterest, which would not permit her to conclude it.\n\n'About a week ago, lady,' said Sebastian, taking up the story.\n\n'And where?'\n\n'On the rampart, lady, higher up.'\n\n'Did you pursue it, that it fled?'\n\n'No, Signora. Launcelot and I were on watch together, and every thing\nwas so still, you might have heard a mouse stir, when, suddenly,\nLauncelot says--Sebastian! do you see nothing? I turned my head a\nlittle to the left, as it might be--thus. No, says I. Hush! said\nLauncelot,--look yonder--just by the last cannon on the rampart! I\nlooked, and then thought I did see something move; but there being no\nlight, but what the stars gave, I could not be certain. We stood quite\nsilent, to watch it, and presently saw something pass along the castle\nwall just opposite to us!'\n\n'Why did you not seize it, then?' cried a soldier, who had scarcely\nspoken till now.\n\n'Aye, why did you not seize it?' said Roberto.\n\n'You should have been there to have done that,' replied Sebastian. 'You\nwould have been bold enough to have taken it by the throat, though it\nhad been the devil himself; we could not take such a liberty, perhaps,\nbecause we are not so well acquainted with him, as you are. But, as I\nwas saying, it stole by us so quickly, that we had not time to get rid\nof our surprise, before it was gone. Then, we knew it was in vain to\nfollow. We kept constant watch all that night, but we saw it no more.\nNext morning, we told some of our comrades, who were on duty on other\nparts of the ramparts, what we had seen; but they had seen nothing, and\nlaughed at us, and it was not till to-night, that the same figure walked\nagain.'\n\n'Where did you lose it, friend?' said Emily to Roberto.\n\n'When I left you, lady,' replied the man, 'you might see me go down the\nrampart, but it was not till I reached the east terrace, that I saw\nany thing. Then, the moon shining bright, I saw something like a shadow\nflitting before me, as it were, at some distance. I stopped, when I\nturned the corner of the east tower, where I had seen this figure not\na moment before,--but it was gone! As I stood, looking through the\nold arch, which leads to the east rampart, and where I am sure it had\npassed, I heard, all of a sudden, such a sound!--it was not like a\ngroan, or a cry, or a shout, or any thing I ever heard in my life. I\nheard it only once, and that was enough for me; for I know nothing that\nhappened after, till I found my comrades, here, about me.'\n\n'Come,' said Sebastian, 'let us go to our posts--the moon is setting.\nGood night, lady!'\n\n'Aye, let us go,' rejoined Roberto. 'Good night, lady.'\n\n'Good night; the holy mother guard you!' said Emily, as she closed her\ncasement and retired to reflect upon the strange circumstance that had\njust occurred, connecting which with what had happened on former nights,\nshe endeavoured to derive from the whole something more positive, than\nconjecture. But her imagination was inflamed, while her judgment was not\nenlightened, and the terrors of superstition again pervaded her mind.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\n     There is one within,\n Besides the things, that we have heard and seen,\n Recounts most horrid sights, seen by the watch.\n     JULIUS CAESAR\n\nIn the morning, Emily found Madame Montoni nearly in the same condition,\nas on the preceding night; she had slept little, and that little had\nnot refreshed her; she smiled on her niece, and seemed cheered by her\npresence, but spoke only a few words, and never named Montoni, who,\nhowever, soon after, entered the room. His wife, when she understood\nthat he was there, appeared much agitated, but was entirely silent, till\nEmily rose from a chair at the bed-side, when she begged, in a feeble\nvoice, that she would not leave her.\n\nThe visit of Montoni was not to sooth his wife, whom he knew to be\ndying, or to console, or to ask her forgiveness, but to make a last\neffort to procure that signature, which would transfer her estates in\nLanguedoc, after her death, to him rather than to Emily. This was a\nscene, that exhibited, on his part, his usual inhumanity, and, on that\nof Madame Montoni, a persevering spirit, contending with a feeble frame;\nwhile Emily repeatedly declared to him her willingness to resign all\nclaim to those estates, rather than that the last hours of her aunt\nshould be disturbed by contention. Montoni, however, did not leave the\nroom, till his wife, exhausted by the obstinate dispute, had fainted,\nand she lay so long insensible, that Emily began to fear that the spark\nof life was extinguished. At length, she revived, and, looking feebly\nup at her niece, whose tears were falling over her, made an effort to\nspeak, but her words were unintelligible, and Emily again apprehended\nshe was dying. Afterwards, however, she recovered her speech, and, being\nsomewhat restored by a cordial, conversed for a considerable time, on\nthe subject of her estates in France, with clearness and precision. She\ndirected her niece where to find some papers relative to them, which she\nhad hitherto concealed from the search of Montoni, and earnestly charged\nher never to suffer these papers to escape her.\n\nSoon after this conversation, Madame Montoni sunk into a dose, and\ncontinued slumbering, till evening, when she seemed better than she\nhad been since her removal from the turret. Emily never left her, for a\nmoment, till long after midnight, and even then would not have quitted\nthe room, had not her aunt entreated, that she would retire to rest. She\nthen obeyed, the more willingly, because her patient appeared somewhat\nrecruited by sleep; and, giving Annette the same injunction, as on the\npreceding night, she withdrew to her own apartment. But her spirits\nwere wakeful and agitated, and, finding it impossible to sleep, she\ndetermined to watch, once more, for the mysterious appearance, that had\nso much interested and alarmed her.\n\nIt was now the second watch of the night, and about the time when\nthe figure had before appeared. Emily heard the passing steps of the\nsentinels, on the rampart, as they changed guard; and, when all was\nagain silent, she took her station at the casement, leaving her lamp in\na remote part of the chamber, that she might escape notice from without.\nThe moon gave a faint and uncertain light, for heavy vapours surrounded\nit, and, often rolling over the disk, left the scene below in total\ndarkness. It was in one of these moments of obscurity, that she observed\na small and lambent flame, moving at some distance on the terrace. While\nshe gazed, it disappeared, and, the moon again emerging from the lurid\nand heavy thunder clouds, she turned her attention to the heavens, where\nthe vivid lightnings darted from cloud to cloud, and flashed silently on\nthe woods below. She loved to catch, in the momentary gleam, the gloomy\nlandscape. Sometimes, a cloud opened its light upon a distant mountain,\nand, while the sudden splendour illumined all its recesses of rock and\nwood, the rest of the scene remained in deep shadow; at others, partial\nfeatures of the castle were revealed by the glimpse--the antient arch\nleading to the east rampart, the turret above, or the fortifications\nbeyond; and then, perhaps, the whole edifice with all its towers, its\ndark massy walls and pointed casements would appear, and vanish in an\ninstant.\n\nEmily, looking again upon the rampart, perceived the flame she had\nseen before; it moved onward; and, soon after, she thought she heard a\nfootstep. The light appeared and disappeared frequently, while, as she\nwatched, it glided under her casements, and, at the same instant, she\nwas certain, that a footstep passed, but the darkness did not permit her\nto distinguish any object except the flame. It moved away, and then, by\na gleam of lightning, she perceived some person on the terrace. All the\nanxieties of the preceding night returned. This person advanced, and the\nplaying flame alternately appeared and vanished. Emily wished to speak,\nto end her doubts, whether this figure were human or supernatural; but\nher courage failed as often as she attempted utterance, till the light\nmoved again under the casement, and she faintly demanded, who passed.\n\n'A friend,' replied a voice.\n\n'What friend?' said Emily, somewhat encouraged 'who are you, and what is\nthat light you carry?'\n\n'I am Anthonio, one of the Signor's soldiers,' replied the voice.\n\n'And what is that tapering light you bear?' said Emily, 'see how it\ndarts upwards,--and now it vanishes!'\n\n'This light, lady,' said the soldier, 'has appeared to-night as you see\nit, on the point of my lance, ever since I have been on watch; but what\nit means I cannot tell.'\n\n'This is very strange!' said Emily.\n\n'My fellow-guard,' continued the man, 'has the same flame on his arms;\nhe says he has sometimes seen it before. I never did; I am but lately\ncome to the castle, for I have not been long a soldier.'\n\n'How does your comrade account for it?' said Emily.\n\n'He says it is an omen, lady, and bodes no good.'\n\n'And what harm can it bode?' rejoined Emily.\n\n'He knows not so much as that, lady.'\n\nWhether Emily was alarmed by this omen, or not, she certainly was\nrelieved from much terror by discovering this man to be only a soldier\non duty, and it immediately occurred to her, that it might be he,\nwho had occasioned so much alarm on the preceding night. There were,\nhowever, some circumstances, that still required explanation. As far\nas she could judge by the faint moon-light, that had assisted her\nobservation, the figure she had seen did not resemble this man either\nin shape or size; besides, she was certain it had carried no arms. The\nsilence of its steps, if steps it had, the moaning sounds, too, which\nit had uttered, and its strange disappearance, were circumstances of\nmysterious import, that did not apply, with probability, to a soldier\nengaged in the duty of his guard.\n\nShe now enquired of the sentinel, whether he had seen any person besides\nhis fellow watch, walking on the terrace, about midnight; and then\nbriefly related what she had herself observed.\n\n'I was not on guard that night, lady,' replied the man, 'but I heard of\nwhat happened. There are amongst us, who believe strange things. Strange\nstories, too, have long been told of this castle, but it is no business\nof mine to repeat them; and, for my part, I have no reason to complain;\nour Chief does nobly by us.'\n\n'I commend your prudence,' said Emily. 'Good night, and accept this from\nme,' she added, throwing him a small piece of coin, and then closing the\ncasement to put an end to the discourse.\n\nWhen he was gone, she opened it again, listened with a gloomy pleasure\nto the distant thunder, that began to murmur among the mountains, and\nwatched the arrowy lightnings, which broke over the remoter scene. The\npealing thunder rolled onward, and then, reverbed by the mountains,\nother thunder seemed to answer from the opposite horizon; while the\naccumulating clouds, entirely concealing the moon, assumed a red\nsulphureous tinge, that foretold a violent storm.\n\nEmily remained at her casement, till the vivid lightning, that now,\nevery instant, revealed the wide horizon and the landscape below, made\nit no longer safe to do so, and she went to her couch; but, unable\nto compose her mind to sleep, still listened in silent awe to the\ntremendous sounds, that seemed to shake the castle to its foundation.\n\nShe had continued thus for a considerable time, when, amidst the uproar\nof the storm, she thought she heard a voice, and, raising herself to\nlisten, saw the chamber door open, and Annette enter with a countenance\nof wild affright.\n\n'She is dying, ma'amselle, my lady is dying!' said she.\n\nEmily started up, and ran to Madame Montoni's room. When she entered,\nher aunt appeared to have fainted, for she was quite still, and\ninsensible; and Emily with a strength of mind, that refused to yield to\ngrief, while any duty required her activity, applied every means that\nseemed likely to restore her. But the last struggle was over--she was\ngone for ever.\n\nWhen Emily perceived, that all her efforts were ineffectual, she\ninterrogated the terrified Annette, and learned, that Madame Montoni\nhad fallen into a doze soon after Emily's departure, in which she had\ncontinued, until a few minutes before her death.\n\n'I wondered, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'what was the reason my lady did\nnot seem frightened at the thunder, when I was so terrified, and I went\noften to the bed to speak to her, but she appeared to be asleep; till\npresently I heard a strange noise, and, on going to her, saw she was\ndying.'\n\nEmily, at this recital, shed tears. She had no doubt but that the\nviolent change in the air, which the tempest produced, had effected this\nfatal one, on the exhausted frame of Madame Montoni.\n\nAfter some deliberation, she determined that Montoni should not be\ninformed of this event till the morning, for she considered, that he\nmight, perhaps, utter some inhuman expressions, such as in the present\ntemper of her spirits she could not bear. With Annette alone, therefore,\nwhom she encouraged by her own example, she performed some of the last\nsolemn offices for the dead, and compelled herself to watch during the\nnight, by the body of her deceased aunt. During this solemn period,\nrendered more awful by the tremendous storm that shook the air, she\nfrequently addressed herself to Heaven for support and protection, and\nher pious prayers, we may believe, were accepted of the God, that giveth\ncomfort.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\n The midnight clock has toll'd; and hark, the bell\n Of Death beats slow! heard ye the note profound?\n It pauses now; and now, with rising knell,\n Flings to the hollow gale its sullen sound.\n     MASON\n\nWhen Montoni was informed of the death of his wife, and considered\nthat she had died without giving him the signature so necessary to\nthe accomplishment of his wishes, no sense of decency restrained the\nexpression of his resentment. Emily anxiously avoided his presence, and\nwatched, during two days and two nights, with little intermission, by\nthe corpse of her late aunt. Her mind deeply impressed with the unhappy\nfate of this object, she forgot all her faults, her unjust and imperious\nconduct to herself; and, remembering only her sufferings, thought of\nher only with tender compassion. Sometimes, however, she could not avoid\nmusing upon the strange infatuation that had proved so fatal to her\naunt, and had involved herself in a labyrinth of misfortune, from which\nshe saw no means of escaping,--the marriage with Montoni. But, when\nshe considered this circumstance, it was 'more in sorrow than in\nanger,'--more for the purpose of indulging lamentation, than reproach.\n\nIn her pious cares she was not disturbed by Montoni, who not only\navoided the chamber, where the remains of his wife were laid, but that\npart of the castle adjoining to it, as if he had apprehended a contagion\nin death. He seemed to have given no orders respecting the funeral,\nand Emily began to fear he meant to offer a new insult to the memory of\nMadame Montoni; but from this apprehension she was relieved, when, on\nthe evening of the second day, Annette informed her, that the interment\nwas to take place that night. She knew, that Montoni would not attend;\nand it was so very grievous to her to think that the remains of her\nunfortunate aunt would pass to the grave without one relative, or friend\nto pay them the last decent rites, that she determined to be deterred\nby no considerations for herself, from observing this duty. She would\notherwise have shrunk from the circumstance of following them to the\ncold vault, to which they were to be carried by men, whose air and\ncountenances seemed to stamp them for murderers, at the midnight hour\nof silence and privacy, which Montoni had chosen for committing, if\npossible, to oblivion the reliques of a woman, whom his harsh conduct\nhad, at least, contributed to destroy.\n\nEmily, shuddering with emotions of horror and grief, assisted by\nAnnette, prepared the corpse for interment; and, having wrapt it in\ncerements, and covered it with a winding-sheet, they watched beside it,\ntill past midnight, when they heard the approaching footsteps of the\nmen, who were to lay it in its earthy bed. It was with difficulty, that\nEmily overcame her emotion, when, the door of the chamber being thrown\nopen, their gloomy countenances were seen by the glare of the torch they\ncarried, and two of them, without speaking, lifted the body on their\nshoulders, while the third preceding them with the light, descended\nthrough the castle towards the grave, which was in the lower vault of\nthe chapel within the castle walls.\n\nThey had to cross two courts, towards the east wing of the castle,\nwhich, adjoining the chapel, was, like it, in ruins: but the silence and\ngloom of these courts had now little power over Emily's mind, occupied\nas it was, with more mournful ideas; and she scarcely heard the low\nand dismal hooting of the night-birds, that roosted among the ivyed\nbattlements of the ruin, or perceived the still flittings of the bat,\nwhich frequently crossed her way. But, when, having entered the chapel,\nand passed between the mouldering pillars of the aisles, the bearers\nstopped at a flight of steps, that led down to a low arched door, and,\ntheir comrade having descended to unlock it, she saw imperfectly the\ngloomy abyss beyond;--saw the corpse of her aunt carried down these\nsteps, and the ruffian-like figure, that stood with a torch at the\nbottom to receive it--all her fortitude was lost in emotions of\ninexpressible grief and terror. She turned to lean upon Annette, who was\ncold and trembling like herself, and she lingered so long on the summit\nof the flight, that the gleam of the torch began to die away on the\npillars of the chapel, and the men were almost beyond her view. Then,\nthe gloom around her awakening other fears, and a sense of what she\nconsidered to be her duty overcoming her reluctance, she descended to\nthe vaults, following the echo of footsteps and the faint ray, that\npierced the darkness, till the harsh grating of a distant door, that was\nopened to receive the corpse, again appalled her.\n\nAfter the pause of a moment, she went on, and, as she entered the\nvaults, saw between the arches, at some distance, the men lay down the\nbody near the edge of an open grave, where stood another of Montoni's\nmen and a priest, whom she did not observe, till he began the burial\nservice; then, lifting her eyes from the ground, she saw the venerable\nfigure of the friar, and heard him in a low voice, equally solemn and\naffecting, perform the service for the dead. At the moment, in which\nthey let down the body into the earth, the scene was such as only the\ndark pencil of a Domenichino, perhaps, could have done justice to. The\nfierce features and wild dress of the condottieri, bending with their\ntorches over the grave, into which the corpse was descending, were\ncontrasted by the venerable figure of the monk, wrapt in long black\ngarments, his cowl thrown back from his pale face, on which the light\ngleaming strongly shewed the lines of affliction softened by piety, and\nthe few grey locks, which time had spared on his temples: while,\nbeside him, stood the softer form of Emily, who leaned for support upon\nAnnette; her face half averted, and shaded by a thin veil, that fell\nover her figure; and her mild and beautiful countenance fixed in\ngrief so solemn as admitted not of tears, while she thus saw committed\nuntimely to the earth her last relative and friend. The gleams, thrown\nbetween the arches of the vaults, where, here and there, the broken\nground marked the spots in which other bodies had been recently\ninterred, and the general obscurity beyond were circumstances, that\nalone would have led on the imagination of a spectator to scenes\nmore horrible, than even that, which was pictured at the grave of the\nmisguided and unfortunate Madame Montoni.\n\nWhen the service was over, the friar regarded Emily with attention and\nsurprise, and looked as if he wished to speak to her, but was restrained\nby the presence of the condottieri, who, as they now led the way to\nthe courts, amused themselves with jokes upon his holy order, which\nhe endured in silence, demanding only to be conducted safely to his\nconvent, and to which Emily listened with concern and even horror. When\nthey reached the court, the monk gave her his blessing, and, after a\nlingering look of pity, turned away to the portal, whither one of the\nmen carried a torch; while Annette, lighting another, preceded Emily to\nher apartment. The appearance of the friar and the expression of tender\ncompassion, with which he had regarded her, had interested Emily, who,\nthough it was at her earnest supplication, that Montoni had consented\nto allow a priest to perform the last rites for his deceased wife, knew\nnothing concerning this person, till Annette now informed her, that he\nbelonged to a monastery, situated among the mountains at a few miles\ndistance. The Superior, who regarded Montoni and his associates, not\nonly with aversion, but with terror, had probably feared to offend him\nby refusing his request, and had, therefore, ordered a monk to officiate\nat the funeral, who, with the meek spirit of a christian, had overcome\nhis reluctance to enter the walls of such a castle, by the wish of\nperforming what he considered to be his duty, and, as the chapel was\nbuilt on consecrated ground, had not objected to commit to it the\nremains of the late unhappy Madame Montoni.\n\nSeveral days passed with Emily in total seclusion, and in a state of\nmind partaking both of terror for herself, and grief for the departed.\nShe, at length, determined to make other efforts to persuade Montoni to\npermit her return to France. Why he should wish to detain her, she could\nscarcely dare to conjecture; but it was too certain that he did so, and\nthe absolute refusal he had formerly given to her departure allowed her\nlittle hope, that he would now consent to it. But the horror, which his\npresence inspired, made her defer, from day to day, the mention of this\nsubject; and at last she was awakened from her inactivity only by a\nmessage from him, desiring her attendance at a certain hour. She began\nto hope he meant to resign, now that her aunt was no more, the authority\nhe had usurped over her; till she recollected, that the estates, which\nhad occasioned so much contention, were now hers, and she then feared\nMontoni was about to employ some stratagem for obtaining them, and\nthat he would detain her his prisoner, till he succeeded. This thought,\ninstead of overcoming her with despondency, roused all the latent\npowers of her fortitude into action; and the property, which she would\nwillingly have resigned to secure the peace of her aunt, she resolved,\nthat no common sufferings of her own should ever compel her to give to\nMontoni. For Valancourt's sake also she determined to preserve these\nestates, since they would afford that competency, by which she hoped to\nsecure the comfort of their future lives. As she thought of this, she\nindulged the tenderness of tears, and anticipated the delight of that\nmoment, when, with affectionate generosity, she might tell him they\nwere his own. She saw the smile, that lighted up his features--the\naffectionate regard, which spoke at once his joy and thanks; and, at\nthis instant, she believed she could brave any suffering, which the evil\nspirit of Montoni might be preparing for her. Remembering then, for the\nfirst time since her aunt's death, the papers relative to the estates\nin question, she determined to search for them, as soon as her interview\nwith Montoni was over.\n\nWith these resolutions she met him at the appointed time, and waited to\nhear his intention before she renewed her request. With him were Orsino\nand another officer, and both were standing near a table, covered with\npapers, which he appeared to be examining.\n\n'I sent for you, Emily,' said Montoni, raising his head, 'that you might\nbe a witness in some business, which I am transacting with my friend\nOrsino. All that is required of you will be to sign your name to this\npaper:' he then took one up, hurried unintelligibly over some lines,\nand, laying it before her on the table, offered her a pen. She took it,\nand was going to write--when the design of Montoni came upon her mind\nlike a flash of lightning; she trembled, let the pen fall, and refused\nto sign what she had not read. Montoni affected to laugh at her\nscruples, and, taking up the paper, again pretended to read; but Emily,\nwho still trembled on perceiving her danger, and was astonished, that\nher own credulity had so nearly betrayed her, positively refused to sign\nany paper whatever. Montoni, for some time, persevered in affecting\nto ridicule this refusal; but, when he perceived by her steady\nperseverance, that she understood his design, he changed his manner, and\nbade her follow him to another room. There he told her, that he had been\nwilling to spare himself and her the trouble of useless contest, in an\naffair, where his will was justice, and where she should find it law;\nand had, therefore, endeavoured to persuade, rather than to compel, her\nto the practice of her duty.\n\n'I, as the husband of the late Signora Montoni,' he added, 'am the heir\nof all she possessed; the estates, therefore, which she refused to me\nin her life-time, can no longer be withheld, and, for your own sake, I\nwould undeceive you, respecting a foolish assertion she once made to you\nin my hearing--that these estates would be yours, if she died without\nresigning them to me. She knew at that moment, she had no power to\nwithhold them from me, after her decease; and I think you have more\nsense, than to provoke my resentment by advancing an unjust claim. I\nam not in the habit of flattering, and you will, therefore, receive,\nas sincere, the praise I bestow, when I say, that you possess an\nunderstanding superior to that of your sex; and that you have none\nof those contemptible foibles, that frequently mark the female\ncharacter--such as avarice and the love of power, which latter makes\nwomen delight to contradict and to tease, when they cannot conquer. If\nI understand your disposition and your mind, you hold in sovereign\ncontempt these common failings of your sex.'\n\nMontoni paused; and Emily remained silent and expecting; for she knew\nhim too well, to believe he would condescend to such flattery, unless he\nthought it would promote his own interest; and, though he had forborne\nto name vanity among the foibles of women, it was evident, that he\nconsidered it to be a predominant one, since he designed to sacrifice to\nhers the character and understanding of her whole sex.\n\n'Judging as I do,' resumed Montoni, 'I cannot believe you will oppose,\nwhere you know you cannot conquer, or, indeed, that you would wish to\nconquer, or be avaricious of any property, when you have not justice\non your side. I think it proper, however, to acquaint you with the\nalternative. If you have a just opinion of the subject in question, you\nshall be allowed a safe conveyance to France, within a short period;\nbut, if you are so unhappy as to be misled by the late assertion of the\nSignora, you shall remain my prisoner, till you are convinced of your\nerror.'\n\nEmily calmly said,\n\n'I am not so ignorant, Signor, of the laws on this subject, as to be\nmisled by the assertion of any person. The law, in the present instance,\ngives me the estates in question, and my own hand shall never betray my\nright.'\n\n'I have been mistaken in my opinion of you, it appears,' rejoined\nMontoni, sternly. 'You speak boldly, and presumptuously, upon a subject,\nwhich you do not understand. For once, I am willing to pardon the\nconceit of ignorance; the weakness of your sex, too, from which, it\nseems, you are not exempt, claims some allowance; but, if you persist in\nthis strain--you have every thing to fear from my justice.'\n\n'From your justice, Signor,' rejoined Emily, 'I have nothing to fear--I\nhave only to hope.'\n\nMontoni looked at her with vexation, and seemed considering what to\nsay. 'I find that you are weak enough,' he resumed, 'to credit the idle\nassertion I alluded to! For your own sake I lament this; as to me, it\nis of little consequence. Your credulity can punish only yourself; and I\nmust pity the weakness of mind, which leads you to so much suffering as\nyou are compelling me to prepare for you.'\n\n'You may find, perhaps, Signor,' said Emily, with mild dignity, 'that\nthe strength of my mind is equal to the justice of my cause; and that I\ncan endure with fortitude, when it is in resistance of oppression.'\n\n'You speak like a heroine,' said Montoni, contemptuously; 'we shall see\nwhether you can suffer like one.'\n\nEmily was silent, and he left the room.\n\nRecollecting, that it was for Valancourt's sake she had thus resisted,\nshe now smiled complacently upon the threatened sufferings, and retired\nto the spot, which her aunt had pointed out as the repository of the\npapers, relative to the estates, where she found them as described; and,\nsince she knew of no better place of concealment, than this, returned\nthem, without examining their contents, being fearful of discovery,\nwhile she should attempt a perusal.\n\nTo her own solitary chamber she once more returned, and there thought\nagain of the late conversation with Montoni, and of the evil she might\nexpect from opposition to his will. But his power did not appear so\nterrible to her imagination, as it was wont to do: a sacred pride was\nin her heart, that taught it to swell against the pressure of injustice,\nand almost to glory in the quiet sufferance of ills, in a cause, which\nhad also the interest of Valancourt for its object. For the first time,\nshe felt the full extent of her own superiority to Montoni, and despised\nthe authority, which, till now, she had only feared.\n\nAs she sat musing, a peal of laughter rose from the terrace, and, on\ngoing to the casement, she saw, with inexpressible surprise, three\nladies, dressed in the gala habit of Venice, walking with several\ngentlemen below. She gazed in an astonishment that made her remain at\nthe window, regardless of being observed, till the group passed under\nit; and, one of the strangers looking up, she perceived the features of\nSignora Livona, with whose manners she had been so much charmed, the day\nafter her arrival at Venice, and who had been there introduced at the\ntable of Montoni. This discovery occasioned her an emotion of doubtful\njoy; for it was matter of joy and comfort to know, that a person, of a\nmind so gentle, as that of Signora Livona seemed to be, was near her;\nyet there was something so extraordinary in her being at this castle,\ncircumstanced as it now was, and evidently, by the gaiety of her air,\nwith her own consent, that a very painful surmise arose, concerning her\ncharacter. But the thought was so shocking to Emily, whose affection the\nfascinating manners of the Signora had won, and appeared so improbable,\nwhen she remembered these manners, that she dismissed it almost\ninstantly.\n\nOn Annette's appearance, however, she enquired, concerning these\nstrangers; and the former was as eager to tell, as Emily was to learn.\n\n'They are just come, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'with two Signors from\nVenice, and I was glad to see such Christian faces once again.--But\nwhat can they mean by coming here? They must surely be stark mad to come\nfreely to such a place as this! Yet they do come freely, for they seem\nmerry enough, I am sure.'\n\n'They were taken prisoners, perhaps?' said Emily.\n\n'Taken prisoners!' exclaimed Annette; 'no, indeed, ma'amselle, not they.\nI remember one of them very well at Venice: she came two or three times,\nto the Signor's you know, ma'amselle, and it was said, but I did not\nbelieve a word of it--it was said, that the Signor liked her better than\nhe should do. Then why, says I, bring her to my lady? Very true, said\nLudovico; but he looked as if he knew more, too.'\n\nEmily desired Annette would endeavour to learn who these ladies were, as\nwell as all she could concerning them; and she then changed the subject,\nand spoke of distant France.\n\n'Ah, ma'amselle! we shall never see it more!' said Annette, almost\nweeping.--'I must come on my travels, forsooth!'\n\nEmily tried to sooth and to cheer her, with a hope, in which she\nscarcely herself indulged.\n\n'How--how, ma'amselle, could you leave France, and leave Mons.\nValancourt, too?' said Annette, sobbing. 'I--I--am sure, if Ludovico had\nbeen in France, I would never have left it.'\n\n'Why do you lament quitting France, then?' said Emily, trying to smile,\n'since, if you had remained there, you would not have found Ludovico.'\n\n'Ah, ma'amselle! I only wish I was out of this frightful castle, serving\nyou in France, and I would care about nothing else!'\n\n'Thank you, my good Annette, for your affectionate regard; the time will\ncome, I hope, when you may remember the expression of that wish with\npleasure.'\n\nAnnette departed on her business, and Emily sought to lose the sense of\nher own cares, in the visionary scenes of the poet; but she had again to\nlament the irresistible force of circumstances over the taste and powers\nof the mind; and that it requires a spirit at ease to be sensible even\nto the abstract pleasures of pure intellect. The enthusiasm of genius,\nwith all its pictured scenes, now appeared cold, and dim. As she mused\nupon the book before her, she involuntarily exclaimed, 'Are these,\nindeed, the passages, that have so often given me exquisite delight?\nWhere did the charm exist?--Was it in my mind, or in the imagination\nof the poet? It lived in each,' said she, pausing. 'But the fire of the\npoet is vain, if the mind of his reader is not tempered like his own,\nhowever it may be inferior to his in power.'\n\nEmily would have pursued this train of thinking, because it relieved her\nfrom more painful reflection, but she found again, that thought cannot\nalways be controlled by will; and hers returned to the consideration of\nher own situation.\n\nIn the evening, not choosing to venture down to the ramparts, where she\nwould be exposed to the rude gaze of Montoni's associates, she walked\nfor air in the gallery, adjoining her chamber; on reaching the further\nend of which she heard distant sounds of merriment and laughter. It was\nthe wild uproar of riot, not the cheering gaiety of tempered mirth; and\nseemed to come from that part of the castle, where Montoni usually was.\nSuch sounds, at this time, when her aunt had been so few days dead,\nparticularly shocked her, consistent as they were with the late conduct\nof Montoni.\n\nAs she listened, she thought she distinguished female voices mingling\nwith the laughter, and this confirmed her worst surmise, concerning the\ncharacter of Signora Livona and her companions. It was evident, that\nthey had not been brought hither by compulsion; and she beheld herself\nin the remote wilds of the Apennine, surrounded by men, whom she\nconsidered to be little less than ruffians, and their worst associates,\namid scenes of vice, from which her soul recoiled in horror. It was at\nthis moment, when the scenes of the present and the future opened to her\nimagination, that the image of Valancourt failed in its influence, and\nher resolution shook with dread. She thought she understood all the\nhorrors, which Montoni was preparing for her, and shrunk from an\nencounter with such remorseless vengeance, as he could inflict. The\ndisputed estates she now almost determined to yield at once, whenever\nhe should again call upon her, that she might regain safety and freedom;\nbut then, the remembrance of Valancourt would steal to her heart, and\nplunge her into the distractions of doubt.\n\nShe continued walking in the gallery, till evening threw its melancholy\ntwilight through the painted casements, and deepened the gloom of\nthe oak wainscoting around her; while the distant perspective of\nthe corridor was so much obscured, as to be discernible only by the\nglimmering window, that terminated it.\n\nAlong the vaulted halls and passages below, peals of laughter echoed\nfaintly, at intervals, to this remote part of the castle, and seemed to\nrender the succeeding stillness more dreary. Emily, however, unwilling\nto return to her more forlorn chamber, whither Annette was not yet come,\nstill paced the gallery. As she passed the door of the apartment, where\nshe had once dared to lift the veil, which discovered to her a spectacle\nso horrible, that she had never after remembered it, but with emotions\nof indescribable awe, this remembrance suddenly recurred. It now brought\nwith it reflections more terrible, than it had yet done, which the late\nconduct of Montoni occasioned; and, hastening to quit the gallery, while\nshe had power to do so, she heard a sudden step behind her.--It might\nbe that of Annette; but, turning fearfully to look, she saw, through the\ngloom, a tall figure following her, and all the horrors of that chamber\nrushed upon her mind. In the next moment, she found herself clasped in\nthe arms of some person, and heard a deep voice murmur in her ear.\n\nWhen she had power to speak, or to distinguish articulated sounds, she\ndemanded who detained her.\n\n'It is I,' replied the voice--'Why are you thus alarmed?'\n\nShe looked on the face of the person who spoke, but the feeble light,\nthat gleamed through the high casement at the end of the gallery, did\nnot permit her to distinguish the features.\n\n'Whoever you are,' said Emily, in a trembling voice, 'for heaven's sake\nlet me go!'\n\n'My charming Emily,' said the man, 'why will you shut yourself up in\nthis obscure place, when there is so much gaiety below? Return with\nme to the cedar parlour, where you will be the fairest ornament of the\nparty;--you shall not repent the exchange.'\n\nEmily disdained to reply, and still endeavoured to liberate herself.\n\n'Promise, that you will come,' he continued, 'and I will release you\nimmediately; but first give me a reward for so doing.'\n\n'Who are you?' demanded Emily, in a tone of mingled terror and\nindignation, while she still struggled for liberty--'who are you, that\nhave the cruelty thus to insult me?'\n\n'Why call me cruel?' said the man, 'I would remove you from this dreary\nsolitude to a merry party below. Do you not know me?'\n\nEmily now faintly remembered, that he was one of the officers who were\nwith Montoni when she attended him in the morning. 'I thank you for\nthe kindness of your intention,' she replied, without appearing to\nunderstand him, 'but I wish for nothing so much as that you would leave\nme.'\n\n'Charming Emily!' said he, 'give up this foolish whim for solitude, and\ncome with me to the company, and eclipse the beauties who make part of\nit; you, only, are worthy of my love.' He attempted to kiss her hand,\nbut the strong impulse of her indignation gave her power to liberate\nherself, and she fled towards the chamber. She closed the door, before\nhe reached it, having secured which, she sunk in a chair, overcome by\nterror and by the exertion she had made, while she heard his voice,\nand his attempts to open the door, without having the power to raise\nherself. At length, she perceived him depart, and had remained,\nlistening, for a considerable time, and was somewhat revived by not\nhearing any sound, when suddenly she remembered the door of the private\nstair-case, and that he might enter that way, since it was fastened only\non the other side. She then employed herself in endeavouring to secure\nit, in the manner she had formerly done. It appeared to her, that\nMontoni had already commenced his scheme of vengeance, by withdrawing\nfrom her his protection, and she repented of the rashness, that had made\nher brave the power of such a man. To retain the estates seemed to be\nnow utterly impossible, and to preserve her life, perhaps her honour,\nshe resolved, if she should escape the horrors of this night, to give up\nall claims to the estates, on the morrow, provided Montoni would suffer\nher to depart from Udolpho.\n\nWhen she had come to this decision, her mind became more composed,\nthough she still anxiously listened, and often started at ideal sounds,\nthat appeared to issue from the stair-case.\n\nHaving sat in darkness for some hours, during all which time Annette did\nnot appear, she began to have serious apprehensions for her; but, not\ndaring to venture down into the castle, was compelled to remain in\nuncertainty, as to the cause of this unusual absence.\n\nEmily often stole to the stair-case door, to listen if any step\napproached, but still no sound alarmed her: determining, however, to\nwatch, during the night, she once more rested on her dark and desolate\ncouch, and bathed the pillow with innocent tears. She thought of her\ndeceased parents and then of the absent Valancourt, and frequently\ncalled upon their names; for the profound stillness, that now reigned,\nwas propitious to the musing sorrow of her mind.\n\nWhile she thus remained, her ear suddenly caught the notes of distant\nmusic, to which she listened attentively, and, soon perceiving this\nto be the instrument she had formerly heard at midnight, she rose, and\nstepped softly to the casement, to which the sounds appeared to come\nfrom a lower room.\n\nIn a few moments, their soft melody was accompanied by a voice so full\nof pathos, that it evidently sang not of imaginary sorrows. Its sweet\nand peculiar tones she thought she had somewhere heard before; yet, if\nthis was not fancy, it was, at most, a very faint recollection. It\nstole over her mind, amidst the anguish of her present suffering, like a\ncelestial strain, soothing, and re-assuring her;--'Pleasant as the gale\nof spring, that sighs on the hunter's ear, when he awakens from dreams\nof joy, and has heard the music of the spirits of the hill.'*\n\n(*Ossian. [A. R.])\n\n\nBut her emotion can scarcely be imagined, when she heard sung, with the\ntaste and simplicity of true feeling, one of the popular airs of her\nnative province, to which she had so often listened with delight, when\na child, and which she had so often heard her father repeat! To this\nwell-known song, never, till now, heard but in her native country, her\nheart melted, while the memory of past times returned. The pleasant,\npeaceful scenes of Gascony, the tenderness and goodness of her parents,\nthe taste and simplicity of her former life--all rose to her fancy, and\nformed a picture, so sweet and glowing, so strikingly contrasted\nwith the scenes, the characters and the dangers, which now surrounded\nher--that her mind could not bear to pause upon the retrospect, and\nshrunk at the acuteness of its own sufferings.\n\nHer sighs were deep and convulsed; she could no longer listen to the\nstrain, that had so often charmed her to tranquillity, and she withdrew\nfrom the casement to a remote part of the chamber. But she was not yet\nbeyond the reach of the music; she heard the measure change, and the\nsucceeding air called her again to the window, for she immediately\nrecollected it to be the same she had formerly heard in the\nfishing-house in Gascony. Assisted, perhaps, by the mystery, which had\nthen accompanied this strain, it had made so deep an impression on her\nmemory, that she had never since entirely forgotten it; and the manner,\nin which it was now sung, convinced her, however unaccountable the\ncircumstances appeared, that this was the same voice she had then\nheard. Surprise soon yielded to other emotions; a thought darted,\nlike lightning, upon her mind, which discovered a train of hopes, that\nrevived all her spirits. Yet these hopes were so new, so unexpected,\nso astonishing, that she did not dare to trust, though she could not\nresolve to discourage them. She sat down by the casement, breathless,\nand overcome with the alternate emotions of hope and fear; then rose\nagain, leaned from the window, that she might catch a nearer sound,\nlistened, now doubting and then believing, softly exclaimed the name of\nValancourt, and then sunk again into the chair. Yes, it was possible,\nthat Valancourt was near her, and she recollected circumstances,\nwhich induced her to believe it was his voice she had just heard. She\nremembered he had more than once said that the fishing-house, where\nshe had formerly listened to this voice and air, and where she had seen\npencilled sonnets, addressed to herself, had been his favourite haunt,\nbefore he had been made known to her; there, too, she had herself\nunexpectedly met him. It appeared, from these circumstances, more\nthan probable, that he was the musician, who had formerly charmed her\nattention, and the author of the lines, which had expressed such tender\nadmiration;--who else, indeed, could it be? She was unable, at\nthat time, to form a conjecture, as to the writer, but, since\nher acquaintance with Valancourt, whenever he had mentioned the\nfishing-house to have been known to him, she had not scrupled to believe\nthat he was the author of the sonnets.\n\nAs these considerations passed over her mind, joy, fear and tenderness\ncontended at her heart; she leaned again from the casement to catch the\nsounds, which might confirm, or destroy her hope, though she did\nnot recollect to have ever heard him sing; but the voice, and the\ninstrument, now ceased.\n\nShe considered for a moment whether she should venture to speak: then,\nnot choosing, lest it should be he, to mention his name, and yet too\nmuch interested to neglect the opportunity of enquiring, she called from\nthe casement, 'Is that song from Gascony?' Her anxious attention was\nnot cheered by any reply; every thing remained silent. Her impatience\nincreasing with her fears, she repeated the question; but still no sound\nwas heard, except the sighings of the wind among the battlements above;\nand she endeavoured to console herself with a belief, that the stranger,\nwhoever he was, had retired, before she had spoken, beyond the reach\nof her voice, which, it appeared certain, had Valancourt heard and\nrecognized, he would instantly have replied to. Presently, however, she\nconsidered, that a motive of prudence, and not an accidental removal,\nmight occasion his silence; but the surmise, that led to this\nreflection, suddenly changed her hope and joy to terror and grief; for,\nif Valancourt were in the castle, it was too probable, that he was here\na prisoner, taken with some of his countrymen, many of whom were at that\ntime engaged in the wars of Italy, or intercepted in some attempt to\nreach her. Had he even recollected Emily's voice, he would have feared,\nin these circumstances, to reply to it, in the presence of the men, who\nguarded his prison.\n\nWhat so lately she had eagerly hoped she now believed she\ndreaded;--dreaded to know, that Valancourt was near her; and, while she\nwas anxious to be relieved from her apprehension for his safety, she\nstill was unconscious, that a hope of soon seeing him, struggled with\nthe fear.\n\nShe remained listening at the casement, till the air began to freshen,\nand one high mountain in the east to glimmer with the morning; when,\nwearied with anxiety, she retired to her couch, where she found\nit utterly impossible to sleep, for joy, tenderness, doubt and\napprehension, distracted her during the whole night. Now she rose from\nthe couch, and opened the casement to listen; then she would pace the\nroom with impatient steps, and, at length, return with despondence to\nher pillow. Never did hours appear to move so heavily, as those of this\nanxious night; after which she hoped that Annette might appear, and\nconclude her present state of torturing suspense.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\n     might we but hear\n The folded flocks penn'd in their watled cotes,\n Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops,\n Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock\n Count the night watches to his feathery dames,\n 'Twould be some solace yet, some little cheering\n In this close dungeon of innumerous boughs.\n     MILTON\n\nIn the morning, Emily was relieved from her fears for Annette, who came\nat an early hour.\n\n'Here were fine doings in the castle, last night, ma'amselle,' said\nshe, as soon as she entered the room,--'fine doings, indeed! Was you not\nfrightened, ma'amselle, at not seeing me?'\n\n'I was alarmed both on your account and on my own,' replied Emily--'What\ndetained you?'\n\n'Aye, I said so, I told him so; but it would not do. It was not my\nfault, indeed, ma'amselle, for I could not get out. That rogue Ludovico\nlocked me up again.'\n\n'Locked you up!' said Emily, with displeasure, 'Why do you permit\nLudovico to lock you up?'\n\n'Holy Saints!' exclaimed Annette, 'how can I help it! If he will lock\nthe door, ma'amselle, and take away the key, how am I to get out, unless\nI jump through the window? But that I should not mind so much, if the\ncasements here were not all so high; one can hardly scramble up to them\non the inside, and one should break one's neck, I suppose, going down\non the outside. But you know, I dare say, ma'am, what a hurly-burly the\ncastle was in, last night; you must have heard some of the uproar.'\n\n'What, were they disputing, then?' said Emily.\n\n'No, ma'amselle, nor fighting, but almost as good, for I believe there\nwas not one of the Signors sober; and what is more, not one of those\nfine ladies sober, either. I thought, when I saw them first, that all\nthose fine silks and fine veils,--why, ma'amselle, their veils were\nworked with silver! and fine trimmings--boded no good--I guessed what\nthey were!'\n\n'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, 'what will become of me!'\n\n'Aye, ma'am, Ludovico said much the same thing of me. Good God! said he,\nAnnette, what is to become of you, if you are to go running about the\ncastle among all these drunken Signors?'\n\n'O! says I, for that matter, I only want to go to my young lady's\nchamber, and I have only to go, you know, along the vaulted passage and\nacross the great hall and up the marble stair-case and along the north\ngallery and through the west wing of the castle and I am in the corridor\nin a minute.' 'Are you so? says he, and what is to become of you, if\nyou meet any of those noble cavaliers in the way?' 'Well, says I, if you\nthink there is danger, then, go with me, and guard me; I am never afraid\nwhen you are by.' 'What! says he, when I am scarcely recovered of one\nwound, shall I put myself in the way of getting another? for if any of\nthe cavaliers meet you, they will fall a-fighting with me directly.\nNo, no, says he, I will cut the way shorter, than through the vaulted\npassage and up the marble stair-case, and along the north gallery and\nthrough the west wing of the castle, for you shall stay here, Annette;\nyou shall not go out of this room, to-night.' 'So, with that I says'--\n\n'Well, well,' said Emily, impatiently, and anxious to enquire on another\nsubject,--'so he locked you up?'\n\n'Yes, he did indeed, ma'amselle, notwithstanding all I could say to the\ncontrary; and Caterina and I and he staid there all night. And in a few\nminutes after I was not so vexed, for there came Signor Verezzi roaring\nalong the passage, like a mad bull, and he mistook Ludovico's hall, for\nold Carlo's; so he tried to burst open the door, and called out for more\nwine, for that he had drunk all the flasks dry, and was dying of thirst.\nSo we were all as still as night, that he might suppose there was nobody\nin the room; but the Signor was as cunning as the best of us, and kept\ncalling out at the door, \"Come forth, my antient hero!\" said he, \"here\nis no enemy at the gate, that you need hide yourself: come forth, my\nvalorous Signor Steward!\" Just then old Carlo opened his door, and he\ncame with a flask in his hand; for, as soon as the Signor saw him, he\nwas as tame as could be, and followed him away as naturally as a dog\ndoes a butcher with a piece of meat in his basket. All this I saw\nthrough the key-hole. Well, Annette, said Ludovico, jeeringly, shall I\nlet you out now? O no, says I, I would not'--\n\n'I have some questions to ask you on another subject,' interrupted\nEmily, quite wearied by this story. 'Do you know whether there are any\nprisoners in the castle, and whether they are confined at this end of\nthe edifice?'\n\n'I was not in the way, ma'amselle,' replied Annette, 'when the first\nparty came in from the mountains, and the last party is not come\nback yet, so I don't know, whether there are any prisoners; but it is\nexpected back to-night, or to-morrow, and I shall know then, perhaps.'\n\nEmily enquired if she had ever heard the servants talk of prisoners.\n\n'Ah ma'amselle!' said Annette archly, 'now I dare say you are thinking\nof Monsieur Valancourt, and that he may have come among the armies,\nwhich, they say, are come from our country, to fight against this state,\nand that he has met with some of OUR people, and is taken captive. O\nLord! how glad I should be, if it was so!'\n\n'Would you, indeed, be glad?' said Emily, in a tone of mournful\nreproach.\n\n'To be sure I should, ma'am,' replied Annette, 'and would not you be\nglad too, to see Signor Valancourt? I don't know any chevalier I like\nbetter, I have a very great regard for the Signor, truly.'\n\n'Your regard for him cannot be doubted,' said Emily, 'since you wish to\nsee him a prisoner.'\n\n'Why no, ma'amselle, not a prisoner either; but one must be glad to see\nhim, you know. And it was only the other night I dreamt--I dreamt I saw\nhim drive into the castle-yard all in a coach and six, and dressed out,\nwith a laced coat and a sword, like a lord as he is.'\n\nEmily could not forbear smiling at Annette's ideas of Valancourt,\nand repeated her enquiry, whether she had heard the servants talk of\nprisoners.\n\n'No, ma'amselle,' replied she, 'never; and lately they have done nothing\nbut talk of the apparition, that has been walking about of a night on\nthe ramparts, and that frightened the sentinels into fits. It came among\nthem like a flash of fire, they say, and they all fell down in a row,\ntill they came to themselves again; and then it was gone, and nothing to\nbe seen but the old castle walls; so they helped one another up again as\nfast as they could. You would not believe, ma'amselle, though I shewed\nyou the very cannon, where it used to appear.'\n\n'And are you, indeed, so simple, Annette,' said Emily, smiling at this\ncurious exaggeration of the circumstances she had witnessed, 'as to\ncredit these stories?'\n\n'Credit them, ma'amselle! why all the world could not persuade me out\nof them. Roberto and Sebastian and half a dozen more of them went into\nfits! To be sure, there was no occasion for that; I said, myself, there\nwas no need of that, for, says I, when the enemy comes, what a pretty\nfigure they will cut, if they are to fall down in fits, all of a row!\nThe enemy won't be so civil, perhaps, as to walk off, like the ghost,\nand leave them to help one another up, but will fall to, cutting and\nslashing, till he makes them all rise up dead men. No, no, says I, there\nis reason in all things: though I might have fallen down in a fit that\nwas no rule for them, being, because it is no business of mine to look\ngruff, and fight battles.'\n\nEmily endeavoured to correct the superstitious weakness of Annette,\nthough she could not entirely subdue her own; to which the latter only\nreplied, 'Nay, ma'amselle, you will believe nothing; you are almost as\nbad as the Signor himself, who was in a great passion when they told\nof what had happened, and swore that the first man, who repeated such\nnonsense, should be thrown into the dungeon under the east turret. This\nwas a hard punishment too, for only talking nonsense, as he called it,\nbut I dare say he had other reasons for calling it so, than you have,\nma'am.'\n\nEmily looked displeased, and made no reply. As she mused upon the\nrecollected appearance, which had lately so much alarmed her, and\nconsidered the circumstances of the figure having stationed itself\nopposite to her casement, she was for a moment inclined to believe it\nwas Valancourt, whom she had seen. Yet, if it was he, why did he not\nspeak to her, when he had the opportunity of doing so--and, if he was a\nprisoner in the castle, and he could be here in no other character, how\ncould he obtain the means of walking abroad on the rampart? Thus she\nwas utterly unable to decide, whether the musician and the form she had\nobserved, were the same, or, if they were, whether this was Valancourt.\nShe, however, desired that Annette would endeavour to learn whether any\nprisoners were in the castle, and also their names.\n\n'O dear, ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'I forget to tell you what you bade\nme ask about, the ladies, as they call themselves, who are lately come\nto Udolpho. Why that Signora Livona, that the Signor brought to see my\nlate lady at Venice, is his mistress now, and was little better then,\nI dare say. And Ludovico says (but pray be secret, ma'am) that his\nexcellenza introduced her only to impose upon the world, that had begun\nto make free with her character. So when people saw my lady notice her,\nthey thought what they had heard must be scandal. The other two are the\nmistresses of Signor Verezzi and Signor Bertolini; and Signor Montoni\ninvited them all to the castle; and so, yesterday, he gave a great\nentertainment; and there they were, all drinking Tuscany wine and all\nsorts, and laughing and singing, till they made the castle ring again.\nBut I thought they were dismal sounds, so soon after my poor lady's\ndeath too; and they brought to my mind what she would have thought, if\nshe had heard them--but she cannot hear them now, poor soul! said I.'\n\nEmily turned away to conceal her emotion, and then desired Annette to\ngo, and make enquiry, concerning the prisoners, that might be in the\ncastle, but conjured her to do it with caution, and on no account to\nmention her name, or that of Monsieur Valancourt.\n\n'Now I think of it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'I do believe there are\nprisoners, for I overheard one of the Signor's men, yesterday, in the\nservants hall, talking something about ransoms, and saying what a fine\nthing it was for his excellenza to catch up men, and they were as\ngood booty as any other, because of the ransoms. And the other man was\ngrumbling, and saying it was fine enough for the Signor, but none so\nfine for his soldiers, because, said he, we don't go shares there.'\n\nThis information heightened Emily's impatience to know more, and Annette\nimmediately departed on her enquiry.\n\nThe late resolution of Emily to resign her estates to Montoni, now gave\nway to new considerations; the possibility, that Valancourt was near\nher, revived her fortitude, and she determined to brave the threatened\nvengeance, at least, till she could be assured whether he was really in\nthe castle. She was in this temper of mind, when she received a message\nfrom Montoni, requiring her attendance in the cedar parlour, which she\nobeyed with trembling, and, on her way thither, endeavoured to animate\nher fortitude with the idea of Valancourt.\n\nMontoni was alone. 'I sent for you,' said he, 'to give you another\nopportunity of retracting your late mistaken assertions concerning the\nLanguedoc estates. I will condescend to advise, where I may command.--If\nyou are really deluded by an opinion, that you have any right to these\nestates, at least, do not persist in the error--an error, which you\nmay perceive, too late, has been fatal to you. Dare my resentment no\nfurther, but sign the papers.'\n\n'If I have no right in these estates, sir,' said Emily, 'of what service\ncan it be to you, that I should sign any papers, concerning them? If\nthe lands are yours by law, you certainly may possess them, without my\ninterference, or my consent.'\n\n'I will have no more argument,' said Montoni, with a look that made\nher tremble. 'What had I but trouble to expect, when I condescended\nto reason with a baby! But I will be trifled with no longer: let the\nrecollection of your aunt's sufferings, in consequence of her folly and\nobstinacy, teach you a lesson.--Sign the papers.'\n\nEmily's resolution was for a moment awed:--she shrunk at the\nrecollections he revived, and from the vengeance he threatened; but\nthen, the image of Valancourt, who so long had loved her, and who was\nnow, perhaps, so near her, came to her heart, and, together with the\nstrong feelings of indignation, with which she had always, from her\ninfancy, regarded an act of injustice, inspired her with a noble, though\nimprudent, courage.\n\n'Sign the papers,' said Montoni, more impatiently than before.\n\n'Never, sir,' replied Emily; 'that request would have proved to me the\ninjustice of your claim, had I even been ignorant of my right.'\n\nMontoni turned pale with anger, while his quivering lip and lurking eye\nmade her almost repent the boldness of her speech.\n\n'Then all my vengeance falls upon you,' he exclaimed, with an horrible\noath. 'And think not it shall be delayed. Neither the estates in\nLanguedoc, or Gascony, shall be yours; you have dared to question my\nright,--now dare to question my power. I have a punishment which you\nthink not of; it is terrible! This night--this very night'--\n\n'This night!' repeated another voice.\n\nMontoni paused, and turned half round, but, seeming to recollect\nhimself, he proceeded in a lower tone.\n\n'You have lately seen one terrible example of obstinacy and folly; yet\nthis, it appears, has not been sufficient to deter you.--I could tell\nyou of others--I could make you tremble at the bare recital.'\n\nHe was interrupted by a groan, which seemed to rise from underneath the\nchamber they were in; and, as he threw a glance round it, impatience and\nrage flashed from his eyes, yet something like a shade of fear passed\nover his countenance. Emily sat down in a chair, near the door, for the\nvarious emotions she had suffered, now almost overcame her; but Montoni\npaused scarcely an instant, and, commanding his features, resumed his\ndiscourse in a lower, yet sterner voice.\n\n'I say, I could give you other instances of my power and of my\ncharacter, which it seems you do not understand, or you would not defy\nme.--I could tell you, that, when once my resolution is taken--but I\nam talking to a baby. Let me, however, repeat, that terrible as are the\nexamples I could recite, the recital could not now benefit you; for,\nthough your repentance would put an immediate end to opposition, it\nwould not now appease my indignation.--I will have vengeance as well as\njustice.'\n\nAnother groan filled the pause which Montoni made.\n\n'Leave the room instantly!' said he, seeming not to notice this strange\noccurrence. Without power to implore his pity, she rose to go, but found\nthat she could not support herself; awe and terror overcame her, and she\nsunk again into the chair.\n\n'Quit my presence!' cried Montoni. 'This affectation of fear ill becomes\nthe heroine who has just dared to brave my indignation.'\n\n'Did you hear nothing, Signor?' said Emily, trembling, and still unable\nto leave the room.\n\n'I heard my own voice,' rejoined Montoni, sternly.\n\n'And nothing else?' said Emily, speaking with difficulty.--'There again!\nDo you hear nothing now?'\n\n'Obey my order,' repeated Montoni. 'And for these fool's tricks--I will\nsoon discover by whom they are practised.'\n\nEmily again rose, and exerted herself to the utmost to leave the\nroom, while Montoni followed her; but, instead of calling aloud to his\nservants to search the chamber, as he had formerly done on a similar\noccurrence, passed to the ramparts.\n\nAs, in her way to the corridor, she rested for a moment at an open\ncasement, Emily saw a party of Montoni's troops winding down a distant\nmountain, whom she noticed no further, than as they brought to her mind\nthe wretched prisoners they were, perhaps, bringing to the castle. At\nlength, having reached her apartment, she threw herself upon the couch,\novercome with the new horrors of her situation. Her thoughts lost in\ntumult and perplexity, she could neither repent of, or approve, her late\nconduct; she could only remember, that she was in the power of a man,\nwho had no principle of action--but his will; and the astonishment and\nterrors of superstition, which had, for a moment, so strongly assailed\nher, now yielded to those of reason.\n\nShe was, at length, roused from the reverie, which engaged her, by a\nconfusion of distant voices, and a clattering of hoofs, that seemed to\ncome, on the wind, from the courts. A sudden hope, that some good was\napproaching, seized her mind, till she remembered the troops she had\nobserved from the casement, and concluded this to be the party, which\nAnnette had said were expected at Udolpho.\n\nSoon after, she heard voices faintly from the halls, and the noise\nof horses' feet sunk away in the wind; silence ensued. Emily listened\nanxiously for Annette's step in the corridor, but a pause of total\nstillness continued, till again the castle seemed to be all tumult and\nconfusion. She heard the echoes of many footsteps, passing to and fro\nin the halls and avenues below, and then busy tongues were loud on the\nrampart. Having hurried to her casement, she perceived Montoni, with\nsome of his officers, leaning on the walls, and pointing from them;\nwhile several soldiers were employed at the further end of the rampart\nabout some cannon; and she continued to observe them, careless of the\npassing time.\n\nAnnette at length appeared, but brought no intelligence of Valancourt,\n'For, ma'amselle,' said she, 'all the people pretend to know nothing\nabout any prisoners. But here is a fine piece of business! The rest of\nthe party are just arrived, ma'am; they came scampering in, as if they\nwould have broken their necks; one scarcely knew whether the man, or his\nhorse would get within the gates first. And they have brought word--and\nsuch news! they have brought word, that a party of the enemy, as they\ncall them, are coming towards the castle; so we shall have all the\nofficers of justice, I suppose, besieging it! all those terrible-looking\nfellows one used to see at Venice.'\n\n'Thank God!' exclaimed Emily, fervently, 'there is yet a hope left for\nme, then!'\n\n'What mean you, ma'amselle? Do you wish to fall into the hands of those\nsad-looking men! Why I used to shudder as I passed them, and should have\nguessed what they were, if Ludovico had not told me.'\n\n'We cannot be in worse hands than at present,' replied Emily,\nunguardedly; 'but what reason have you to suppose these are officers of\njustice?'\n\n'Why OUR people, ma'am, are all in such a fright, and a fuss; and I\ndon't know any thing but the fear of justice, that could make them so.\nI used to think nothing on earth could fluster them, unless, indeed,\nit was a ghost, or so; but now, some of them are for hiding down in\nthe vaults under the castle; but you must not tell the Signor this,\nma'amselle, and I overheard two of them talking--Holy Mother! what makes\nyou look so sad, ma'amselle? You don't hear what I say!'\n\n'Yes, I do, Annette; pray proceed.'\n\n'Well, ma'amselle, all the castle is in such hurly-burly. Some of the\nmen are loading the cannon, and some are examining the great gates, and\nthe walls all round, and are hammering and patching up, just as if all\nthose repairs had never been made, that were so long about. But what is\nto become of me and you, ma'amselle, and Ludovico? O! when I hear the\nsound of the cannon, I shall die with fright. If I could but catch the\ngreat gate open for one minute, I would be even with it for shutting me\nwithin these walls so long!--it should never see me again.'\n\nEmily caught the latter words of Annette. 'O! if you could find it open,\nbut for one moment!' she exclaimed, 'my peace might yet be saved!'\nThe heavy groan she uttered, and the wildness of her look, terrified\nAnnette, still more than her words; who entreated Emily to explain the\nmeaning of them, to whom it suddenly occurred, that Ludovico might be\nof some service, if there should be a possibility of escape, and who\nrepeated the substance of what had passed between Montoni and herself,\nbut conjured her to mention this to no person except to Ludovico. 'It\nmay, perhaps, be in his power,' she added, 'to effect our escape. Go to\nhim, Annette, tell him what I have to apprehend, and what I have\nalready suffered; but entreat him to be secret, and to lose no time in\nattempting to release us. If he is willing to undertake this he shall\nbe amply rewarded. I cannot speak with him myself, for we might be\nobserved, and then effectual care would be taken to prevent our flight.\nBut be quick, Annette, and, above all, be discreet--I will await your\nreturn in this apartment.'\n\nThe girl, whose honest heart had been much affected by the recital, was\nnow as eager to obey, as Emily was to employ her, and she immediately\nquitted the room.\n\nEmily's surprise increased, as she reflected upon Annette's\nintelligence. 'Alas!' said she, 'what can the officers of justice\ndo against an armed castle? these cannot be such.' Upon further\nconsideration, however, she concluded, that, Montoni's bands having\nplundered the country round, the inhabitants had taken arms, and were\ncoming with the officers of police and a party of soldiers, to force\ntheir way into the castle. 'But they know not,' thought she, 'its\nstrength, or the armed numbers within it. Alas! except from flight, I\nhave nothing to hope!'\n\nMontoni, though not precisely what Emily apprehended him to be--a\ncaptain of banditti--had employed his troops in enterprises not less\ndaring, or less atrocious, than such a character would have undertaken.\nThey had not only pillaged, whenever opportunity offered, the helpless\ntraveller, but had attacked, and plundered the villas of several\npersons, which, being situated among the solitary recesses of the\nmountains, were totally unprepared for resistance. In these expeditions\nthe commanders of the party did not appear, and the men, partly\ndisguised, had sometimes been mistaken for common robbers, and, at\nothers, for bands of the foreign enemy, who, at that period, invaded\nthe country. But, though they had already pillaged several mansions, and\nbrought home considerable treasures, they had ventured to approach only\none castle, in the attack of which they were assisted by other troops of\ntheir own order; from this, however, they were vigorously repulsed,\nand pursued by some of the foreign enemy, who were in league with the\nbesieged. Montoni's troops fled precipitately towards Udolpho, but were\nso closely tracked over the mountains, that, when they reached one of\nthe heights in the neighbourhood of the castle, and looked back upon the\nroad, they perceived the enemy winding among the cliffs below, and\nat not more than a league distant. Upon this discovery, they hastened\nforward with increased speed, to prepare Montoni for the enemy; and it\nwas their arrival, which had thrown the castle into such confusion and\ntumult.\n\nAs Emily awaited anxiously some information from below, she now saw from\nher casements a body of troops pour over the neighbouring heights; and,\nthough Annette had been gone a very short time, and had a difficult and\ndangerous business to accomplish, her impatience for intelligence became\npainful: she listened; opened her door; and often went out upon the\ncorridor to meet her.\n\nAt length, she heard a footstep approach her chamber; and, on opening\nthe door, saw, not Annette, but old Carlo! New fears rushed upon her\nmind. He said he came from the Signor, who had ordered him to inform\nher, that she must be ready to depart from Udolpho immediately, for that\nthe castle was about to be besieged; and that mules were preparing to\nconvey her, with her guides, to a place of safety.\n\n'Of safety!' exclaimed Emily, thoughtlessly; 'has, then, the Signor so\nmuch consideration for me?'\n\nCarlo looked upon the ground, and made no reply. A thousand opposite\nemotions agitated Emily, successively, as she listened to old Carlo;\nthose of joy, grief, distrust and apprehension, appeared, and vanished\nfrom her mind, with the quickness of lightning. One moment, it seemed\nimpossible, that Montoni could take this measure merely for her\npreservation; and so very strange was his sending her from the castle\nat all, that she could attribute it only to the design of carrying into\nexecution the new scheme of vengeance, with which he had menaced her. In\nthe next instant, it appeared so desirable to quit the castle, under any\ncircumstances, that she could not but rejoice in the prospect, believing\nthat change must be for the better, till she remembered the probability\nof Valancourt being detained in it, when sorrow and regret usurped her\nmind, and she wished, much more fervently than she had yet done, that it\nmight not be his voice which she had heard.\n\nCarlo having reminded her, that she had no time to lose, for that the\nenemy were within sight of the castle, Emily entreated him to inform\nher whither she was to go; and, after some hesitation, he said he had\nreceived no orders to tell; but, on her repeating the question, replied,\nthat he believed she was to be carried into Tuscany.'\n\n'To Tuscany!' exclaimed Emily--'and why thither?'\n\nCarlo answered, that he knew nothing further, than that she was to\nbe lodged in a cottage on the borders of Tuscany, at the feet of the\nApennines--'Not a day's journey distant,' said he.\n\nEmily now dismissed him; and, with trembling hands, prepared the small\npackage, that she meant to take with her; while she was employed about\nwhich Annette returned.\n\n'O ma'amselle!' said she, 'nothing can be done! Ludovico says the new\nporter is more watchful even than Barnardine was, and we might as well\nthrow ourselves in the way of a dragon, as in his. Ludovico is almost as\nbroken-hearted as you are, ma'am, on my account, he says, and I am sure\nI shall never live to hear the cannon fire twice!'\n\nShe now began to weep, but revived upon hearing of what had just\noccurred, and entreated Emily to take her with her.\n\n'That I will do most willingly,' replied Emily, 'if Signor Montoni\npermits it;' to which Annette made no reply, but ran out of the room,\nand immediately sought Montoni, who was on the terrace, surrounded by\nhis officers, where she began her petition. He sharply bade her go into\nthe castle, and absolutely refused her request. Annette, however, not\nonly pleaded for herself, but for Ludovico; and Montoni had ordered some\nof his men to take her from his presence, before she would retire.\n\nIn an agony of disappointment, she returned to Emily, who foreboded\nlittle good towards herself, from this refusal to Annette, and who, soon\nafter, received a summons to repair to the great court, where the mules,\nwith her guides, were in waiting. Emily here tried in vain to sooth the\nweeping Annette, who persisted in saying, that she should never see her\ndear young lady again; a fear, which her mistress secretly thought\ntoo well justified, but which she endeavoured to restrain, while,\nwith apparent composure, she bade this affectionate servant farewell.\nAnnette, however, followed to the courts, which were now thronged with\npeople, busy in preparation for the enemy; and, having seen her mount\nher mule and depart, with her attendants, through the portal, turned\ninto the castle and wept again.\n\nEmily, meanwhile, as she looked back upon the gloomy courts of the\ncastle, no longer silent as when she had first entered them, but\nresounding with the noise of preparation for their defence, as well as\ncrowded with soldiers and workmen, hurrying to and fro; and, when she\npassed once more under the huge portcullis, which had formerly struck\nher with terror and dismay, and, looking round, saw no walls to confine\nher steps--felt, in spite of anticipation, the sudden joy of a prisoner,\nwho unexpectedly finds himself at liberty. This emotion would not suffer\nher now to look impartially on the dangers that awaited her without; on\nmountains infested by hostile parties, who seized every opportunity for\nplunder; and on a journey commended under the guidance of men, whose\ncountenances certainly did not speak favourably of their dispositions.\nIn the present moments, she could only rejoice, that she was liberated\nfrom those walls, which she had entered with such dismal forebodings;\nand, remembering the superstitious presentiment, which had then seized\nher, she could now smile at the impression it had made upon her mind.\n\nAs she gazed, with these emotions, upon the turrets of the castle,\nrising high over the woods, among which she wound, the stranger, whom\nshe believed to be confined there, returned to her remembrance, and\nanxiety and apprehension, lest he should be Valancourt, again passed\nlike a cloud upon her joy. She recollected every circumstance,\nconcerning this unknown person, since the night, when she had first\nheard him play the song of her native province;--circumstances, which\nshe had so often recollected, and compared before, without extracting\nfrom them any thing like conviction, and which still only prompted her\nto believe, that Valancourt was a prisoner at Udolpho. It was possible,\nhowever, that the men, who were her conductors, might afford her\ninformation, on this subject; but, fearing to question them immediately,\nlest they should be unwilling to discover any circumstance to her in the\npresence of each other, she watched for an opportunity of speaking with\nthem separately.\n\nSoon after, a trumpet echoed faintly from a distance; the guides\nstopped, and looked toward the quarter whence it came, but the thick\nwoods, which surrounded them, excluding all view of the country beyond,\none of the men rode on to the point of an eminence, that afforded a\nmore extensive prospect, to observe how near the enemy, whose trumpet he\nguessed this to be, were advanced; the other, meanwhile, remained with\nEmily, and to him she put some questions, concerning the stranger at\nUdolpho. Ugo, for this was his name, said, that there were several\nprisoners in the castle, but he neither recollected their persons,\nor the precise time of their arrival, and could therefore give her no\ninformation. There was a surliness in his manner, as he spoke, that made\nit probable he would not have satisfied her enquiries, even if he could\nhave done so.\n\nHaving asked him what prisoners had been taken, about the time, as\nnearly as she could remember, when she had first heard the music, 'All\nthat week,' said Ugo, 'I was out with a party, upon the mountains, and\nknew nothing of what was doing at the castle. We had enough upon our\nhands, we had warm work of it.'\n\nBertrand, the other man, being now returned, Emily enquired no further,\nand, when he had related to his companion what he had seen, they\ntravelled on in deep silence; while Emily often caught, between the\nopening woods, partial glimpses of the castle above--the west towers,\nwhose battlements were now crowded with archers, and the ramparts\nbelow, where soldiers were seen hurrying along, or busy upon the walls,\npreparing the cannon.\n\nHaving emerged from the woods, they wound along the valley in an\nopposite direction to that, from whence the enemy were approaching.\nEmily now had a full view of Udolpho, with its gray walls, towers and\nterraces, high over-topping the precipices and the dark woods, and\nglittering partially with the arms of the condottieri, as the sun's\nrays, streaming through an autumnal cloud, glanced upon a part of\nthe edifice, whose remaining features stood in darkened majesty. She\ncontinued to gaze, through her tears, upon walls that, perhaps, confined\nValancourt, and which now, as the cloud floated away, were lighted up\nwith sudden splendour, and then, as suddenly were shrouded in gloom;\nwhile the passing gleam fell on the wood-tops below, and heightened the\nfirst tints of autumn, that had begun to steal upon the foliage. The\nwinding mountains, at length, shut Udolpho from her view, and she\nturned, with mournful reluctance, to other objects. The melancholy\nsighing of the wind among the pines, that waved high over the steeps,\nand the distant thunder of a torrent assisted her musings, and conspired\nwith the wild scenery around, to diffuse over her mind emotions solemn,\nyet not unpleasing, but which were soon interrupted by the distant roar\nof cannon, echoing among the mountains. The sounds rolled along the\nwind, and were repeated in faint and fainter reverberation, till they\nsunk in sullen murmurs. This was a signal, that the enemy had reached\nthe castle, and fear for Valancourt again tormented Emily. She turned\nher anxious eyes towards that part of the country, where the edifice\nstood, but the intervening heights concealed it from her view; still,\nhowever, she saw the tall head of a mountain, which immediately fronted\nher late chamber, and on this she fixed her gaze, as if it could have\ntold her of all that was passing in the scene it overlooked. The guides\ntwice reminded her, that she was losing time and that they had far to\ngo, before she could turn from this interesting object, and, even when\nshe again moved onward, she often sent a look back, till only its blue\npoint, brightening in a gleam of sunshine, appeared peeping over other\nmountains.\n\nThe sound of the cannon affected Ugo, as the blast of the trumpet\ndoes the war-horse; it called forth all the fire of his nature; he\nwas impatient to be in the midst of the fight, and uttered frequent\nexecrations against Montoni for having sent him to a distance. The\nfeelings of his comrade seemed to be very opposite, and adapted rather\nto the cruelties, than to the dangers of war.\n\nEmily asked frequent questions, concerning the place of her destination,\nbut could only learn, that she was going to a cottage in Tuscany; and,\nwhenever she mentioned the subject, she fancied she perceived, in the\ncountenances of these men, an expression of malice and cunning, that\nalarmed her.\n\nIt was afternoon, when they had left the castle. During several hours,\nthey travelled through regions of profound solitude, where no bleat of\nsheep, or bark of watch-dog, broke on silence, and they were now too far\noff to hear even the faint thunder of the cannon. Towards evening, they\nwound down precipices, black with forests of cypress, pine and cedar,\ninto a glen so savage and secluded, that, if Solitude ever had local\nhabitation, this might have been 'her place of dearest residence.' To\nEmily it appeared a spot exactly suited for the retreat of banditti,\nand, in her imagination, she already saw them lurking under the brow of\nsome projecting rock, whence their shadows, lengthened by the setting\nsun, stretched across the road, and warned the traveller of his danger.\nShe shuddered at the idea, and, looking at her conductors, to observe\nwhether they were armed, thought she saw in them the banditti she\ndreaded!\n\nIt was in this glen, that they proposed to alight, 'For,' said Ugo,\n'night will come on presently, and then the wolves will make it\ndangerous to stop.' This was a new subject of alarm to Emily, but\ninferior to what she suffered from the thought of being left in these\nwilds, at midnight, with two such men as her present conductors. Dark\nand dreadful hints of what might be Montoni's purpose in sending her\nhither, came to her mind. She endeavoured to dissuade the men from\nstopping, and enquired, with anxiety, how far they had yet to go.\n\n'Many leagues yet,' replied Bertrand. 'As for you, Signora, you may do\nas you please about eating, but for us, we will make a hearty supper,\nwhile we can. We shall have need of it, I warrant, before we finish\nour journey. The sun's going down apace; let us alight under that rock,\nyonder.'\n\nHis comrade assented, and, turning the mules out of the road, they\nadvanced towards a cliff, overhung with cedars, Emily following in\ntrembling silence. They lifted her from her mule, and, having seated\nthemselves on the grass, at the foot of the rocks, drew some homely\nfare from a wallet, of which Emily tried to eat a little, the better to\ndisguise her apprehensions.\n\nThe sun was now sunk behind the high mountains in the west, upon which a\npurple haze began to spread, and the gloom of twilight to draw over the\nsurrounding objects. To the low and sullen murmur of the breeze, passing\namong the woods, she no longer listened with any degree of pleasure,\nfor it conspired with the wildness of the scene and the evening hour, to\ndepress her spirits.\n\nSuspense had so much increased her anxiety, as to the prisoner at\nUdolpho, that, finding it impracticable to speak alone with Bertrand, on\nthat subject, she renewed her questions in the presence of Ugo; but\nhe either was, or pretended to be entirely ignorant, concerning the\nstranger. When he had dismissed the question, he talked with Ugo on some\nsubject, which led to the mention of Signor Orsino and of the affair\nthat had banished him from Venice; respecting which Emily had ventured\nto ask a few questions. Ugo appeared to be well acquainted with\nthe circumstances of that tragical event, and related some minute\nparticulars, that both shocked and surprised her; for it appeared\nvery extraordinary how such particulars could be known to any, but to\npersons, present when the assassination was committed.\n\n'He was of rank,' said Bertrand, 'or the State would not have troubled\nitself to enquire after his assassins. The Signor has been lucky\nhitherto; this is not the first affair of the kind he has had upon his\nhands; and to be sure, when a gentleman has no other way of getting\nredress--why he must take this.'\n\n'Aye,' said Ugo, 'and why is not this as good as another? This is the\nway to have justice done at once, without more ado. If you go to law,\nyou must stay till the judges please, and may lose your cause, at last,\nWhy the best way, then, is to make sure of your right, while you can,\nand execute justice yourself.'\n\n'Yes, yes,' rejoined Bertrand, 'if you wait till justice is done\nyou--you may stay long enough. Why if I want a friend of mine properly\nserved, how am I to get my revenge? Ten to one they will tell me he is\nin the right, and I am in the wrong. Or, if a fellow has got possession\nof property, which I think ought to be mine, why I may wait, till I\nstarve, perhaps, before the law will give it me, and then, after all,\nthe judge may say--the estate is his. What is to be done then?--Why the\ncase is plain enough, I must take it at last.'\n\nEmily's horror at this conversation was heightened by a suspicion, that\nthe latter part of it was pointed against herself, and that these men\nhad been commissioned by Montoni to execute a similar kind of JUSTICE,\nin his cause.\n\n'But I was speaking of Signor Orsino,' resumed Bertrand, 'he is one of\nthose, who love to do justice at once. I remember, about ten years ago,\nthe Signor had a quarrel with a cavaliero of Milan. The story was told\nme then, and it is still fresh in my head. They quarrelled about a\nlady, that the Signor liked, and she was perverse enough to prefer the\ngentleman of Milan, and even carried her whim so far as to marry him.\nThis provoked the Signor, as well it might, for he had tried to talk\nreason to her a long while, and used to send people to serenade her,\nunder her windows, of a night; and used to make verses about her, and\nwould swear she was the handsomest lady in Milan--But all would not\ndo--nothing would bring her to reason; and, as I said, she went so far\nat last, as to marry this other cavaliero. This made the Signor wrath,\nwith a vengeance; he resolved to be even with her though, and he watched\nhis opportunity, and did not wait long, for, soon after the marriage,\nthey set out for Padua, nothing doubting, I warrant, of what was\npreparing for them. The cavaliero thought, to be sure, he was to be\ncalled to no account, but was to go off triumphant; but he was soon made\nto know another sort of story.'\n\n'What then, the lady had promised to have Signor Orsino?' said Ugo.\n\n'Promised! No,' replied Bertrand, 'she had not wit enough even to tell\nhim she liked him, as I heard, but the contrary, for she used to say,\nfrom the first, she never meant to have him. And this was what provoked\nthe Signor, so, and with good reason, for, who likes to be told that he\nis disagreeable? and this was saying as good. It was enough to tell him\nthis; she need not have gone, and married another.'\n\n'What, she married, then, on purpose to plague the Signor?' said Ugo.\n\n'I don't know as for that,' replied Bertrand, 'they said, indeed, that\nshe had had a regard for the other gentleman a great while; but that is\nnothing to the purpose, she should not have married him, and then the\nSignor would not have been so much provoked. She might have expected\nwhat was to follow; it was not to be supposed he would bear her ill\nusage tamely, and she might thank herself for what happened. But, as I\nsaid, they set out for Padua, she and her husband, and the road lay over\nsome barren mountains like these. This suited the Signor's purpose well.\nHe watched the time of their departure, and sent his men after them,\nwith directions what to do. They kept their distance, till they saw\ntheir opportunity, and this did not happen, till the second day's\njourney, when, the gentleman having sent his servants forward to\nthe next town, may be, to have horses in readiness, the Signor's men\nquickened their pace, and overtook the carriage, in a hollow, between\ntwo mountains, where the woods prevented the servants from seeing what\npassed, though they were then not far off. When we came up, we fired our\ntromboni, but missed.'\n\nEmily turned pale, at these words, and then hoped she had mistaken them;\nwhile Bertrand proceeded:\n\n'The gentleman fired again, but he was soon made to alight, and it was\nas he turned to call his people, that he was struck. It was the most\ndexterous feat you ever saw--he was struck in the back with three\nstillettos at once. He fell, and was dispatched in a minute; but the\nlady escaped, for the servants had heard the firing, and came up before\nshe could be taken care of. \"Bertrand,\" said the Signor, when his men\nreturned'--\n\n'Bertrand!' exclaimed Emily, pale with horror, on whom not a syllable of\nthis narrative had been lost.\n\n'Bertrand, did I say?' rejoined the man, with some confusion--'No,\nGiovanni. But I have forgot where I was;--\"Bertrand,\" said the Signor'--\n\n'Bertrand, again!' said Emily, in a faltering voice, 'Why do you repeat\nthat name?'\n\nBertrand swore. 'What signifies it,' he proceeded, 'what the man was\ncalled--Bertrand, or Giovanni--or Roberto? it's all one for that. You\nhave put me out twice with that--question. \"Bertrand,\" or Giovanni--or\nwhat you will--\"Bertrand,\" said the Signor, \"if your comrades had done\ntheir duty, as well as you, I should not have lost the lady. Go, my\nhonest fellow, and be happy with this.\" He game him a purse of gold--and\nlittle enough too, considering the service he had done him.'\n\n'Aye, aye,' said Ugo, 'little enough--little enough.'\n\nEmily now breathed with difficulty, and could scarcely support herself.\nWhen first she saw these men, their appearance and their connection with\nMontoni had been sufficient to impress her with distrust; but now, when\none of them had betrayed himself to be a murderer, and she saw herself,\nat the approach of night, under his guidance, among wild and solitary\nmountains, and going she scarcely knew whither, the most agonizing\nterror seized her, which was the less supportable from the necessity\nshe found herself under of concealing all symptoms of it from her\ncompanions. Reflecting on the character and the menaces of Montoni,\nit appeared not improbable, that he had delivered her to them, for the\npurpose of having her murdered, and of thus securing to himself, without\nfurther opposition, or delay, the estates, for which he had so long and\nso desperately contended. Yet, if this was his design, there appeared\nno necessity for sending her to such a distance from the castle; for,\nif any dread of discovery had made him unwilling to perpetrate the\ndeed there, a much nearer place might have sufficed for the purpose of\nconcealment. These considerations, however, did not immediately occur to\nEmily, with whom so many circumstances conspired to rouse terror, that\nshe had no power to oppose it, or to enquire coolly into its grounds;\nand, if she had done so, still there were many appearances which would\ntoo well have justified her most terrible apprehensions. She did not\nnow dare to speak to her conductors, at the sound of whose voices she\ntrembled; and when, now and then, she stole a glance at them, their\ncountenances, seen imperfectly through the gloom of evening, served to\nconfirm her fears.\n\nThe sun had now been set some time; heavy clouds, whose lower skirts\nwere tinged with sulphureous crimson, lingered in the west, and threw a\nreddish tint upon the pine forests, which sent forth a solemn sound, as\nthe breeze rolled over them. The hollow moan struck upon Emily's heart,\nand served to render more gloomy and terrific every object around\nher,--the mountains, shaded in twilight--the gleaming torrent, hoarsely\nroaring--the black forests, and the deep glen, broken into rocky\nrecesses, high overshadowed by cypress and sycamore and winding into\nlong obscurity. To this glen, Emily, as she sent forth her anxious eye,\nthought there was no end; no hamlet, or even cottage, was seen, and\nstill no distant bark of watch dog, or even faint, far-off halloo\ncame on the wind. In a tremulous voice, she now ventured to remind the\nguides, that it was growing late, and to ask again how far they had to\ngo: but they were too much occupied by their own discourse to attend\nto her question, which she forbore to repeat, lest it should provoke a\nsurly answer. Having, however, soon after, finished their supper, the\nmen collected the fragments into their wallet, and proceeded along this\nwinding glen, in gloomy silence; while Emily again mused upon her own\nsituation, and concerning the motives of Montoni for involving her in\nit. That it was for some evil purpose towards herself, she could not\ndoubt; and it seemed, that, if he did not intend to destroy her, with a\nview of immediately seizing her estates, he meant to reserve her a\nwhile in concealment, for some more terrible design, for one that might\nequally gratify his avarice and still more his deep revenge. At this\nmoment, remembering Signor Brochio and his behaviour in the corridor,\na few preceding nights, the latter supposition, horrible as it was,\nstrengthened in her belief. Yet, why remove her from the castle,\nwhere deeds of darkness had, she feared, been often executed with\nsecrecy?--from chambers, perhaps\n\n  With many a foul, and midnight murder stain'd.\n\nThe dread of what she might be going to encounter was now so excessive,\nthat it sometimes threatened her senses; and, often as she went, she\nthought of her late father and of all he would have suffered, could he\nhave foreseen the strange and dreadful events of her future life;\nand how anxiously he would have avoided that fatal confidence, which\ncommitted his daughter to the care of a woman so weak as was Madame\nMontoni. So romantic and improbable, indeed, did her present situation\nappear to Emily herself, particularly when she compared it with the\nrepose and beauty of her early days, that there were moments, when she\ncould almost have believed herself the victim of frightful visions,\nglaring upon a disordered fancy.\n\nRestrained by the presence of her guides from expressing her terrors,\ntheir acuteness was, at length, lost in gloomy despair. The dreadful\nview of what might await her hereafter rendered her almost indifferent\nto the surrounding dangers. She now looked, with little emotion, on the\nwild dingles, and the gloomy road and mountains, whose outlines were\nonly distinguishable through the dusk;--objects, which but lately had\naffected her spirits so much, as to awaken horrid views of the future,\nand to tinge these with their own gloom.\n\nIt was now so nearly dark, that the travellers, who proceeded only by\nthe slowest pace, could scarcely discern their way. The clouds, which\nseemed charged with thunder, passed slowly along the heavens, shewing,\nat intervals, the trembling stars; while the groves of cypress and\nsycamore, that overhung the rocks, waved high in the breeze, as it swept\nover the glen, and then rushed among the distant woods. Emily shivered\nas it passed.\n\n'Where is the torch?' said Ugo, 'It grows dark.'\n\n'Not so dark yet,' replied Bertrand, 'but we may find our way, and 'tis\nbest not light the torch, before we can help, for it may betray us, if\nany straggling party of the enemy is abroad.'\n\nUgo muttered something, which Emily did not understand, and they\nproceeded in darkness, while she almost wished, that the enemy might\ndiscover them; for from change there was something to hope, since she\ncould scarcely imagine any situation more dreadful than her present one.\n\nAs they moved slowly along, her attention was surprised by a thin\ntapering flame, that appeared, by fits, at the point of the pike, which\nBertrand carried, resembling what she had observed on the lance of the\nsentinel, the night Madame Montoni died, and which he had said was\nan omen. The event immediately following it appeared to justify the\nassertion, and a superstitious impression had remained on Emily's mind,\nwhich the present appearance confirmed. She thought it was an omen of\nher own fate, and watched it successively vanish and return, in gloomy\nsilence, which was at length interrupted by Bertrand.\n\n'Let us light the torch,' said he, 'and get under shelter of the\nwoods;--a storm is coming on--look at my lance.'\n\nHe held it forth, with the flame tapering at its point.*\n\n(*See the Abbe Berthelon on Electricity. [A. R.])\n\n\n'Aye,' said Ugo, 'you are not one of those, that believe in omens: we\nhave left cowards at the castle, who would turn pale at such a sight.\nI have often seen it before a thunder storm, it is an omen of that, and\none is coming now, sure enough. The clouds flash fast already.'\n\nEmily was relieved by this conversation from some of the terrors of\nsuperstition, but those of reason increased, as, waiting while Ugo\nsearched for a flint, to strike fire, she watched the pale lightning\ngleam over the woods they were about to enter, and illumine the harsh\ncountenances of her companions. Ugo could not find a flint, and Bertrand\nbecame impatient, for the thunder sounded hollowly at a distance, and\nthe lightning was more frequent. Sometimes, it revealed the nearer\nrecesses of the woods, or, displaying some opening in their summits,\nillumined the ground beneath with partial splendour, the thick foliage\nof the trees preserving the surrounding scene in deep shadow.\n\nAt length, Ugo found a flint, and the torch was lighted. The men then\ndismounted, and, having assisted Emily, led the mules towards the woods,\nthat skirted the glen, on the left, over broken ground, frequently\ninterrupted with brush-wood and wild plants, which she was often obliged\nto make a circuit to avoid.\n\nShe could not approach these woods, without experiencing keener sense of\nher danger. Their deep silence, except when the wind swept among their\nbranches, and impenetrable glooms shewn partially by the sudden flash,\nand then, by the red glare of the torch, which served only to make\n'darkness visible,' were circumstances, that contributed to renew all\nher most terrible apprehensions; she thought, too, that, at this moment,\nthe countenances of her conductors displayed more than their usual\nfierceness, mingled with a kind of lurking exultation, which they seemed\nendeavouring to disguise. To her affrighted fancy it occurred, that they\nwere leading her into these woods to complete the will of Montoni by\nher murder. The horrid suggestion called a groan from her heart, which\nsurprised her companions, who turned round quickly towards her, and she\ndemanded why they led her thither, beseeching them to continue their way\nalong the open glen, which she represented to be less dangerous than the\nwoods, in a thunder storm.\n\n'No, no,' said Bertrand, 'we know best where the danger lies. See how\nthe clouds open over our heads. Besides, we can glide under cover of\nthe woods with less hazard of being seen, should any of the enemy be\nwandering this way. By holy St. Peter and all the rest of them, I've as\nstout a heart as the best, as many a poor devil could tell, if he were\nalive again--but what can we do against numbers?'\n\n'What are you whining about?' said Ugo, contemptuously, 'who fears\nnumbers! Let them come, though they were as many, as the Signor's castle\ncould hold; I would shew the knaves what fighting is. For you--I would\nlay you quietly in a dry ditch, where you might peep out, and see me put\nthe rogues to flight.--Who talks of fear!'\n\nBertrand replied, with an horrible oath, that he did not like such\njesting, and a violent altercation ensued, which was, at length,\nsilenced by the thunder, whose deep volley was heard afar, rolling\nonward till it burst over their heads in sounds, that seemed to shake\nthe earth to its centre. The ruffians paused, and looked upon each\nother. Between the boles of the trees, the blue lightning flashed and\nquivered along the ground, while, as Emily looked under the boughs, the\nmountains beyond, frequently appeared to be clothed in livid flame. At\nthis moment, perhaps, she felt less fear of the storm, than did either\nof her companions, for other terrors occupied her mind.\n\nThe men now rested under an enormous chesnut-tree, and fixed their\npikes in the ground, at some distance, on the iron points of which Emily\nrepeatedly observed the lightning play, and then glide down them into\nthe earth.\n\n'I would we were well in the Signor's castle!' said Bertrand, 'I know\nnot why he should send us on this business. Hark! how it rattles above,\nthere! I could almost find in my heart to turn priest, and pray. Ugo,\nhast got a rosary?'\n\n'No,' replied Ugo, 'I leave it to cowards like thee, to carry\nrosaries--I, carry a sword.'\n\n'And much good may it do thee in fighting against the storm!' said\nBertrand.\n\nAnother peal, which was reverberated in tremendous echoes among the\nmountains, silenced them for a moment. As it rolled away, Ugo proposed\ngoing on. 'We are only losing time here,' said he, 'for the thick boughs\nof the woods will shelter us as well as this chesnut-tree.'\n\nThey again led the mules forward, between the boles of the trees, and\nover pathless grass, that concealed their high knotted roots. The rising\nwind was now heard contending with the thunder, as it rushed furiously\namong the branches above, and brightened the red flame of the torch,\nwhich threw a stronger light forward among the woods, and shewed their\ngloomy recesses to be suitable resorts for the wolves, of which Ugo had\nformerly spoken.\n\nAt length, the strength of the wind seemed to drive the storm before it,\nfor the thunder rolled away into distance, and was only faintly heard.\nAfter travelling through the woods for nearly an hour, during which the\nelements seemed to have returned to repose, the travellers, gradually\nascending from the glen, found themselves upon the open brow of a\nmountain, with a wide valley, extending in misty moon-light, at their\nfeet, and above, the blue sky, trembling through the few thin clouds,\nthat lingered after the storm, and were sinking slowly to the verge of\nthe horizon.\n\nEmily's spirits, now that she had quitted the woods, began to revive;\nfor she considered, that, if these men had received an order to destroy\nher, they would probably have executed their barbarous purpose in the\nsolitary wild, from whence they had just emerged, where the deed would\nhave been shrouded from every human eye. Reassured by this reflection,\nand by the quiet demeanour of her guides, Emily, as they proceeded\nsilently, in a kind of sheep track, that wound along the skirts of the\nwoods, which ascended on the right, could not survey the sleeping beauty\nof the vale, to which they were declining, without a momentary sensation\nof pleasure. It seemed varied with woods, pastures, and sloping grounds,\nand was screened to the north and the east by an amphitheatre of the\nApennines, whose outline on the horizon was here broken into varied\nand elegant forms; to the west and the south, the landscape extended\nindistinctly into the lowlands of Tuscany.\n\n'There is the sea yonder,' said Bertrand, as if he had known that Emily\nwas examining the twilight view, 'yonder in the west, though we cannot\nsee it.'\n\nEmily already perceived a change in the climate, from that of the wild\nand mountainous tract she had left; and, as she continued descending,\nthe air became perfumed by the breath of a thousand nameless flowers\namong the grass, called forth by the late rain. So soothingly beautiful\nwas the scene around her, and so strikingly contrasted to the gloomy\ngrandeur of those, to which she had long been confined, and to the\nmanners of the people, who moved among them, that she could almost have\nfancied herself again at La Vallee, and, wondering why Montoni had sent\nher hither, could scarcely believe, that he had selected so enchanting\na spot for any cruel design. It was, however, probably not the spot,\nbut the persons, who happened to inhabit it, and to whose care he could\nsafely commit the execution of his plans, whatever they might be, that\nhad determined his choice.\n\nShe now ventured again to enquire, whether they were near the place of\ntheir destination, and was answered by Ugo, that they had not far to go.\n'Only to the wood of chesnuts in the valley yonder,' said he, 'there, by\nthe brook, that sparkles with the moon; I wish I was once at rest there,\nwith a flask of good wine, and a slice of Tuscany bacon.'\n\nEmily's spirits revived, when she heard, that the journey was so nearly\nconcluded, and saw the wood of chesnuts in an open part of the vale, on\nthe margin of the stream.\n\nIn a short time, they reached the entrance of the wood, and perceived,\nbetween the twinkling leaves, a light, streaming from a distant cottage\nwindow. They proceeded along the edge of the brook to where the trees,\ncrowding over it, excluded the moon-beams, but a long line of light,\nfrom the cottage above, was seen on its dark tremulous surface. Bertrand\nnow stepped on first, and Emily heard him knock, and call loudly at\nthe door. As she reached it, the small upper casement, where the light\nappeared, was unclosed by a man, who, having enquired what they wanted,\nimmediately descended, let them into a neat rustic cot, and called\nup his wife to set refreshments before the travellers. As this man\nconversed, rather apart, with Bertrand, Emily anxiously surveyed him. He\nwas a tall, but not robust, peasant, of a sallow complexion, and had a\nshrewd and cunning eye; his countenance was not of a character to win\nthe ready confidence of youth, and there was nothing in his manner, that\nmight conciliate a stranger.\n\nUgo called impatiently for supper, and in a tone as if he knew his\nauthority here to be unquestionable. 'I expected you an hour ago,' said\nthe peasant, 'for I have had Signor Montoni's letter these three hours,\nand I and my wife had given you up, and gone to bed. How did you fare in\nthe storm?'\n\n'Ill enough,' replied Ugo, 'ill enough and we are like to fare ill\nenough here, too, unless you will make more haste. Get us more wine, and\nlet us see what you have to eat.'\n\nThe peasant placed before them all, that his cottage afforded--ham,\nwine, figs, and grapes of such size and flavour, as Emily had seldom\ntasted.\n\nAfter taking refreshment, she was shewn by the peasant's wife to her\nlittle bed-chamber, where she asked some questions concerning Montoni,\nto which the woman, whose name was Dorina, gave reserved answers,\npretending ignorance of his excellenza's intention in sending Emily\nhither, but acknowledging that her husband had been apprized of\nthe circumstance. Perceiving, that she could obtain no intelligence\nconcerning her destination, Emily dismissed Dorina, and retired to\nrepose; but all the busy scenes of her past and the anticipated ones of\nthe future came to her anxious mind, and conspired with the sense of her\nnew situation to banish sleep.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\n     Was nought around but images of rest,\n Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between,\n And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kept,\n From poppies breath'd, and banks of pleasant green,\n Where never yet was creeping creature seen.\n Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets play'd,\n And hurled every where their water's sheen,\n That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade,\n Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.\n     THOMSON\n\nWhen Emily, in the morning, opened her casement, she was surprised\nto observe the beauties, that surrounded it. The cottage was nearly\nembowered in the woods, which were chiefly of chesnut intermixed\nwith some cypress, larch and sycamore. Beneath the dark and spreading\nbranches, appeared, to the north, and to the east, the woody Apennines,\nrising in majestic amphitheatre, not black with pines, as she had been\naccustomed to see them, but their loftiest summits crowned with antient\nforests of chesnut, oak, and oriental plane, now animated with the rich\ntints of autumn, and which swept downward to the valley uninterruptedly,\nexcept where some bold rocky promontory looked out from among the\nfoliage, and caught the passing gleam. Vineyards stretched along the\nfeet of the mountains, where the elegant villas of the Tuscan nobility\nfrequently adorned the scene, and overlooked slopes clothed with\ngroves of olive, mulberry, orange and lemon. The plain, to which these\ndeclined, was coloured with the riches of cultivation, whose mingled\nhues were mellowed into harmony by an Italian sun. Vines, their purple\nclusters blushing between the russet foliage, hung in luxuriant festoons\nfrom the branches of standard fig and cherry trees, while pastures of\nverdure, such as Emily had seldom seen in Italy, enriched the banks of\na stream that, after descending from the mountains, wound along the\nlandscape, which it reflected, to a bay of the sea. There, far in the\nwest, the waters, fading into the sky, assumed a tint of the faintest\npurple, and the line of separation between them was, now and then,\ndiscernible only by the progress of a sail, brightened with the sunbeam,\nalong the horizon.\n\nThe cottage, which was shaded by the woods from the intenser rays of the\nsun, and was open only to his evening light, was covered entirely with\nvines, fig-trees and jessamine, whose flowers surpassed in size and\nfragrance any that Emily had seen. These and ripening clusters of grapes\nhung round her little casement. The turf, that grew under the woods, was\ninlaid with a variety of wild flowers and perfumed herbs, and, on the\nopposite margin of the stream, whose current diffused freshness beneath\nthe shades, rose a grove of lemon and orange trees. This, though nearly\nopposite to Emily's window, did not interrupt her prospect, but rather\nheightened, by its dark verdure, the effect of the perspective; and\nto her this spot was a bower of sweets, whose charms communicated\nimperceptibly to her mind somewhat of their own serenity.\n\nShe was soon summoned to breakfast, by the peasant's daughter, a girl\nabout seventeen, of a pleasant countenance, which, Emily was glad to\nobserve, seemed animated with the pure affections of nature, though\nthe others, that surrounded her, expressed, more or less, the worst\nqualities--cruelty, ferocity, cunning and duplicity; of the latter style\nof countenance, especially, were those of the peasant and his wife.\nMaddelina spoke little, but what she said was in a soft voice, and\nwith an air of modesty and complacency, that interested Emily, who\nbreakfasted at a separate table with Dorina, while Ugo and Bertrand\nwere taking a repast of Tuscany bacon and wine with their host, near\nthe cottage door; when they had finished which, Ugo, rising hastily,\nenquired for his mule, and Emily learned that he was to return to\nUdolpho, while Bertrand remained at the cottage; a circumstance, which,\nthough it did not surprise, distressed her.\n\nWhen Ugo was departed, Emily proposed to walk in the neighbouring woods;\nbut, on being told, that she must not quit the cottage, without having\nBertrand for her attendant, she withdrew to her own room. There, as her\neyes settled on the towering Apennines, she recollected the terrific\nscenery they had exhibited and the horrors she had suffered, on the\npreceding night, particularly at the moment when Bertrand had betrayed\nhimself to be an assassin; and these remembrances awakened a train of\nimages, which, since they abstracted her from a consideration of her own\nsituation, she pursued for some time, and then arranged in the following\nlines; pleased to have discovered any innocent means, by which she could\nbeguile an hour of misfortune.\n\n  THE PILGRIM*\n\n Slow o'er the Apennine, with bleeding feet,\n A patient Pilgrim wound his lonely way,\n To deck the Lady of Loretto's seat\n With all the little wealth his zeal could pay.\n From mountain-tops cold died the evening ray,\n And, stretch'd in twilight, slept the vale below;\n And now the last, last purple streaks of day\n Along the melancholy West fade slow.\n High o'er his head, the restless pines complain,\n As on their summit rolls the breeze of night;\n Beneath, the hoarse stream chides the rocks in vain:\n The Pilgrim pauses on the dizzy height.\n Then to the vale his cautious step he prest,\n For there a hermit's cross was dimly seen,\n Cresting the rock, and there his limbs might rest,\n Cheer'd in the good man's cave, by faggot's sheen,\n On leafy beds, nor guile his sleep molest.\n Unhappy Luke! he trusts a treacherous clue!\n Behind the cliff the lurking robber stood;\n No friendly moon his giant shadow threw\n Athwart the road, to save the Pilgrim's blood;\n On as he went a vesper-hymn he sang,\n The hymn, that nightly sooth'd him to repose.\n Fierce on his harmless prey the ruffian sprang!\n The Pilgrim bleeds to death, his eye-lids close.\n Yet his meek spirit knew no vengeful care,\n But, dying, for his murd'rer breath'd--a sainted pray'r!\n\n(* This poem and that entitled THE TRAVELLER in vol. ii, have already\nappeared in a periodical publication. [A. R.])\n\n\nPreferring the solitude of her room to the company of the persons below\nstairs, Emily dined above, and Maddelina was suffered to attend her,\nfrom whose simple conversation she learned, that the peasant and his\nwife were old inhabitants of this cottage, which had been purchased for\nthem by Montoni, in reward of some service, rendered him, many years\nbefore, by Marco, to whom Carlo, the steward at the castle, was nearly\nrelated. 'So many years ago, Signora,' added Maddelina, 'that I know\nnothing about it; but my father did the Signor a great good, for my\nmother has often said to him, this cottage was the least he ought to\nhave had.'\n\nTo the mention of this circumstance Emily listened with a painful\ninterest, since it appeared to give a frightful colour to the character\nof Marco, whose service, thus rewarded by Montoni, she could scarcely\ndoubt have been criminal; and, if so, had too much reason to believe,\nthat she had been committed into his hands for some desperate\npurpose. 'Did you ever hear how many years it is,' said Emily, who was\nconsidering of Signora Laurentini's disappearance from Udolpho, 'since\nyour father performed the services you spoke of?'\n\n'It was a little before he came to live at the cottage, Signora,'\nreplied Maddelina, 'and that is about eighteen years ago.'\n\nThis was near the period, when Signora Laurentini had been said to\ndisappear, and it occurred to Emily, that Marco had assisted in that\nmysterious affair, and, perhaps, had been employed in a murder! This\nhorrible suggestion fixed her in such profound reverie, that Maddelina\nquitted the room, unperceived by her, and she remained unconscious of\nall around her, for a considerable time. Tears, at length, came to her\nrelief, after indulging which, her spirits becoming calmer, she\nceased to tremble at a view of evils, that might never arrive; and had\nsufficient resolution to endeavour to withdraw her thoughts from the\ncontemplation of her own interests. Remembering the few books, which\neven in the hurry of her departure from Udolpho she had put into her\nlittle package, she sat down with one of them at her pleasant casement,\nwhence her eyes often wandered from the page to the landscape, whose\nbeauty gradually soothed her mind into gentle melancholy.\n\nHere, she remained alone, till evening, and saw the sun descend the\nwestern sky, throw all his pomp of light and shadow upon the mountains,\nand gleam upon the distant ocean and the stealing sails, as he sunk\namidst the waves. Then, at the musing hour of twilight, her softened\nthoughts returned to Valancourt; she again recollected every\ncircumstance, connected with the midnight music, and all that might\nassist her conjecture, concerning his imprisonment at the castle, and,\nbecoming confirmed in the supposition, that it was his voice she had\nheard there, she looked back to that gloomy abode with emotions of grief\nand momentary regret.\n\nRefreshed by the cool and fragrant air, and her spirits soothed to a\nstate of gentle melancholy by the stilly murmur of the brook below and\nof the woods around, she lingered at her casement long after the sun\nhad set, watching the valley sinking into obscurity, till only the\ngrand outline of the surrounding mountains, shadowed upon the horizon,\nremained visible. But a clear moon-light, that succeeded, gave to the\nlandscape, what time gives to the scenes of past life, when it softens\nall their harsher features, and throws over the whole the mellowing\nshade of distant contemplation. The scenes of La Vallee, in the early\nmorn of her life, when she was protected and beloved by parents equally\nloved, appeared in Emily's memory tenderly beautiful, like the prospect\nbefore her, and awakened mournful comparisons. Unwilling to encounter\nthe coarse behaviour of the peasant's wife, she remained supperless in\nher room, while she wept again over her forlorn and perilous situation,\na review of which entirely overcame the small remains of her fortitude,\nand, reducing her to temporary despondence, she wished to be released\nfrom the heavy load of life, that had so long oppressed her, and prayed\nto Heaven to take her, in its mercy, to her parents.\n\nWearied with weeping, she, at length, lay down on her mattress, and sunk\nto sleep, but was soon awakened by a knocking at her chamber door,\nand, starting up in terror, she heard a voice calling her. The image of\nBertrand, with a stilletto in his hand, appeared to her alarmed fancy,\nand she neither opened the door, or answered, but listened in profound\nsilence, till, the voice repeating her name in the same low tone, she\ndemanded who called. 'It is I, Signora,' replied the voice, which she\nnow distinguished to be Maddelina's, 'pray open the door. Don't be\nfrightened, it is I.'\n\n'And what brings you here so late, Maddelina?' said Emily, as she let\nher in.\n\n'Hush! signora, for heaven's sake hush!--if we are overheard I shall\nnever be forgiven. My father and mother and Bertrand are all gone\nto bed,' continued Maddelina, as she gently shut the door, and crept\nforward, 'and I have brought you some supper, for you had none, you\nknow, Signora, below stairs. Here are some grapes and figs and half a\ncup of wine.' Emily thanked her, but expressed apprehension lest\nthis kindness should draw upon her the resentment of Dorina, when she\nperceived the fruit was gone. 'Take it back, therefore, Maddelina,'\nadded Emily, 'I shall suffer much less from the want of it, than\nI should do, if this act of good-nature was to subject you to your\nmother's displeasure.'\n\n'O Signora! there is no danger of that,' replied Maddelina, 'my mother\ncannot miss the fruit, for I saved it from my own supper. You will make\nme very unhappy, if you refuse to take it, Signora.' Emily was so\nmuch affected by this instance of the good girl's generosity, that she\nremained for some time unable to reply, and Maddelina watched her in\nsilence, till, mistaking the cause of her emotion, she said, 'Do not\nweep so, Signora! My mother, to be sure, is a little cross, sometimes,\nbut then it is soon over,--so don't take it so much to heart. She often\nscolds me, too, but then I have learned to bear it, and, when she has\ndone, if I can but steal out into the woods, and play upon my sticcado,\nI forget it all directly.'\n\nEmily, smiling through her tears, told Maddelina, that she was a good\ngirl, and then accepted her offering. She wished anxiously to know,\nwhether Bertrand and Dorina had spoken of Montoni, or of his designs,\nconcerning herself, in the presence of Maddelina, but disdained to tempt\nthe innocent girl to a conduct so mean, as that of betraying the private\nconversations of her parents. When she was departing, Emily requested,\nthat she would come to her room as often as she dared, without offending\nher mother, and Maddelina, after promising that she would do so, stole\nsoftly back again to her own chamber.\n\nThus several days passed, during which Emily remained in her own room,\nMaddelina attending her only at her repast, whose gentle countenance and\nmanners soothed her more than any circumstance she had known for many\nmonths. Of her pleasant embowered chamber she now became fond, and\nbegan to experience in it those feelings of security, which we naturally\nattach to home. In this interval also, her mind, having been undisturbed\nby any new circumstance of disgust, or alarm, recovered its tone\nsufficiently to permit her the enjoyment of her books, among which she\nfound some unfinished sketches of landscapes, several blank sheets of\npaper, with her drawing instruments, and she was thus enabled to amuse\nherself with selecting some of the lovely features of the prospect,\nthat her window commanded, and combining them in scenes, to which her\ntasteful fancy gave a last grace. In these little sketches she generally\nplaced interesting groups, characteristic of the scenery they animated,\nand often contrived to tell, with perspicuity, some simple and affecting\nstory, when, as a tear fell over the pictured griefs, which her\nimagination drew, she would forget, for a moment, her real sufferings.\nThus innocently she beguiled the heavy hours of misfortune, and, with\nmeek patience, awaited the events of futurity.\n\nA beautiful evening, that had succeeded to a sultry day, at length\ninduced Emily to walk, though she knew that Bertrand must attend her,\nand, with Maddelina for her companion, she left the cottage, followed by\nBertrand, who allowed her to choose her own way. The hour was cool and\nsilent, and she could not look upon the country around her, without\ndelight. How lovely, too, appeared the brilliant blue, that coloured all\nthe upper region of the air, and, thence fading downward, was lost in\nthe saffron glow of the horizon! Nor less so were the varied shades and\nwarm colouring of the Apennines, as the evening sun threw his slanting\nrays athwart their broken surface. Emily followed the course of the\nstream, under the shades, that overhung its grassy margin. On the\nopposite banks, the pastures were animated with herds of cattle of a\nbeautiful cream-colour; and, beyond, were groves of lemon and orange,\nwith fruit glowing on the branches, frequent almost as the leaves,\nwhich partly concealed it. She pursued her way towards the sea, which\nreflected the warm glow of sun-set, while the cliffs, that rose over its\nedge, were tinted with the last rays. The valley was terminated on the\nright by a lofty promontory, whose summit, impending over the waves, was\ncrowned with a ruined tower, now serving for the purpose of a beacon,\nwhose shattered battlements and the extended wings of some sea-fowl,\nthat circled near it, were still illumined by the upward beams of the\nsun, though his disk was now sunk beneath the horizon; while the lower\npart of the ruin, the cliff on which it stood and the waves at its foot,\nwere shaded with the first tints of twilight.\n\nHaving reached this headland, Emily gazed with solemn pleasure on the\ncliffs, that extended on either hand along the sequestered shores,\nsome crowned with groves of pine, and others exhibiting only barren\nprecipices of grayish marble, except where the crags were tufted with\nmyrtle and other aromatic shrubs. The sea slept in a perfect calm;\nits waves, dying in murmurs on the shores, flowed with the gentlest\nundulation, while its clear surface reflected in softened beauty the\nvermeil tints of the west. Emily, as she looked upon the ocean, thought\nof France and of past times, and she wished, Oh! how ardently, and\nvainly--wished! that its waves would bear her to her distant, native\nhome!\n\n'Ah! that vessel,' said she, 'that vessel, which glides along so\nstately, with its tall sails reflected in the water is, perhaps, bound\nfor France! Happy--happy bark!' She continued to gaze upon it, with warm\nemotion, till the gray of twilight obscured the distance, and veiled it\nfrom her view. The melancholy sound of the waves at her feet assisted\nthe tenderness, that occasioned her tears, and this was the only sound,\nthat broke upon the hour, till, having followed the windings of the\nbeach, for some time, a chorus of voices passed her on the air. She\npaused a moment, wishing to hear more, yet fearing to be seen, and,\nfor the first time, looked back to Bertrand, as her protector, who\nwas following, at a short distance, in company with some other person.\nReassured by this circumstance, she advanced towards the sounds, which\nseemed to arise from behind a high promontory, that projected athwart\nthe beach. There was now a sudden pause in the music, and then one\nfemale voice was heard to sing in a kind of chant. Emily quickened\nher steps, and, winding round the rock, saw, within the sweeping bay,\nbeyond, which was hung with woods from the borders of the beach to the\nvery summit of the cliffs, two groups of peasants, one seated beneath\nthe shades, and the other standing on the edge of the sea, round the\ngirl, who was singing, and who held in her hand a chaplet of flowers,\nwhich she seemed about to drop into the waves.\n\nEmily, listening with surprise and attention, distinguished the\nfollowing invocation delivered in the pure and elegant tongue of\nTuscany, and accompanied by a few pastoral instruments.\n\n  TO A SEA-NYMPH\n\n O nymph! who loves to float on the green wave,\n When Neptune sleeps beneath the moon-light hour,\n Lull'd by the music's melancholy pow'r,\n O nymph, arise from out thy pearly cave!\n\n For Hesper beams amid the twilight shade,\n And soon shall Cynthia tremble o'er the tide,\n Gleam on these cliffs, that bound the ocean's pride,\n And lonely silence all the air pervade.\n\n Then, let thy tender voice at distance swell,\n And steal along this solitary shore,\n Sink on the breeze, till dying--heard no more--\n Thou wak'st the sudden magic of thy shell.\n\n While the long coast in echo sweet replies,\n Thy soothing strains the pensive heart beguile,\n And bid the visions of the future smile,\n O nymph! from out thy pearly cave--arise!\n\n  (Chorus)--ARISE!\n  (Semi-chorus)--ARISE!\n\nThe last words being repeated by the surrounding group, the garland of\nflowers was thrown into the waves, and the chorus, sinking gradually\ninto a chant, died away in silence.\n\n'What can this mean, Maddelina?' said Emily, awakening from the pleasing\ntrance, into which the music had lulled her. 'This is the eve of a\nfestival, Signora,' replied Maddelina; 'and the peasants then amuse\nthemselves with all kinds of sports.'\n\n'But they talked of a sea-nymph,' said Emily: 'how came these good\npeople to think of a sea-nymph?'\n\n'O, Signora,' rejoined Maddelina, mistaking the reason of Emily's\nsurprise, 'nobody BELIEVES in such things, but our old songs tell of\nthem, and, when we are at our sports, we sometimes sing to them, and\nthrow garlands into the sea.'\n\nEmily had been early taught to venerate Florence as the seat of\nliterature and of the fine arts; but, that its taste for classic story\nshould descend to the peasants of the country, occasioned her both\nsurprise and admiration. The Arcadian air of the girls next attracted\nher attention. Their dress was a very short full petticoat of light\ngreen, with a boddice of white silk; the sleeves loose, and tied up at\nthe shoulders with ribbons and bunches of flowers. Their hair, falling\nin ringlets on their necks, was also ornamented with flowers, and with a\nsmall straw hat, which, set rather backward and on one side of the head,\ngave an expression of gaiety and smartness to the whole figure. When\nthe song had concluded, several of these girls approached Emily, and,\ninviting her to sit down among them, offered her, and Maddelina, whom\nthey knew, grapes and figs.\n\nEmily accepted their courtesy, much pleased with the gentleness and\ngrace of their manners, which appeared to be perfectly natural to them;\nand when Bertrand, soon after, approached, and was hastily drawing her\naway, a peasant, holding up a flask, invited him to drink; a temptation,\nwhich Bertrand was seldom very valiant in resisting.\n\n'Let the young lady join in the dance, my friend,' said the peasant,\n'while we empty this flask. They are going to begin directly. Strike up!\nmy lads, strike up your tambourines and merry flutes!'\n\nThey sounded gaily; and the younger peasants formed themselves into a\ncircle, which Emily would readily have joined, had her spirits been in\nunison with their mirth. Maddelina, however, tripped it lightly,\nand Emily, as she looked on the happy group, lost the sense of her\nmisfortunes in that of a benevolent pleasure. But the pensive melancholy\nof her mind returned, as she sat rather apart from the company,\nlistening to the mellow music, which the breeze softened as it bore it\naway, and watching the moon, stealing its tremulous light over the waves\nand on the woody summits of the cliffs, that wound along these Tuscan\nshores.\n\nMeanwhile, Bertrand was so well pleased with his first flask, that he\nvery willingly commenced the attack on a second, and it was late before\nEmily, not without some apprehension, returned to the cottage.\n\nAfter this evening, she frequently walked with Maddelina, but was never\nunattended by Bertrand; and her mind became by degrees as tranquil as\nthe circumstances of her situation would permit. The quiet, in which\nshe was suffered to live, encouraged her to hope, that she was not sent\nhither with an evil design; and, had it not appeared probable, that\nValancourt was at this time an inhabitant of Udolpho, she would have\nwished to remain at the cottage, till an opportunity should offer of\nreturning to her native country. But, concerning Montoni's motive for\nsending her into Tuscany, she was more than ever perplexed, nor could\nshe believe that any consideration for her safety had influenced him on\nthis occasion.\n\nShe had been some time at the cottage, before she recollected, that, in\nthe hurry of leaving Udolpho, she had forgotten the papers committed\nto her by her late aunt, relative to the Languedoc estates; but, though\nthis remembrance occasioned her much uneasiness, she had some hope,\nthat, in the obscure place, where they were deposited, they would escape\nthe detection of Montoni.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\n My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say.\n I play the torturer, by small and small,\n To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken.\n     RICHARD II\n\nWe now return, for a moment, to Venice, where Count Morano was suffering\nunder an accumulation of misfortunes. Soon after his arrival in that\ncity, he had been arrested by order of the Senate, and, without knowing\nof what he was suspected, was conveyed to a place of confinement,\nwhither the most strenuous enquiries of his friends had been unable to\ntrace him. Who the enemy was, that had occasioned him this calamity, he\nhad not been able to guess, unless, indeed, it was Montoni, on whom his\nsuspicions rested, and not only with much apparent probability, but with\njustice.\n\nIn the affair of the poisoned cup, Montoni had suspected Morano; but,\nbeing unable to obtain the degree of proof, which was necessary to\nconvict him of a guilty intention, he had recourse to means of other\nrevenge, than he could hope to obtain by prosecution. He employed\na person, in whom he believed he might confide, to drop a letter of\naccusation into the DENUNZIE SECRETE, or lions' mouths, which are\nfixed in a gallery of the Doge's palace, as receptacles for anonymous\ninformation, concerning persons, who may be disaffected towards the\nstate. As, on these occasions, the accuser is not confronted with the\naccused, a man may falsely impeach his enemy, and accomplish an unjust\nrevenge, without fear of punishment, or detection. That Montoni should\nhave recourse to these diabolical means of ruining a person, whom he\nsuspected of having attempted his life, is not in the least surprising.\nIn the letter, which he had employed as the instrument of his revenge,\nhe accused Morano of designs against the state, which he attempted to\nprove, with all the plausible simplicity of which he was master; and\nthe Senate, with whom a suspicion was, at that time, almost equal to\na proof, arrested the Count, in consequence of this accusation; and,\nwithout even hinting to him his crime, threw him into one of those\nsecret prisons, which were the terror of the Venetians, and in which\npersons often languished, and sometimes died, without being discovered\nby their friends.\n\nMorano had incurred the personal resentment of many members of the\nstate; his habits of life had rendered him obnoxious to some; and his\nambition, and the bold rivalship, which he discovered, on several public\noccasions,--to others; and it was not to be expected, that mercy would\nsoften the rigour of a law, which was to be dispensed from the hands of\nhis enemies.\n\nMontoni, meantime, was beset by dangers of another kind. His castle\nwas besieged by troops, who seemed willing to dare every thing, and to\nsuffer patiently any hardships in pursuit of victory. The strength\nof the fortress, however, withstood their attack, and this, with the\nvigorous defence of the garrison and the scarcity of provision on these\nwild mountains, soon compelled the assailants to raise the siege.\n\nWhen Udolpho was once more left to the quiet possession of Montoni,\nhe dispatched Ugo into Tuscany for Emily, whom he had sent from\nconsiderations of her personal safety, to a place of greater security,\nthan a castle, which was, at that time, liable to be overrun by his\nenemies. Tranquillity being once more restored to Udolpho, he was\nimpatient to secure her again under his roof, and had commissioned Ugo\nto assist Bertrand in guarding her back to the castle. Thus compelled to\nreturn, Emily bade the kind Maddelina farewell, with regret, and,\nafter about a fortnight's stay in Tuscany, where she had experienced\nan interval of quiet, which was absolutely necessary to sustain her\nlong-harassed spirits, began once more to ascend the Apennines, from\nwhose heights she gave a long and sorrowful look to the beautiful\ncountry, that extended at their feet, and to the distant Mediterranean,\nwhose waves she had so often wished would bear her back to France.\nThe distress she felt, on her return towards the place of her former\nsufferings, was, however, softened by a conjecture, that Valancourt was\nthere, and she found some degree of comfort in the thought of being near\nhim, notwithstanding the consideration, that he was probably a prisoner.\n\nIt was noon, when she had left the cottage, and the evening was closed,\nlong before she came within the neighbourhood of Udolpho. There was a\nmoon, but it shone only at intervals, for the night was cloudy, and,\nlighted by the torch, which Ugo carried, the travellers paced silently\nalong, Emily musing on her situation, and Bertrand and Ugo anticipating\nthe comforts of a flask of wine and a good fire, for they had perceived\nfor some time the difference between the warm climate of the lowlands\nof Tuscany and the nipping air of these upper regions. Emily was, at\nlength, roused from her reverie by the far-off sound of the castle\nclock, to which she listened not without some degree of awe, as it\nrolled away on the breeze. Another and another note succeeded, and died\nin sullen murmur among the mountains:--to her mournful imagination it\nseemed a knell measuring out some fateful period for her.\n\n'Aye, there is the old clock,' said Bertrand, 'there he is still; the\ncannon have not silenced him!'\n\n'No,' answered Ugo, 'he crowed as loud as the best of them in the midst\nof it all. There he was roaring out in the hottest fire I have seen this\nmany a day! I said that some of them would have a hit at the old fellow,\nbut he escaped, and the tower too.'\n\nThe road winding round the base of a mountain, they now came within view\nof the castle, which was shewn in the perspective of the valley by a\ngleam of moon-shine, and then vanished in shade; while even a transient\nview of it had awakened the poignancy of Emily's feelings. Its massy and\ngloomy walls gave her terrible ideas of imprisonment and suffering:\nyet, as she advanced, some degree of hope mingled with her terror; for,\nthough this was certainly the residence of Montoni, it was possibly,\nalso, that of Valancourt, and she could not approach a place, where he\nmight be, without experiencing somewhat of the joy of hope.\n\nThey continued to wind along the valley, and, soon after, she saw again\nthe old walls and moon-lit towers, rising over the woods: the strong\nrays enabled her, also, to perceive the ravages, which the siege had\nmade,--with the broken walls, and shattered battlements, for they were\nnow at the foot of the steep, on which Udolpho stood. Massy fragments\nhad rolled down among the woods, through which the travellers now began\nto ascend, and there mingled with the loose earth, and pieces of rock\nthey had brought with them. The woods, too, had suffered much from the\nbatteries above, for here the enemy had endeavoured to screen themselves\nfrom the fire of the ramparts. Many noble trees were levelled with the\nground, and others, to a wide extent, were entirely stripped of their\nupper branches. 'We had better dismount,' said Ugo, 'and lead the mules\nup the hill, or we shall get into some of the holes, which the balls\nhave left. Here are plenty of them. Give me the torch,' continued Ugo,\nafter they had dismounted, 'and take care you don't stumble over any\nthing, that lies in your way, for the ground is not yet cleared of the\nenemy.'\n\n'How!' exclaimed Emily, 'are any of the enemy here, then?'\n\n'Nay, I don't know for that, now,' he replied, 'but when I came away I\nsaw one or two of them lying under the trees.'\n\nAs they proceeded, the torch threw a gloomy light upon the ground, and\nfar among the recesses of the woods, and Emily feared to look forward,\nlest some object of horror should meet her eye. The path was often\nstrewn with broken heads of arrows, and with shattered remains of\narmour, such as at that period was mingled with the lighter dress of the\nsoldiers. 'Bring the light hither,' said Bertrand, 'I have stumbled over\nsomething, that rattles loud enough.' Ugo holding up the torch, they\nperceived a steel breastplate on the ground, which Bertrand raised, and\nthey saw, that it was pierced through, and that the lining was entirely\ncovered with blood; but upon Emily's earnest entreaties, that they would\nproceed, Bertrand, uttering some joke upon the unfortunate person, to\nwhom it had belonged, threw it hard upon the ground, and they passed on.\n\nAt every step she took, Emily feared to see some vestige of death.\nComing soon after to an opening in the woods, Bertrand stopped to survey\nthe ground, which was encumbered with massy trunks and branches of the\ntrees, that had so lately adorned it, and seemed to have been a spot\nparticularly fatal to the besiegers; for it was evident from the\ndestruction of the trees, that here the hottest fire of the garrison\nhad been directed. As Ugo held again forth the torch, steel glittered\nbetween the fallen trees; the ground beneath was covered with broken\narms, and with the torn vestments of soldiers, whose mangled forms\nEmily almost expected to see; and she again entreated her companions to\nproceed, who were, however, too intent in their examination, to regard\nher, and she turned her eyes from this desolated scene to the castle\nabove, where she observed lights gliding along the ramparts. Presently,\nthe castle clock struck twelve, and then a trumpet sounded, of which\nEmily enquired the occasion.\n\n'O! they are only changing watch,' replied Ugo. 'I do not remember\nthis trumpet,' said Emily, 'it is a new custom.' 'It is only an old one\nrevived, lady; we always use it in time of war. We have sounded it, at\nmidnight, ever since the place was besieged.'\n\n'Hark!' said Emily, as the trumpet sounded again; and, in the next\nmoment, she heard a faint clash of arms, and then the watchword passed\nalong the terrace above, and was answered from a distant part of the\ncastle; after which all was again still. She complained of cold, and\nbegged to go on. 'Presently, lady,' said Bertrand, turning over some\nbroken arms with the pike he usually carried. 'What have we here?'\n\n'Hark!' cried Emily, 'what noise was that?'\n\n'What noise was it?' said Ugo, starting up and listening.\n\n'Hush!' repeated Emily. 'It surely came from the ramparts above:' and,\non looking up, they perceived a light moving along the walls, while,\nin the next instant, the breeze swelling, the voice sounded louder than\nbefore.\n\n'Who goes yonder?' cried a sentinel of the castle. 'Speak or it will be\nworse for you.' Bertrand uttered a shout of joy. 'Hah! my brave comrade,\nis it you?' said he, and he blew a shrill whistle, which signal was\nanswered by another from the soldier on watch; and the party, then\npassing forward, soon after emerged from the woods upon the broken road,\nthat led immediately to the castle gates, and Emily saw, with renewed\nterror, the whole of that stupendous structure. 'Alas!' said she to\nherself, 'I am going again into my prison!'\n\n'Here has been warm work, by St. Marco!' cried Bertrand, waving a\ntorch over the ground; 'the balls have torn up the earth here with a\nvengeance.'\n\n'Aye,' replied Ugo, 'they were fired from that redoubt, yonder, and\nrare execution they did. The enemy made a furious attack upon the great\ngates; but they might have guessed they could never carry it there; for,\nbesides the cannon from the walls, our archers, on the two round towers,\nshowered down upon them at such a rate, that, by holy Peter! there was\nno standing it. I never saw a better sight in my life; I laughed,\ntill my sides aked, to see how the knaves scampered. Bertrand, my good\nfellow, thou shouldst have been among them; I warrant thou wouldst have\nwon the race!'\n\n'Hah! you are at your old tricks again,' said Bertrand in a surly tone.\n'It is well for thee thou art so near the castle; thou knowest I have\nkilled my man before now.' Ugo replied only by a laugh, and then gave\nsome further account of the siege, to which as Emily listened, she was\nstruck by the strong contrast of the present scene with that which had\nso lately been acted here.\n\nThe mingled uproar of cannon, drums, and trumpets, the groans of the\nconquered, and the shouts of the conquerors were now sunk into a silence\nso profound, that it seemed as if death had triumphed alike over the\nvanquished and the victor. The shattered condition of one of the towers\nof the great gates by no means confirmed the VALIANT account just given\nby Ugo of the scampering party, who, it was evident, had not only made\na stand, but had done much mischief before they took to flight; for this\ntower appeared, as far as Emily could judge by the dim moon-light\nthat fell upon it, to be laid open, and the battlements were nearly\ndemolished. While she gazed, a light glimmered through one of the lower\nloop-holes, and disappeared; but, in the next moment, she perceived\nthrough the broken wall, a soldier, with a lamp, ascending the narrow\nstaircase, that wound within the tower, and, remembering that it was the\nsame she had passed up, on the night, when Barnardine had deluded her\nwith a promise of seeing Madame Montoni, fancy gave her somewhat of\nthe terror she had then suffered. She was now very near the gates, over\nwhich the soldier having opened the door of the portal-chamber, the lamp\nhe carried gave her a dusky view of that terrible apartment, and she\nalmost sunk under the recollected horrors of the moment, when she had\ndrawn aside the curtain, and discovered the object it was meant to\nconceal.\n\n'Perhaps,' said she to herself, 'it is now used for a similar purpose;\nperhaps, that soldier goes, at this dead hour, to watch over the corpse\nof his friend!' The little remains of her fortitude now gave way to the\nunited force of remembered and anticipated horrors, for the melancholy\nfate of Madame Montoni appeared to foretell her own. She considered,\nthat, though the Languedoc estates, if she relinquished them, would\nsatisfy Montoni's avarice, they might not appease his vengeance, which\nwas seldom pacified but by a terrible sacrifice; and she even thought,\nthat, were she to resign them, the fear of justice might urge him either\nto detain her a prisoner, or to take away her life.\n\nThey were now arrived at the gates, where Bertrand, observing the light\nglimmer through a small casement of the portal-chamber, called aloud;\nand the soldier, looking out, demanded who was there. 'Here, I have\nbrought you a prisoner,' said Ugo, 'open the gate, and let us in.'\n\n'Tell me first who it is, that demands entrance,' replied the soldier.\n'What! my old comrade,' cried Ugo, 'don't you know me? not know Ugo? I\nhave brought home a prisoner here, bound hand and foot--a fellow, who\nhas been drinking Tuscany wine, while we here have been fighting.'\n\n'You will not rest till you meet with your match,' said Bertrand\nsullenly. 'Hah! my comrade, is it you?' said the soldier--'I'll be with\nyou directly.'\n\nEmily presently heard his steps descending the stairs within, and then\nthe heavy chain fall, and the bolts undraw of a small postern door,\nwhich he opened to admit the party. He held the lamp low, to shew the\nstep of the gate, and she found herself once more beneath the gloomy\narch, and heard the door close, that seemed to shut her from the world\nfor ever. In the next moment, she was in the first court of the castle,\nwhere she surveyed the spacious and solitary area, with a kind of calm\ndespair; while the dead hour of the night, the gothic gloom of the\nsurrounding buildings, and the hollow and imperfect echoes, which\nthey returned, as Ugo and the soldier conversed together, assisted to\nincrease the melancholy forebodings of her heart. Passing on to the\nsecond court, a distant sound broke feebly on the silence, and gradually\nswelling louder, as they advanced, Emily distinguished voices of revelry\nand laughter, but they were to her far other than sounds of joy. 'Why,\nyou have got some Tuscany wine among you, HERE,' said Bertrand, 'if one\nmay judge by the uproar that is going forward. Ugo has taken a larger\nshare of that than of fighting, I'll be sworn. Who is carousing at this\nlate hour?'\n\n'His excellenza and the Signors,' replied the soldier: 'it is a sign you\nare a stranger at the castle, or you would not need to ask the question.\nThey are brave spirits, that do without sleep--they generally pass the\nnight in good cheer; would that we, who keep the watch, had a little of\nit! It is cold work, pacing the ramparts so many hours of the night, if\none has no good liquor to warm one's heart.'\n\n'Courage, my lad, courage ought to warm your heart,' said Ugo.\n'Courage!' replied the soldier sharply, with a menacing air, which Ugo\nperceiving, prevented his saying more, by returning to the subject of\nthe carousal. 'This is a new custom,' said he; 'when I left the castle,\nthe Signors used to sit up counselling.'\n\n'Aye, and for that matter, carousing too,' replied the soldier, 'but,\nsince the siege, they have done nothing but make merry: and if I was\nthey, I would settle accounts with myself, for all my hard fighting, the\nsame way.'\n\nThey had now crossed the second court, and reached the hall door, when\nthe soldier, bidding them good night, hastened back to his post; and,\nwhile they waited for admittance, Emily considered how she might avoid\nseeing Montoni, and retire unnoticed to her former apartment, for she\nshrunk from the thought of encountering either him, or any of his party,\nat this hour. The uproar within the castle was now so loud, that, though\nUgo knocked repeatedly at the hall door, he was not heard by any of\nthe servants, a circumstance, which increased Emily's alarm, while it\nallowed her time to deliberate on the means of retiring unobserved; for,\nthough she might, perhaps, pass up the great stair-case unseen, it was\nimpossible she could find the way to her chamber, without a light, the\ndifficulty of procuring which, and the danger of wandering about the\ncastle, without one, immediately struck her. Bertrand had only a torch,\nand she knew, that the servants never brought a taper to the door, for\nthe hall was sufficiently lighted by the large tripod lamp, which hung\nin the vaulted roof; and, while she should wait till Annette could bring\na taper, Montoni, or some of his companions, might discover her.\n\nThe door was now opened by Carlo; and Emily, having requested him to\nsend Annette immediately with a light to the great gallery, where\nshe determined to await her, passed on with hasty steps towards the\nstair-case; while Bertrand and Ugo, with the torch, followed old Carlo\nto the servants' hall, impatient for supper and the warm blaze of a wood\nfire. Emily, lighted only by the feeble rays, which the lamp above threw\nbetween the arches of this extensive hall, endeavoured to find her way\nto the stair-case, now hid in obscurity; while the shouts of merriment,\nthat burst from a remote apartment, served, by heightening her terror,\nto increase her perplexity, and she expected, every instant, to see\nthe door of that room open, and Montoni and his companions issue forth.\nHaving, at length, reached the stair-case, and found her way to the top,\nshe seated herself on the last stair, to await the arrival of Annette;\nfor the profound darkness of the gallery deterred her from proceeding\nfarther, and, while she listened for her footstep, she heard only\ndistant sounds of revelry, which rose in sullen echoes from among the\narcades below. Once she thought she heard a low sound from the dark\ngallery behind her; and, turning her eyes, fancied she saw something\nluminous move in it; and, since she could not, at this moment, subdue\nthe weakness that caused her fears, she quitted her seat, and crept\nsoftly down a few stairs lower.\n\nAnnette not yet appearing, Emily now concluded, that she was gone\nto bed, and that nobody chose to call her up; and the prospect, that\npresented itself, of passing the night in darkness, in this place, or\nin some other equally forlorn (for she knew it would be impracticable to\nfind her way through the intricacies of the galleries to her chamber),\ndrew tears of mingled terror and despondency from her eyes.\n\nWhile thus she sat, she fancied she heard again an odd sound from\nthe gallery, and she listened, scarcely daring to breathe, but the\nincreasing voices below overcame every other sound. Soon after, she\nheard Montoni and his companions burst into the hall, who spoke, as\nif they were much intoxicated, and seemed to be advancing towards the\nstair-case. She now remembered, that they must come this way to their\nchambers, and, forgetting all the terrors of the gallery, hurried\ntowards it with an intention of secreting herself in some of the\npassages, that opened beyond, and of endeavouring, when the Signors were\nretired, to find her way to her own room, or to that of Annette, which\nwas in a remote part of the castle.\n\nWith extended arms, she crept along the gallery, still hearing the\nvoices of persons below, who seemed to stop in conversation at the foot\nof the stair-case, and then pausing for a moment to listen, half fearful\nof going further into the darkness of the gallery, where she still\nimagined, from the noise she had heard, that some person was lurking,\n'They are already informed of my arrival,' said she, 'and Montoni is\ncoming himself to seek me! In the present state of his mind, his purpose\nmust be desperate.' Then, recollecting the scene, that had passed in\nthe corridor, on the night preceding her departure from the castle, 'O\nValancourt!' said she, 'I must then resign you for ever. To brave any\nlonger the injustice of Montoni, would not be fortitude, but rashness.'\nStill the voices below did not draw nearer, but they became louder, and\nshe distinguished those of Verezzi and Bertolini above the rest, while\nthe few words she caught made her listen more anxiously for others. The\nconversation seemed to concern herself; and, having ventured to step\na few paces nearer to the stair-case, she discovered, that they were\ndisputing about her, each seeming to claim some former promise of\nMontoni, who appeared, at first, inclined to appease and to persuade\nthem to return to their wine, but afterwards to be weary of the dispute,\nand, saying that he left them to settle it as they could, was returning\nwith the rest of the party to the apartment he had just quitted.\nVerezzi then stopped him. 'Where is she? Signor,' said he, in a voice of\nimpatience: 'tell us where she is.' 'I have already told you that I\ndo not know,' replied Montoni, who seemed to be somewhat overcome with\nwine; 'but she is most probably gone to her apartment.' Verezzi\nand Bertolini now desisted from their enquiries, and sprang to the\nstair-case together, while Emily, who, during this discourse, had\ntrembled so excessively, that she had with difficulty supported herself,\nseemed inspired with new strength, the moment she heard the sound\nof their steps, and ran along the gallery, dark as it was, with the\nfleetness of a fawn. But, long before she reached its extremity, the\nlight, which Verezzi carried, flashed upon the walls; both appeared,\nand, instantly perceiving Emily, pursued her. At this moment, Bertolini,\nwhose steps, though swift, were not steady, and whose impatience\novercame what little caution he had hitherto used, stumbled, and fell\nat his length. The lamp fell with him, and was presently expiring on the\nfloor; but Verezzi, regardless of saving it, seized the advantage this\naccident gave him over his rival, and followed Emily, to whom, however,\nthe light had shown one of the passages that branched from the gallery,\nand she instantly turned into it. Verezzi could just discern the way she\nhad taken, and this he pursued; but the sound of her steps soon sunk\nin distance, while he, less acquainted with the passage, was obliged\nto proceed through the dark, with caution, lest he should fall down\na flight of steps, such as in this extensive old castle frequently\nterminated an avenue. This passage at length brought Emily to the\ncorridor, into which her own chamber opened, and, not hearing any\nfootstep, she paused to take breath, and consider what was the safest\ndesign to be adopted. She had followed this passage, merely because it\nwas the first that appeared, and now that she had reached the end of it,\nwas as perplexed as before. Whither to go, or how further to find her\nway in the dark, she knew not; she was aware only that she must not seek\nher apartment, for there she would certainly be sought, and her danger\nincreased every instant, while she remained near it. Her spirits and her\nbreath, however, were so much exhausted, that she was compelled to rest,\nfor a few minutes, at the end of the passage, and still she heard no\nsteps approaching. As thus she stood, light glimmered under an opposite\ndoor of the gallery, and, from its situation, she knew, that it was\nthe door of that mysterious chamber, where she had made a discovery so\nshocking, that she never remembered it but with the utmost horror. That\nthere should be light in this chamber, and at this hour, excited her\nstrong surprise, and she felt a momentary terror concerning it, which\ndid not permit her to look again, for her spirits were now in such a\nstate of weakness, that she almost expected to see the door slowly open,\nand some horrible object appear at it. Still she listened for a\nstep along the passage, and looked up it, where, not a ray of light\nappearing, she concluded, that Verezzi had gone back for the lamp; and,\nbelieving that he would shortly be there, she again considered which way\nshe should go, or rather which way she could find in the dark.\n\nA faint ray still glimmered under the opposite door, but so great, and,\nperhaps, so just was her horror of that chamber, that she would not\nagain have tempted its secrets, though she had been certain of obtaining\nthe light so important to her safety. She was still breathing with\ndifficulty, and resting at the end of the passage, when she heard a\nrustling sound, and then a low voice, so very near her, that it seemed\nclose to her ear; but she had presence of mind to check her emotions,\nand to remain quite still; in the next moment, she perceived it to be\nthe voice of Verezzi, who did not appear to know, that she was there,\nbut to have spoken to himself. 'The air is fresher here,' said he: 'this\nshould be the corridor.' Perhaps, he was one of those heroes, whose\ncourage can defy an enemy better than darkness, and he tried to rally\nhis spirits with the sound of his own voice. However this might be,\nhe turned to the right, and proceeded, with the same stealing steps,\ntowards Emily's apartment, apparently forgetting, that, in darkness,\nshe could easily elude his search, even in her chamber; and, like an\nintoxicated person, he followed pertinaciously the one idea, that had\npossessed his imagination.\n\nThe moment she heard his steps steal away, she left her station and\nmoved softly to the other end of the corridor, determined to trust\nagain to chance, and to quit it by the first avenue she could find; but,\nbefore she could effect this, light broke upon the walls of the gallery,\nand, looking back, she saw Verezzi crossing it towards her chamber.\nShe now glided into a passage, that opened on the left, without, as\nshe thought, being perceived; but, in the next instant, another light,\nglimmering at the further end of this passage, threw her into new\nterror. While she stopped and hesitated which way to go, the pause\nallowed her to perceive, that it was Annette, who advanced, and\nshe hurried to meet her: but her imprudence again alarmed Emily,\non perceiving whom, she burst into a scream of joy, and it was some\nminutes, before she could be prevailed with to be silent, or to release\nher mistress from the ardent clasp, in which she held her. When, at\nlength, Emily made Annette comprehend her danger, they hurried\ntowards Annette's room, which was in a distant part of the castle.\nNo apprehensions, however, could yet silence the latter. 'Oh dear\nma'amselle,' said she, as they passed along, 'what a terrified time have\nI had of it! Oh! I thought I should have died an hundred times! I never\nthought I should live to see you again! and I never was so glad to see\nany body in my whole life, as I am to see you now.' 'Hark!' cried Emily,\n'we are pursued; that was the echo of steps!' 'No, ma'amselle,' said\nAnnette, 'it was only the echo of a door shutting; sound runs along\nthese vaulted passages so, that one is continually deceived by it; if\none does but speak, or cough, it makes a noise as loud as a cannon.'\n'Then there is the greater necessity for us to be silent,' said Emily:\n'pr'ythee say no more, till we reach your chamber.' Here, at length,\nthey arrived, without interruption, and, Annette having fastened the\ndoor, Emily sat down on her little bed, to recover breath and composure.\nTo her enquiry, whether Valancourt was among the prisoners in the\ncastle, Annette replied, that she had not been able to hear, but that\nshe knew there were several persons confined. She then proceeded, in her\ntedious way, to give an account of the siege, or rather a detail of her\nterrors and various sufferings, during the attack. 'But,' added she,\n'when I heard the shouts of victory from the ramparts, I thought we were\nall taken, and gave myself up for lost, instead of which, WE had driven\nthe enemy away. I went then to the north gallery, and saw a great many\nof them scampering away among the mountains; but the rampart walls were\nall in ruins, as one may say, and there was a dismal sight to see down\namong the woods below, where the poor fellows were lying in heaps, but\nwere carried off presently by their comrades. While the siege was going\non, the Signor was here, and there, and every where, at the same time,\nas Ludovico told me, for he would not let me see any thing hardly, and\nlocked me up, as he has often done before, in a room in the middle of\nthe castle, and used to bring me food, and come and talk with me as\noften as he could; and I must say, if it had not been for Ludovico, I\nshould have died outright.'\n\n'Well, Annette,' said Emily, 'and how have affairs gone on, since the\nsiege?'\n\n'O! sad hurly burly doings, ma'amselle,' replied Annette; 'the Signors\nhave done nothing but sit and drink and game, ever since. They sit up,\nall night, and play among themselves, for all those riches and fine\nthings, they brought in, some time since, when they used to go out\na-robbing, or as good, for days together; and then they have dreadful\nquarrels about who loses, and who wins. That fierce Signor Verezzi is\nalways losing, as they tell me, and Signor Orsino wins from him, and\nthis makes him very wroth, and they have had several hard set-to's about\nit. Then, all those fine ladies are at the castle still; and I declare I\nam frighted, whenever I meet any of them in the passages.'--\n\n'Surely, Annette,' said Emily starting, 'I heard a noise: listen.' After\na long pause, 'No, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'it was only the wind in\nthe gallery; I often hear it, when it shakes the old doors, at the other\nend. But won't you go to bed, ma'amselle? you surely will not sit up\nstarving, all night.' Emily now laid herself down on the mattress, and\ndesired Annette to leave the lamp burning on the hearth; having done\nwhich, the latter placed herself beside Emily, who, however, was not\nsuffered to sleep, for she again thought she heard a noise from the\npassage; and Annette was again trying to convince her, that it was only\nthe wind, when footsteps were distinctly heard near the door. Annette\nwas now starting from the bed, but Emily prevailed with her to remain\nthere, and listened with her in a state of terrible expectation. The\nsteps still loitered at the door, when presently an attempt was made on\nthe lock, and, in the next instant, a voice called. 'For heaven's sake,\nAnnette, do not answer,' said Emily softly, 'remain quite still; but I\nfear we must extinguish the lamp, or its glare will betray us.' 'Holy\nVirgin!' exclaimed Annette, forgetting her discretion, 'I would not be\nin darkness now for the whole world.' While she spoke, the voice became\nlouder than before, and repeated Annette's name; 'Blessed Virgin!' cried\nshe suddenly, 'it is only Ludovico.' She rose to open the door, but\nEmily prevented her, till they should be more certain, that it was he\nalone; with whom Annette, at length, talked for some time, and learned,\nthat he was come to enquire after herself, whom he had let out of her\nroom to go to Emily, and that he was now returned to lock her in again.\nEmily, fearful of being overheard, if they conversed any longer through\nthe door, consented that it should be opened, and a young man appeared,\nwhose open countenance confirmed the favourable opinion of him, which\nhis care of Annette had already prompted her to form. She entreated his\nprotection, should Verezzi make this requisite; and Ludovico offered\nto pass the night in an old chamber, adjoining, that opened from the\ngallery, and, on the first alarm, to come to their defence.\n\nEmily was much soothed by this proposal; and Ludovico, having lighted\nhis lamp, went to his station, while she, once more, endeavoured to\nrepose on her mattress. But a variety of interests pressed upon her\nattention, and prevented sleep. She thought much on what Annette had\ntold her of the dissolute manners of Montoni and his associates, and\nmore of his present conduct towards herself, and of the danger, from\nwhich she had just escaped. From the view of her present situation she\nshrunk, as from a new picture of terror. She saw herself in a castle,\ninhabited by vice and violence, seated beyond the reach of law or\njustice, and in the power of a man, whose perseverance was equal to\nevery occasion, and in whom passions, of which revenge was not the\nweakest, entirely supplied the place of principles. She was compelled,\nonce more, to acknowledge, that it would be folly, and not fortitude,\nany longer to dare his power; and, resigning all hopes of future\nhappiness with Valancourt, she determined, that, on the following\nmorning, she would compromise with Montoni, and give up her estates,\non condition, that he would permit her immediate return to France. Such\nconsiderations kept her waking for many hours; but, the night passed,\nwithout further alarm from Verezzi.\n\nOn the next morning, Emily had a long conversation with Ludovico, in\nwhich she heard circumstances concerning the castle, and received hints\nof the designs of Montoni, that considerably increased her alarms. On\nexpressing her surprise, that Ludovico, who seemed to be so sensible of\nthe evils of his situation, should continue in it, he informed her, that\nit was not his intention to do so, and she then ventured to ask him, if\nhe would assist her to escape from the castle. Ludovico assured her of\nhis readiness to attempt this, but strongly represented the difficulty\nof the enterprise, and the certain destruction which must ensue,\nshould Montoni overtake them, before they had passed the mountains;\nhe, however, promised to be watchful of every circumstance, that might\ncontribute to the success of the attempt, and to think upon some plan of\ndeparture.\n\nEmily now confided to him the name of Valancourt, and begged he would\nenquire for such a person among the prisoners in the castle; for the\nfaint hope, which this conversation awakened, made her now recede from\nher resolution of an immediate compromise with Montoni. She determined,\nif possible, to delay this, till she heard further from Ludovico, and,\nif his designs were found to be impracticable, to resign the estates\nat once. Her thoughts were on this subject, when Montoni, who was now\nrecovered from the intoxication of the preceding night, sent for her,\nand she immediately obeyed the summons. He was alone. 'I find,' said he,\n'that you were not in your chamber, last night; where were you?' Emily\nrelated to him some circumstances of her alarm, and entreated his\nprotection from a repetition of them. 'You know the terms of my\nprotection,' said he; 'if you really value this, you will secure it.'\nHis open declaration, that he would only conditionally protect her,\nwhile she remained a prisoner in the castle, shewed Emily the necessity\nof an immediate compliance with his terms; but she first demanded,\nwhether he would permit her immediately to depart, if she gave up her\nclaim to the contested estates. In a very solemn manner he then assured\nher, that he would, and immediately laid before her a paper, which was\nto transfer the right of those estates to himself.\n\nShe was, for a considerable time, unable to sign it, and her heart\nwas torn with contending interests, for she was about to resign the\nhappiness of all her future years--the hope, which had sustained her in\nso many hours of adversity.\n\nAfter hearing from Montoni a recapitulation of the conditions of her\ncompliance, and a remonstrance, that his time was valuable, she put her\nhand to the paper; when she had done which, she fell back in her chair,\nbut soon recovered, and desired, that he would give orders for her\ndeparture, and that he would allow Annette to accompany her. Montoni\nsmiled. 'It was necessary to deceive you,' said he,--'there was no other\nway of making you act reasonably; you shall go, but it must not be at\npresent. I must first secure these estates by possession: when that is\ndone, you may return to France if you will.'\n\nThe deliberate villany, with which he violated the solemn engagement he\nhad just entered into, shocked Emily as much, as the certainty, that she\nhad made a fruitless sacrifice, and must still remain his prisoner. She\nhad no words to express what she felt, and knew, that it would have been\nuseless, if she had. As she looked piteously at Montoni, he turned away,\nand at the same time desired she would withdraw to her apartment; but,\nunable to leave the room, she sat down in a chair near the door, and\nsighed heavily. She had neither words nor tears.\n\n'Why will you indulge this childish grief?' said he. 'Endeavour to\nstrengthen your mind, to bear patiently what cannot now be avoided; you\nhave no real evil to lament; be patient, and you will be sent back to\nFrance. At present retire to your apartment.'\n\n\n'I dare not go, sir,' said she, 'where I shall be liable to the\nintrusion of Signor Verezzi.' 'Have I not promised to protect you?'\nsaid Montoni. 'You have promised, sir,'--replied Emily, after some\nhesitation. 'And is not my promise sufficient?' added he sternly. 'You\nwill recollect your former promise, Signor,' said Emily, trembling,\n'and may determine for me, whether I ought to rely upon this.' 'Will you\nprovoke me to declare to you, that I will not protect you then?' said\nMontoni, in a tone of haughty displeasure. 'If that will satisfy you,\nI will do it immediately. Withdraw to your chamber, before I retract my\npromise; you have nothing to fear there.' Emily left the room, and moved\nslowly into the hall, where the fear of meeting Verezzi, or Bertolini,\nmade her quicken her steps, though she could scarcely support herself;\nand soon after she reached once more her own apartment. Having looked\nfearfully round her, to examine if any person was there, and having\nsearched every part of it, she fastened the door, and sat down by one of\nthe casements. Here, while she looked out for some hope to support her\nfainting spirits, which had been so long harassed and oppressed, that,\nif she had not now struggled much against misfortune, they would have\nleft her, perhaps, for ever, she endeavoured to believe, that Montoni\ndid really intend to permit her return to France as soon as he had\nsecured her property, and that he would, in the mean time, protect her\nfrom insult; but her chief hope rested with Ludovico, who, she doubted\nnot, would be zealous in her cause, though he seemed almost to despair\nof success in it. One circumstance, however, she had to rejoice in. Her\nprudence, or rather her fears, had saved her from mentioning the name\nof Valancourt to Montoni, which she was several times on the point of\ndoing, before she signed the paper, and of stipulating for his release,\nif he should be really a prisoner in the castle. Had she done this,\nMontoni's jealous fears would now probably have loaded Valancourt\nwith new severities, and have suggested the advantage of holding him a\ncaptive for life.\n\nThus passed the melancholy day, as she had before passed many in this\nsame chamber. When night drew on, she would have withdrawn herself to\nAnnette's bed, had not a particular interest inclined her to remain\nin this chamber, in spite of her fears; for, when the castle should be\nstill, and the customary hour arrived, she determined to watch for the\nmusic, which she had formerly heard. Though its sounds might not enable\nher positively to determine, whether Valancourt was there, they would\nperhaps strengthen her opinion that he was, and impart the comfort, so\nnecessary to her present support.--But, on the other hand, if all should\nbe silent--! She hardly dared to suffer her thoughts to glance that way,\nbut waited, with impatient expectation, the approaching hour.\n\nThe night was stormy; the battlements of the castle appeared to rock in\nthe wind, and, at intervals, long groans seemed to pass on the air,\nsuch as those, which often deceive the melancholy mind, in tempests,\nand amidst scenes of desolation. Emily heard, as formerly, the sentinels\npass along the terrace to their posts, and, looking out from her\ncasement, observed, that the watch was doubled; a precaution, which\nappeared necessary enough, when she threw her eyes on the walls, and saw\ntheir shattered condition. The well-known sounds of the soldiers' march,\nand of their distant voices, which passed her in the wind, and were lost\nagain, recalled to her memory the melancholy sensation she had\nsuffered, when she formerly heard the same sounds; and occasioned almost\ninvoluntary comparisons between her present, and her late situation.\nBut this was no subject for congratulations, and she wisely checked the\ncourse of her thoughts, while, as the hour was not yet come, in which\nshe had been accustomed to hear the music, she closed the casement,\nand endeavoured to await it in patience. The door of the stair-case she\ntried to secure, as usual, with some of the furniture of the room; but\nthis expedient her fears now represented to her to be very inadequate to\nthe power and perseverance of Verezzi; and she often looked at a large\nand heavy chest, that stood in the chamber, with wishes that she and\nAnnette had strength enough to move it. While she blamed the long\nstay of this girl, who was still with Ludovico and some other of the\nservants, she trimmed her wood fire, to make the room appear less\ndesolate, and sat down beside it with a book, which her eyes perused,\nwhile her thoughts wandered to Valancourt, and her own misfortunes. As\nshe sat thus, she thought, in a pause of the wind, she distinguished\nmusic, and went to the casement to listen, but the loud swell of the\ngust overcame every other sound. When the wind sunk again, she heard\ndistinctly, in the deep pause that succeeded, the sweet strings of a\nlute; but again the rising tempest bore away the notes, and again was\nsucceeded by a solemn pause. Emily, trembling with hope and fear, opened\nher casement to listen, and to try whether her own voice could be\nheard by the musician; for to endure any longer this state of torturing\nsuspense concerning Valancourt, seemed to be utterly impossible. There\nwas a kind of breathless stillness in the chambers, that permitted her\nto distinguish from below the tender notes of the very lute she had\nformerly heard, and with it, a plaintive voice, made sweeter by the low\nrustling sound, that now began to creep along the wood-tops, till it\nwas lost in the rising wind. Their tall heads then began to wave, while,\nthrough a forest of pine, on the left, the wind, groaning heavily,\nrolled onward over the woods below, bending them almost to their roots;\nand, as the long-resounding gale swept away, other woods, on the\nright, seemed to answer the 'loud lament;' then, others, further still,\nsoftened it into a murmur, that died into silence. Emily listened,\nwith mingled awe and expectation, hope and fear; and again the melting\nsweetness of the lute was heard, and the same solemn-breathing voice.\nConvinced that these came from an apartment underneath, she leaned far\nout of her window, that she might discover whether any light was there;\nbut the casements below, as well as those above, were sunk so deep in\nthe thick walls of the castle, that she could not see them, or even the\nfaint ray, that probably glimmered through their bars. She then ventured\nto call; but the wind bore her voice to the other end of the terrace,\nand then the music was heard as before, in the pause of the gust.\nSuddenly, she thought she heard a noise in her chamber, and she drew\nherself within the casement; but, in a moment after, distinguishing\nAnnette's voice at the door, she concluded it was her she had heard\nbefore, and she let her in. 'Move softly, Annette, to the casement,'\nsaid she, 'and listen with me; the music is returned.' They were silent\ntill, the measure changing, Annette exclaimed, 'Holy Virgin! I know that\nsong well; it is a French song, one of the favourite songs of my dear\ncountry.' This was the ballad Emily had heard on a former night, though\nnot the one she had first listened to from the fishing-house in Gascony.\n'O! it is a Frenchman, that sings,' said Annette: 'it must be Monsieur\nValancourt.' 'Hark! Annette, do not speak so loud,' said Emily, 'we may\nbe overheard.' 'What! by the Chevalier?' said Annette. 'No,' replied\nEmily mournfully, 'but by somebody, who may report us to the Signor.\nWhat reason have you to think it is Monsieur Valancourt, who sings? But\nhark! now the voice swells louder! Do you recollect those tones? I fear\nto trust my own judgment.' 'I never happened to hear the Chevalier\nsing, Mademoiselle,' replied Annette, who, as Emily was disappointed to\nperceive, had no stronger reason for concluding this to be Valancourt,\nthan that the musician must be a Frenchman. Soon after, she heard the\nsong of the fishing-house, and distinguished her own name, which was\nrepeated so distinctly, that Annette had heard it also. She trembled,\nsunk into a chair by the window, and Annette called aloud, 'Monsieur\nValancourt! Monsieur Valancourt!' while Emily endeavoured to check her,\nbut she repeated the call more loudly than before, and the lute and the\nvoice suddenly stopped. Emily listened, for some time, in a state\nof intolerable suspense; but, no answer being returned, 'It does not\nsignify, Mademoiselle,' said Annette; 'it is the Chevalier, and I will\nspeak to him.' 'No, Annette,' said Emily, 'I think I will speak myself;\nif it is he, he will know my voice, and speak again.' 'Who is it,' said\nshe, 'that sings at this late hour?'\n\nA long silence ensued, and, having repeated the question, she perceived\nsome faint accents, mingling in the blast, that swept by; but the sounds\nwere so distant, and passed so suddenly, that she could scarcely hear\nthem, much less distinguish the words they uttered, or recognise the\nvoice. After another pause, Emily called again; and again they heard\na voice, but as faintly as before; and they perceived, that there were\nother circumstances, besides the strength, and direction of the wind, to\ncontent with; for the great depth, at which the casements were fixed in\nthe castle walls, contributed, still more than the distance, to prevent\narticulated sounds from being understood, though general ones were\neasily heard. Emily, however, ventured to believe, from the circumstance\nof her voice alone having been answered, that the stranger was\nValancourt, as well as that he knew her, and she gave herself up to\nspeechless joy. Annette, however, was not speechless.--She renewed\nher calls, but received no answer; and Emily, fearing, that a further\nattempt, which certainly was, as present, highly dangerous, might expose\nthem to the guards of the castle, while it could not perhaps terminate\nher suspense, insisted on Annette's dropping the enquiry for this night;\nthough she determined herself to question Ludovico, on the subject, in\nthe morning, more urgently than she had yet done. She was now enabled\nto say, that the stranger, whom she had formerly heard, was still in\nthe castle, and to direct Ludovico to that part of it, in which he was\nconfined.\n\nEmily, attended by Annette, continued at the casement, for some time,\nbut all remained still; they heard neither lute or voice again, and\nEmily was now as much oppressed by anxious joy, as she lately was by a\nsense of her misfortunes. With hasty steps she paced the room, now half\ncalling on Valancourt's name, then suddenly stopping, and now going to\nthe casement and listening, where, however, she heard nothing but\nthe solemn waving of the woods. Sometimes her impatience to speak to\nLudovico prompted her to send Annette to call him; but a sense of the\nimpropriety of this at midnight restrained her. Annette, meanwhile, as\nimpatient as her mistress, went as often to the casement to listen, and\nreturned almost as much disappointed. She, at length, mentioned\nSignor Verezzi, and her fear, lest he should enter the chamber by the\nstaircase, door. 'But the night is now almost past, Mademoiselle,' said\nshe, recollecting herself; 'there is the morning light, beginning to\npeep over those mountains yonder in the east.'\n\nEmily had forgotten, till this moment, that such a person existed as\nVerezzi, and all the danger that had appeared to threaten her; but the\nmention of his name renewed her alarm, and she remembered the old chest,\nthat she had wished to place against the door, which she now, with\nAnnette, attempted to move, but it was so heavy, that they could not\nlift it from the floor. 'What is in this great old chest, Mademoiselle,'\nsaid Annette, 'that makes it so weighty?' Emily having replied, 'that\nshe found it in the chamber, when she first came to the castle, and had\nnever examined it.'--'Then I will, ma'amselle,' said Annette, and she\ntried to lift the lid; but this was held by a lock, for which she had\nno key, and which, indeed, appeared, from its peculiar construction, to\nopen with a spring. The morning now glimmered through the casements, and\nthe wind had sunk into a calm. Emily looked out upon the dusky woods,\nand on the twilight mountains, just stealing in the eye, and saw the\nwhole scene, after the storm, lying in profound stillness, the woods\nmotionless, and the clouds above, through which the dawn trembled,\nscarcely appearing to move along the heavens. One soldier was pacing the\nterrace beneath, with measured steps; and two, more distant, were sunk\nasleep on the walls, wearied with the night's watch. Having inhaled, for\na while, the pure spirit of the air, and of vegetation, which the late\nrains had called forth; and having listened, once more, for a note of\nmusic, she now closed the casement, and retired to rest.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\n     Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land,\n For many a long month lost in snow profound,\n When Sol from Cancer sends the seasons bland,\n And in their northern cave the storms hath bound;\n From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound,\n Torrents are hurl'd, green hills emerge, and lo,\n The trees with foliage, cliffs with flow'rs are crown'd;\n Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go;\n And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow.\n     BEATTIE\n\nSeveral of her succeeding days passed in suspense, for Ludovico\ncould only learn from the soldiers, that there was a prisoner in the\napartment, described to him by Emily, and that he was a Frenchman,\nwhom they had taken in one of their skirmishes, with a party of his\ncountrymen. During this interval, Emily escaped the persecutions of\nBertolini, and Verezzi, by confining herself to her apartment; except\nthat sometimes, in an evening, she ventured to walk in the adjoining\ncorridor. Montoni appeared to respect his last promise, though he had\nprophaned his first; for to his protection only could she attribute her\npresent repose; and in this she was now so secure, that she did not wish\nto leave the castle, till she could obtain some certainty concerning\nValancourt; for which she waited, indeed, without any sacrifice of\nher own comfort, since no circumstance had occurred to make her escape\nprobable.\n\nOn the fourth day, Ludovico informed her, that he had hopes of being\nadmitted to the presence of the prisoner; it being the turn of a\nsoldier, with whom he had been for some time familiar, to attend him\non the following night. He was not deceived in his hope; for, under\npretence of carrying in a pitcher of water, he entered the prison,\nthough, his prudence having prevented him from telling the sentinel the\nreal motive of his visit, he was obliged to make his conference with the\nprisoner a very short one.\n\nEmily awaited the result in her own apartment, Ludovico having promised\nto accompany Annette to the corridor, in the evening; where, after\nseveral hours impatiently counted, he arrived. Emily, having then\nuttered the name of Valancourt, could articulate no more, but hesitated\nin trembling expectation. 'The Chevalier would not entrust me with his\nname, Signora,' replied Ludovico; 'but, when I just mentioned yours, he\nseemed overwhelmed with joy, though he was not so much surprised as I\nexpected.' 'Does he then remember me?' she exclaimed.\n\n'O! it is Mons. Valancourt,' said Annette, and looked impatiently at\nLudovico, who understood her look, and replied to Emily: 'Yes, lady, the\nChevalier does, indeed, remember you, and, I am sure, has a very great\nregard for you, and I made bold to say you had for him. He then enquired\nhow you came to know he was in the castle, and whether you ordered me\nto speak to him. The first question I could not answer, but the second I\ndid; and then he went off into his ecstasies again. I was afraid his joy\nwould have betrayed him to the sentinel at the door.'\n\n'But how does he look, Ludovico?' interrupted Emily: 'is he not\nmelancholy and ill with this long confinement?'--'Why, as to melancholy,\nI saw no symptom of that, lady, while I was with him, for he seemed\nin the finest spirits I ever saw any body in, in all my life. His\ncountenance was all joy, and, if one may judge from that, he was very\nwell; but I did not ask him.' 'Did he send me no message?' said Emily.\n'O yes, Signora, and something besides,' replied Ludovico, who searched\nhis pockets. 'Surely, I have not lost it,' added he. 'The Chevalier\nsaid, he would have written, madam, if he had had pen and ink, and was\ngoing to have sent a very long message, when the sentinel entered the\nroom, but not before he had give me this.' Ludovico then drew forth a\nminiature from his bosom, which Emily received with a trembling hand,\nand perceived to be a portrait of herself--the very picture, which her\nmother had lost so strangely in the fishing-house at La Vallee.\n\nTears of mingled joy and tenderness flowed to her eyes, while Ludovico\nproceeded--'\"Tell your lady,\" said the Chevalier, as he gave me the\npicture, \"that this has been my companion, and only solace in all my\nmisfortunes. Tell her, that I have worn it next my heart, and that I\nsent it her as the pledge of an affection, which can never die; that I\nwould not part with it, but to her, for the wealth of worlds, and that I\nnow part with it, only in the hope of soon receiving it from her hands.\nTell her\"--Just then, Signora, the sentinel came in, and the Chevalier\nsaid no more; but he had before asked me to contrive an interview for\nhim with you; and when I told him, how little hope I had of prevailing\nwith the guard to assist me, he said, that was not, perhaps, of so\nmuch consequence as I imagined, and bade me contrive to bring back your\nanswer, and he would inform me of more than he chose to do then. So\nthis, I think, lady, is the whole of what passed.'\n\n'How, Ludovico, shall I reward you for your zeal?' said Emily: 'but,\nindeed, I do not now possess the means. When can you see the Chevalier\nagain?' 'That is uncertain, Signora,' replied he. 'It depends upon who\nstands guard next: there are not more than one or two among them, from\nwhom I would dare to ask admittance to the prison-chamber.'\n\n'I need not bid you remember, Ludovico,' resumed Emily, 'how very much\ninterested I am in your seeing the Chevalier soon; and, when you do so,\ntell him, that I have received the picture, and, with the sentiments he\nwished. Tell him I have suffered much, and still suffer--' She paused.\n'But shall I tell him you will see him, lady?' said Ludovico. 'Most\ncertainly I will,' replied Emily. 'But when, Signora, and where?' 'That\nmust depend upon circumstances,' returned Emily. 'The place, and the\nhour, must be regulated by his opportunities.'\n\n'As to the place, mademoiselle,' said Annette, 'there is no other place\nin the castle, besides this corridor, where WE can see him in safety,\nyou know; and, as for the hour,--it must be when all the Signors are\nasleep, if that ever happens!' 'You may mention these circumstances to\nthe Chevalier, Ludovico,' said she, checking the flippancy of Annette,\n'and leave them to his judgment and opportunity. Tell him, my heart is\nunchanged. But, above all, let him see you again as soon as possible;\nand, Ludovico, I think it is needless to tell you I shall very anxiously\nlook for you.' Having then wished her good night, Ludovico descended\nthe staircase, and Emily retired to rest, but not to sleep, for joy now\nrendered her as wakeful, as she had ever been from grief. Montoni and\nhis castle had all vanished from her mind, like the frightful vision of\na necromancer, and she wandered, once more, in fairy scenes of unfading\nhappiness:\n\n     As when, beneath the beam\n Of summer moons, the distant woods among,\n Or by some flood, all silver'd with the gleam,\n The soft embodied Fays thro' airy portals stream.\n\nA week elapsed, before Ludovico again visited the prison; for the\nsentinels, during that period, were men, in whom he could not confide,\nand he feared to awaken curiosity, by asking to see their prisoner. In\nthis interval, he communicated to Emily terrific reports of what\nwas passing in the castle; of riots, quarrels, and of carousals more\nalarming than either; while from some circumstances, which he mentioned,\nshe not only doubted, whether Montoni meant ever to release her, but\ngreatly feared, that he had designs, concerning her,--such as she\nhad formerly dreaded. Her name was frequently mentioned in the\nconversations, which Bertolini and Verezzi held together, and, at those\ntimes, they were frequently in contention. Montoni had lost large sums\nto Verezzi, so that there was a dreadful possibility of his designing\nher to be a substitute for the debt; but, as she was ignorant, that he\nhad formerly encouraged the hopes of Bertolini also, concerning herself,\nafter the latter had done him some signal service, she knew not how to\naccount for these contentions between Bertolini and Verezzi. The cause\nof them, however, appeared to be of little consequence, for she thought\nshe saw destruction approaching in many forms, and her entreaties to\nLudovico to contrive an escape and to see the prisoner again, were more\nurgent than ever.\n\nAt length, he informed her, that he had again visited the Chevalier, who\nhad directed him to confide in the guard of the prison, from whom he\nhad already received some instances of kindness, and who had promised to\npermit his going into the castle for half an hour, on the ensuing night,\nwhen Montoni and his companions should be engaged at their carousals.\n'This was kind, to be sure,' added Ludovico: 'but Sebastian knows he\nruns no risque in letting the Chevalier out, for, if he can get beyond\nthe bars and iron doors of the castle, he must be cunning indeed. But\nthe Chevalier desired me, Signora, to go to you immediately, and to\nbeg you would allow him to visit you, this night, if it was only for a\nmoment, for that he could no longer live under the same roof, without\nseeing you; the hour, he said, he could not mention, for it must depend\non circumstances (just as you said, Signora); and the place he desired\nyou would appoint, as knowing which was best for your own safety.'\n\nEmily was now so much agitated by the near prospect of meeting\nValancourt, that it was some time, before she could give any answer to\nLudovico, or consider of the place of meeting; when she did, she saw\nnone, that promised so much security, as the corridor, near her own\napartment, which she was checked from leaving, by the apprehension of\nmeeting any of Montoni's guests, on their way to their rooms; and she\ndismissed the scruples, which delicacy opposed, now that a serious\ndanger was to be avoided by encountering them. It was settled,\ntherefore, that the Chevalier should meet her in the corridor, at that\nhour of the night, which Ludovico, who was to be upon the watch, should\njudge safest: and Emily, as may be imagined, passed this interval in\na tumult of hope and joy, anxiety and impatience. Never, since her\nresidence in the castle, had she watched, with so much pleasure, the\nsun set behind the mountains, and twilight shade, and darkness veil the\nscene, as on this evening. She counted the notes of the great clock, and\nlistened to the steps of the sentinels, as they changed the watch,\nonly to rejoice, that another hour was gone. 'O, Valancourt!' said she,\n'after all I have suffered; after our long, long separation, when I\nthought I should never--never see you more--we are still to meet again!\nO! I have endured grief, and anxiety, and terror, and let me, then, not\nsink beneath this joy!' These were moments, when it was impossible\nfor her to feel emotions of regret, or melancholy, for any ordinary\ninterests;--even the reflection, that she had resigned the estates,\nwhich would have been a provision for herself and Valancourt for life,\nthrew only a light and transient shade upon her spirits. The idea of\nValancourt, and that she should see him so soon, alone occupied her\nheart.\n\nAt length the clock struck twelve; she opened the door to listen, if\nany noise was in the castle, and heard only distant shouts of riot and\nlaughter, echoed feebly along the gallery. She guessed, that the Signor\nand his guests were at the banquet. 'They are now engaged for the\nnight,' said she; 'and Valancourt will soon be here.' Having softly\nclosed the door, she paced the room with impatient steps, and often went\nto the casement to listen for the lute; but all was silent, and, her\nagitation every moment increasing, she was at length unable to support\nherself, and sat down by the window. Annette, whom she detained, was, in\nthe meantime, as loquacious as usual; but Emily heard scarcely any thing\nshe said, and having at length risen to the casement, she distinguished\nthe chords of the lute, struck with an expressive hand, and then the\nvoice, she had formerly listened to, accompanied it.\n\n     Now rising love they fann'd, now pleasing dole\n They breath'd in tender musings through the heart;\n And now a graver, sacred strain they stole,\n As when seraphic hands an hymn impart!\n\nEmily wept in doubtful joy and tenderness; and, when the strain ceased,\nshe considered it as a signal, that Valancourt was about to leave the\nprison. Soon after, she heard steps in the corridor;--they were the\nlight, quick steps of hope; she could scarcely support herself, as they\napproached, but opening the door of the apartment, she advanced to meet\nValancourt, and, in the next moment, sunk in the arms of a stranger. His\nvoice--his countenance instantly convinced her, and she fainted away.\n\nOn reviving, she found herself supported by the stranger, who was\nwatching over her recovery, with a countenance of ineffable tenderness\nand anxiety. She had no spirits for reply, or enquiry; she asked no\nquestions, but burst into tears, and disengaged herself from his\narms; when the expression of his countenance changed to surprise and\ndisappointment, and he turned to Ludovico, for an explanation; Annette\nsoon gave the information, which Ludovico could not. 'O, sir!' said\nshe, in a voice, interrupted with sobs; 'O, sir! you are not the other\nChevalier. We expected Monsieur Valancourt, but you are not he! O\nLudovico! how could you deceive us so? my poor lady will never recover\nit--never!' The stranger, who now appeared much agitated, attempted to\nspeak, but his words faltered; and then striking his hand against his\nforehead, as if in sudden despair, he walked abruptly to the other end\nof the corridor.\n\nSuddenly, Annette dried her tears, and spoke to Ludovico. 'But,\nperhaps,' said she, 'after all, the other Chevalier is not this: perhaps\nthe Chevalier Valancourt is still below.' Emily raised her head.\n'No,' replied Ludovico, 'Monsieur Valancourt never was below, if this\ngentleman is not he.' 'If you, sir,' said Ludovico, addressing the\nstranger, 'would but have had the goodness to trust me with your name,\nthis mistake had been avoided.' 'Most true,' replied the stranger,\nspeaking in broken Italian, 'but it was of the utmost consequence to me,\nthat my name should be concealed from Montoni. Madam,' added he then,\naddressing Emily in French, 'will you permit me to apologize for the\npain I have occasioned you, and to explain to you alone my name, and the\ncircumstance, which has led me into this error? I am of France;--I am\nyour countryman;--we are met in a foreign land.' Emily tried to\ncompose her spirits; yet she hesitated to grant his request. At length,\ndesiring, that Ludovico would wait on the stair-case, and detaining\nAnnette, she told the stranger, that her woman understood very little\nItalian, and begged he would communicate what he wished to say, in that\nlanguage.--Having withdrawn to a distant part of the corridor, he said,\nwith a long-drawn sigh, 'You, madam, are no stranger to me, though I am\nso unhappy as to be unknown to you.--My name is Du Pont; I am of France,\nof Gascony, your native province, and have long admired,--and, why\nshould I affect to disguise it?--have long loved you.' He paused,\nbut, in the next moment, proceeded. 'My family, madam, is probably not\nunknown to you, for we lived within a few miles of La Vallee, and I\nhave, sometimes, had the happiness of meeting you, on visits in\nthe neighbourhood. I will not offend you by repeating how much you\ninterested me; how much I loved to wander in the scenes you frequented;\nhow often I visited your favourite fishing-house, and lamented the\ncircumstance, which, at that time, forbade me to reveal my passion. I\nwill not explain how I surrendered to temptation, and became possessed\nof a treasure, which was to me inestimable; a treasure, which I\ncommitted to your messenger, a few days ago, with expectations\nvery different from my present ones. I will say nothing of these\ncircumstances, for I know they will avail me little; let me only\nsupplicate from you forgiveness, and the picture, which I so unwarily\nreturned. Your generosity will pardon the theft, and restore the\nprize. My crime has been my punishment; for the portrait I stole has\ncontributed to nourish a passion, which must still be my torment.'\n\nEmily now interrupted him. 'I think, sir, I may leave it to your\nintegrity to determine, whether, after what has just appeared,\nconcerning Mons. Valancourt, I ought to return the picture. I think you\nwill acknowledge, that this would not be generosity; and you will allow\nme to add, that it would be doing myself an injustice. I must consider\nmyself honoured by your good opinion, but'--and she hesitated,--'the\nmistake of this evening makes it unnecessary for me to say more.'\n\n'It does, madam,--alas! it does!' said the stranger, who, after a long\npause, proceeded.--'But you will allow me to shew my disinterestedness,\nthough not my love, and will accept the services I offer. Yet, alas!\nwhat services can I offer? I am myself a prisoner, a sufferer, like\nyou. But, dear as liberty is to me, I would not seek it through half\nthe hazards I would encounter to deliver you from this recess of vice.\nAccept the offered services of a friend; do not refuse me the reward of\nhaving, at least, attempted to deserve your thanks.'\n\n'You deserve them already, sir,' said Emily; 'the wish deserves my\nwarmest thanks. But you will excuse me for reminding you of the danger\nyou incur by prolonging this interview. It will be a great consolation\nto me to remember, whether your friendly attempts to release me succeed\nor not, that I have a countryman, who would so generously protect\nme.'--Monsieur Du Pont took her hand, which she but feebly attempted to\nwithdraw, and pressed it respectfully to his lips. 'Allow me to breathe\nanother fervent sigh for your happiness,' said he, 'and to applaud\nmyself for an affection, which I cannot conquer.' As he said this, Emily\nheard a noise from her apartment, and, turning round, saw the door from\nthe stair-case open, and a man rush into her chamber. 'I will teach you\nto conquer it,' cried he, as he advanced into the corridor, and drew a\nstiletto, which he aimed at Du Pont, who was unarmed, but who, stepping\nback, avoided the blow, and then sprung upon Verezzi, from whom he\nwrenched the stiletto. While they struggled in each other's grasp,\nEmily, followed by Annette, ran further into the corridor, calling\non Ludovico, who was, however, gone from the stair-case, and, as she\nadvanced, terrified and uncertain what to do, a distant noise, that\nseemed to arise from the hall, reminded her of the danger she was\nincurring; and, sending Annette forward in search of Ludovico, she\nreturned to the spot where Du Pont and Verezzi were still struggling for\nvictory. It was her own cause which was to be decided with that of\nthe former, whose conduct, independently of this circumstance, would,\nhowever, have interested her in his success, even had she not disliked\nand dreaded Verezzi. She threw herself in a chair, and supplicated them\nto desist from further violence, till, at length, Du Pont forced Verezzi\nto the floor, where he lay stunned by the violence of his fall; and she\nthen entreated Du Pont to escape from the room, before Montoni, or his\nparty, should appear; but he still refused to leave her unprotected;\nand, while Emily, now more terrified for him, than for herself, enforced\nthe entreaty, they heard steps ascending the private stair-case.\n\n'O you are lost!' cried she, 'these are Montoni's people.' Du Pont\nmade no reply, but supported Emily, while, with a steady, though eager,\ncountenance, he awaited their appearance, and, in the next moment,\nLudovico, alone, mounted the landing-place. Throwing an hasty glance\nround the chamber, 'Follow me,' said he, 'as you value your lives; we\nhave not an instant to lose!'\n\nEmily enquired what had occurred, and whither they were to go?\n\n'I cannot stay to tell you now, Signora,' replied Ludovico: 'fly! fly!'\n\nShe immediately followed him, accompanied by Mons. Du Pont, down the\nstair-case, and along a vaulted passage, when suddenly she recollected\nAnnette, and enquired for her. 'She awaits us further on, Signora,' said\nLudovico, almost breathless with haste; 'the gates were open, a moment\nsince, to a party just come in from the mountains: they will be shut,\nI fear, before we can reach them! Through this door, Signora,' added\nLudovico, holding down the lamp, 'take care, here are two steps.'\n\nEmily followed, trembling still more, than before she had understood,\nthat her escape from the castle, depended upon the present moment; while\nDu Pont supported her, and endeavoured, as they passed along, to cheer\nher spirits.\n\n'Speak low, Signor,' said Ludovico, 'these passages send echoes all\nround the castle.'\n\n'Take care of the light,' cried Emily, 'you go so fast, that the air\nwill extinguish it.'\n\nLudovico now opened another door, where they found Annette, and the\nparty then descended a short flight of steps into a passage, which,\nLudovico said, led round the inner court of the castle, and opened into\nthe outer one. As they advanced, confused and tumultuous sounds, that\nseemed to come from the inner court, alarmed Emily. 'Nay, Signora,' said\nLudovico, 'our only hope is in that tumult; while the Signor's people\nare busied about the men, who are just arrived, we may, perhaps, pass\nunnoticed through the gates. But hush!' he added, as they approached the\nsmall door, that opened into the outer court, 'if you will remain here a\nmoment, I will go to see whether the gates are open, and any body is\nin the way. Pray extinguish the light, Signor, if you hear me talking,'\ncontinued Ludovico, delivering the lamp to Du Pont, 'and remain quite\nstill.'\n\nSaying this, he stepped out upon the court, and they closed the door,\nlistening anxiously to his departing steps. No voice, however, was heard\nin the court, which he was crossing, though a confusion of many voices\nyet issued from the inner one. 'We shall soon be beyond the walls,' said\nDu Pont softly to Emily, 'support yourself a little longer, Madam, and\nall will be well.'\n\nBut soon they heard Ludovico speaking loud, and the voice also of some\nother person, and Du Pont immediately extinguished the lamp. 'Ah! it\nis too late!' exclaimed Emily, 'what is to become of us?' They listened\nagain, and then perceived, that Ludovico was talking with a sentinel,\nwhose voices were heard also by Emily's favourite dog, that had followed\nher from the chamber, and now barked loudly. 'This dog will betray us!'\nsaid Du Pont, 'I will hold him.' 'I fear he has already betrayed us!'\nreplied Emily. Du Pont, however, caught him up, and, again listening\nto what was going on without, they heard Ludovico say, 'I'll watch the\ngates the while.'\n\n'Stay a minute,' replied the sentinel, 'and you need not have the\ntrouble, for the horses will be sent round to the outer stables, then\nthe gates will be shut, and I can leave my post.' 'I don't mind the\ntrouble, comrade,' said Ludovico, 'you will do such another good turn\nfor me, some time. Go--go, and fetch the wine; the rogues, that are just\ncome in, will drink it all else.'\n\nThe soldier hesitated, and then called aloud to the people in the second\ncourt, to know why they did not send out the horses, that the gates\nmight be shut; but they were too much engaged, to attend to him, even if\nthey had heard his voice.\n\n'Aye--aye,' said Ludovico, 'they know better than that; they are sharing\nit all among them; if you wait till the horses come out, you must wait\ntill the wine is drunk. I have had my share already, but, since you do\nnot care about yours, I see no reason why I should not have that too.'\n\n'Hold, hold, not so fast,' cried the sentinel, 'do watch then, for a\nmoment: I'll be with you presently.'\n\n'Don't hurry yourself,' said Ludovico, coolly, 'I have kept guard before\nnow. But you may leave me your trombone,* that, if the castle should be\nattacked, you know, I may be able to defend the pass, like a hero.'\n\n(* A kind of blunderbuss. [A. R.])\n\n\n'There, my good fellow,' returned the soldier, 'there, take it--it has\nseen service, though it could do little in defending the castle. I'll\ntell you a good story, though, about this same trombone.'\n\n'You'll tell it better when you have had the wine,' said Ludovico.\n'There! they are coming out from the court already.'\n\n'I'll have the wine, though,' said the sentinel, running off. 'I won't\nkeep you a minute.'\n\n'Take your time, I am in no haste,' replied Ludovico, who was already\nhurrying across the court, when the soldier came back. 'Whither so fast,\nfriend--whither so fast?' said the latter. 'What! is this the way you\nkeep watch! I must stand to my post myself, I see.'\n\n'Aye, well,' replied Ludovico, 'you have saved me the trouble of\nfollowing you further, for I wanted to tell you, if you have a mind to\ndrink the Tuscany wine, you must go to Sebastian, he is dealing it out;\nthe other that Federico has, is not worth having. But you are not likely\nto have any, I see, for they are all coming out.'\n\n'By St. Peter! so they are,' said the soldier, and again ran off, while\nLudovico, once more at liberty, hastened to the door of the passage,\nwhere Emily was sinking under the anxiety this long discourse had\noccasioned; but, on his telling them the court was clear, they followed\nhim to the gates, without waiting another instant, yet not before he\nhad seized two horses, that had strayed from the second court, and were\npicking a scanty meal among the grass, which grew between the pavement\nof the first.\n\nThey passed, without interruption, the dreadful gates, and took the road\nthat led down among the woods, Emily, Monsieur Du Pont and Annette on\nfoot, and Ludovico, who was mounted on one horse, leading the other.\nHaving reached them, they stopped, while Emily and Annette were placed\non horseback with their two protectors, when, Ludovico leading the way,\nthey set off as fast as the broken road, and the feeble light, which a\nrising moon threw among the foliage, would permit.\n\nEmily was so much astonished by this sudden departure, that she scarcely\ndared to believe herself awake; and she yet much doubted whether this\nadventure would terminate in escape,--a doubt, which had too much\nprobability to justify it; for, before they quitted the woods, they\nheard shouts in the wind, and, on emerging from them, saw lights moving\nquickly near the castle above. Du Pont whipped his horse, and with some\ndifficulty compelled him to go faster.\n\n'Ah! poor beast,' said Ludovico, 'he is weary enough;--he has been out\nall day; but, Signor, we must fly for it, now; for yonder are lights\ncoming this way.'\n\nHaving given his own horse a lash, they now both set off on a full\ngallop; and, when they again looked back, the lights were so distant\nas scarcely to be discerned, and the voices were sunk into silence. The\ntravellers then abated their pace, and, consulting whither they should\ndirect their course, it was determined they should descend into Tuscany,\nand endeavour to reach the Mediterranean, where they could readily\nembark for France. Thither Du Pont meant to attend Emily, if he should\nlearn, that the regiment he had accompanied into Italy, was returned to\nhis native country.\n\nThey were now in the road, which Emily had travelled with Ugo and\nBertrand; but Ludovico, who was the only one of the party, acquainted\nwith the passes of these mountains, said, that, a little further on, a\nbye-road, branching from this, would lead them down into Tuscany with\nvery little difficulty; and that, at a few leagues distance, was a small\ntown, where necessaries could be procured for their journey.\n\n'But, I hope,' added he, 'we shall meet with no straggling parties of\nbanditti; some of them are abroad, I know. However, I have got a good\ntrombone, which will be of some service, if we should encounter any of\nthose brave spirits. You have no arms, Signor?' 'Yes,' replied Du Pont,\n'I have the villain's stilletto, who would have stabbed me--but let us\nrejoice in our escape from Udolpho, nor torment ourselves with looking\nout for dangers, that may never arrive.'\n\nThe moon was now risen high over the woods, that hung upon the sides of\nthe narrow glen, through which they wandered, and afforded them light\nsufficient to distinguish their way, and to avoid the loose and broken\nstones, that frequently crossed it. They now travelled leisurely, and\nin profound silence; for they had scarcely yet recovered from the\nastonishment, into which this sudden escape had thrown them.--Emily's\nmind, especially, was sunk, after the various emotions it had suffered,\ninto a kind of musing stillness, which the reposing beauty of the\nsurrounding scene and the creeping murmur of the night-breeze among the\nfoliage above contributed to prolong. She thought of Valancourt and of\nFrance, with hope, and she would have thought of them with joy, had\nnot the first events of this evening harassed her spirits too much, to\npermit her now to feel so lively a sensation. Meanwhile, Emily was\nalone the object of Du Pont's melancholy consideration; yet, with the\ndespondency he suffered, as he mused on his recent disappointment, was\nmingled a sweet pleasure, occasioned by her presence, though they\ndid not now exchange a single word. Annette thought of this wonderful\nescape, of the bustle in which Montoni and his people must be, now that\ntheir flight was discovered; of her native country, whither she hoped\nshe was returning, and of her marriage with Ludovico, to which there no\nlonger appeared any impediment, for poverty she did not consider such.\nLudovico, on his part, congratulated himself, on having rescued his\nAnnette and Signora Emily from the danger, that had surrounded them; on\nhis own liberation from people, whose manners he had long detested;\non the freedom he had given to Monsieur Du Pont; on his prospect of\nhappiness with the object of his affections, and not a little on the\naddress, with which he had deceived the sentinel, and conducted the\nwhole of this affair.\n\nThus variously engaged in thought, the travellers passed on silently,\nfor above an hour, a question only being, now and then, asked by Du\nPont, concerning the road, or a remark uttered by Annette, respecting\nobjects, seen imperfectly in the twilight. At length, lights were\nperceived twinkling on the side of a mountain, and Ludovico had no\ndoubt, that they proceeded from the town he had mentioned, while his\ncompanions, satisfied by this assurance, sunk again into silence.\nAnnette was the first who interrupted this. 'Holy Peter!' said she,\n'What shall we do for money on our journey? for I know neither I, or my\nlady, have a single sequin; the Signor took care of that!'\n\nThis remark produced a serious enquiry, which ended in as serious an\nembarrassment, for Du Pont had been rifled of nearly all his money, when\nhe was taken prisoner; the remainder he had given to the sentinel, who\nhad enabled him occasionally to leave his prison-chamber; and Ludovico,\nwho had for some time found a difficulty, in procuring any part of the\nwages due to him, had now scarcely cash sufficient to procure necessary\nrefreshment at the first town, in which they should arrive.\n\nTheir poverty was the more distressing, since it would detain them\namong the mountains, where, even in a town, they could scarcely consider\nthemselves safe from Montoni. The travellers, however, had only to\nproceed and dare the future; and they continued their way through lonely\nwilds and dusky vallies, where the overhanging foliage now admitted, and\nthen excluded the moon-light;--wilds so desolate, that they appeared, on\nthe first glance, as if no human being had ever trode them before. Even\nthe road, in which the party were, did but slightly contradict this\nerror, for the high grass and other luxuriant vegetation, with which it\nwas overgrown, told how very seldom the foot of a traveller had passed\nit.\n\nAt length, from a distance, was heard the faint tinkling of a\nsheep-bell; and, soon after, the bleat of flocks, and the party then\nknew, that they were near some human habitation, for the light, which\nLudovico had fancied to proceed from a town, had long been concealed by\nintervening mountains. Cheered by this hope, they quickened their pace\nalong the narrow pass they were winding, and it opened upon one of those\npastoral vallies of the Apennines, which might be painted for a scene\nof Arcadia, and whose beauty and simplicity are finely contrasted by the\ngrandeur of the snow-topt mountains above.\n\nThe morning light, now glimmering in the horizon, shewed faintly, at\na little distance, upon the brow of a hill, which seemed to peep from\n'under the opening eye-lids of the morn,' the town they were in\nsearch of, and which they soon after reached. It was not without some\ndifficulty, that they there found a house, which could afford shelter\nfor themselves and their horses; and Emily desired they might not rest\nlonger than was necessary for refreshment. Her appearance excited some\nsurprise, for she was without a hat, having had time only to throw on\nher veil before she left the castle, a circumstance, that compelled her\nto regret again the want of money, without which it was impossible to\nprocure this necessary article of dress.\n\nLudovico, on examining his purse, found it even insufficient to supply\npresent refreshment, and Du Pont, at length, ventured to inform the\nlandlord, whose countenance was simple and honest, of their exact\nsituation, and requested, that he would assist them to pursue their\njourney; a purpose, which he promised to comply with, as far as he was\nable, when he learned that they were prisoners escaping from Montoni,\nwhom he had too much reason to hate. But, though he consented to lend\nthem fresh horses to carry them to the next town, he was too poor\nhimself to trust them with money, and they were again lamenting their\npoverty, when Ludovico, who had been with his tired horses to the hovel,\nwhich served for a stable, entered the room, half frantic with joy, in\nwhich his auditors soon participated. On removing the saddle from one of\nthe horses, he had found beneath it a small bag, containing, no doubt,\nthe booty of one of the condottieri, who had returned from a plundering\nexcursion, just before Ludovico left the castle, and whose horse having\nstrayed from the inner court, while his master was engaged in drinking,\nhad brought away the treasure, which the ruffian had considered the\nreward of his exploit.\n\nOn counting over this, Du Pont found, that it would be more than\nsufficient to carry them all to France, where he now determined to\naccompany Emily, whether he should obtain intelligence of his regiment,\nor not; for, though he had as much confidence in the integrity of\nLudovico, as his small knowledge of him allowed, he could not endure the\nthought of committing her to his care for the voyage; nor, perhaps, had\nhe resolution enough to deny himself the dangerous pleasure, which he\nmight derive from her presence.\n\nHe now consulted them, concerning the sea-port, to which they should\ndirect their way, and Ludovico, better informed of the geography of the\ncountry, said, that Leghorn was the nearest port of consequence, which\nDu Pont knew also to be the most likely of any in Italy to assist\ntheir plan, since from thence vessels of all nations were continually\ndeparting. Thither, therefore, it was determined, that they should\nproceed.\n\nEmily, having purchased a little straw hat, such as was worn by the\npeasant girls of Tuscany, and some other little necessary equipments for\nthe journey, and the travellers, having exchanged their tired horses for\nothers better able to carry them, re-commenced their joyous way, as the\nsun was rising over the mountains, and, after travelling through this\nromantic country, for several hours, began to descend into the vale\nof Arno. And here Emily beheld all the charms of sylvan and pastoral\nlandscape united, adorned with the elegant villas of the Florentine\nnobles, and diversified with the various riches of cultivation. How\nvivid the shrubs, that embowered the slopes, with the woods, that\nstretched amphitheatrically along the mountains! and, above all, how\nelegant the outline of these waving Apennines, now softening from the\nwildness, which their interior regions exhibited! At a distance, in the\neast, Emily discovered Florence, with its towers rising on the\nbrilliant horizon, and its luxuriant plain, spreading to the feet of\nthe Apennines, speckled with gardens and magnificent villas, or coloured\nwith groves of orange and lemon, with vines, corn, and plantations of\nolives and mulberry; while, to the west, the vale opened to the waters\nof the Mediterranean, so distant, that they were known only by a blueish\nline, that appeared upon the horizon, and by the light marine vapour,\nwhich just stained the aether above.\n\nWith a full heart, Emily hailed the waves, that were to bear her back to\nher native country, the remembrance of which, however, brought with it\na pang; for she had there no home to receive, no parents to welcome her,\nbut was going, like a forlorn pilgrim, to weep over the sad spot, where\nhe, who WAS her father, lay interred. Nor were her spirits cheered,\nwhen she considered how long it would probably be before she should see\nValancourt, who might be stationed with his regiment in a distant part\nof France, and that, when they did meet, it would be only to lament\nthe successful villany of Montoni; yet, still she would have felt\ninexpressible delight at the thought of being once more in the same\ncountry with Valancourt, had it even been certain, that she could not\nsee him.\n\nThe intense heat, for it was now noon, obliged the travellers to look\nout for a shady recess, where they might rest, for a few hours, and\nthe neighbouring thickets, abounding with wild grapes, raspberries, and\nfigs, promised them grateful refreshment. Soon after, they turned\nfrom the road into a grove, whose thick foliage entirely excluded the\nsun-beams, and where a spring, gushing from the rock, gave coolness to\nthe air; and, having alighted and turned the horses to graze, Annette\nand Ludovico ran to gather fruit from the surrounding thickets, of which\nthey soon returned with an abundance. The travellers, seated under the\nshade of a pine and cypress grove and on turf, enriched with such a\nprofusion of fragrant flowers, as Emily had scarcely ever seen, even\namong the Pyrenees, took their simple repast, and viewed, with new\ndelight, beneath the dark umbrage of gigantic pines, the glowing\nlandscape stretching to the sea.\n\nEmily and Du Pont gradually became thoughtful and silent; but Annette\nwas all joy and loquacity, and Ludovico was gay, without forgetting the\nrespectful distance, which was due to his companions. The repast being\nover, Du Pont recommended Emily to endeavour to sleep, during these\nsultry hours, and, desiring the servants would do the same, said he\nwould watch the while; but Ludovico wished to spare him this trouble;\nand Emily and Annette, wearied with travelling, tried to repose, while\nhe stood guard with his trombone.\n\nWhen Emily, refreshed by slumber, awoke, she found the sentinel asleep\non his post and Du Pont awake, but lost in melancholy thought. As the\nsun was yet too high to allow them to continue their journey, and as\nit was necessary, that Ludovico, after the toils and trouble he had\nsuffered, should finish his sleep, Emily took this opportunity of\nenquiring by what accident Du Pont became Montoni's prisoner, and he,\npleased with the interest this enquiry expressed and with the excuse\nit gave him for talking to her of himself, immediately answered her\ncuriosity.\n\n'I came into Italy, madam,' said Du Pont, 'in the service of my country.\nIn an adventure among the mountains our party, engaging with the bands\nof Montoni, was routed, and I, with a few of my comrades, was taken\nprisoner. When they told me, whose captive I was, the name of Montoni\nstruck me, for I remembered, that Madame Cheron, your aunt, had married\nan Italian of that name, and that you had accompanied them into Italy.\nIt was not, however, till some time after, that I became convinced this\nwas the same Montoni, or learned that you, madam, was under the same\nroof with myself. I will not pain you by describing what were my\nemotions upon this discovery, which I owed to a sentinel, whom I had\nso far won to my interest, that he granted me many indulgences, one of\nwhich was very important to me, and somewhat dangerous to himself; but\nhe persisted in refusing to convey any letter, or notice of my situation\nto you, for he justly dreaded a discovery and the consequent vengeance\nof Montoni. He however enabled me to see you more than once. You are\nsurprised, madam, and I will explain myself. My health and spirits\nsuffered extremely from want of air and exercise, and, at length, I\ngained so far upon the pity, or the avarice of the man, that he gave me\nthe means of walking on the terrace.'\n\nEmily now listened, with very anxious attention, to the narrative of Du\nPont, who proceeded:\n\n'In granting this indulgence, he knew, that he had nothing to apprehend\nfrom a chance of my escaping from a castle, which was vigilantly\nguarded, and the nearest terrace of which rose over a perpendicular\nrock; he shewed me also,' continued Du Pont, 'a door concealed in\nthe cedar wainscot of the apartment where I was confined, which he\ninstructed me how to open; and which, leading into a passage, formed\nwithin the thickness of the wall, that extended far along the castle,\nfinally opened in an obscure corner of the eastern rampart. I have since\nbeen informed, that there are many passages of the same kind\nconcealed within the prodigious walls of that edifice, and which were,\nundoubtedly, contrived for the purpose of facilitating escapes in time\nof war. Through this avenue, at the dead of night, I often stole to the\nterrace, where I walked with the utmost caution, lest my steps should\nbetray me to the sentinels on duty in distant parts; for this end of it,\nbeing guarded by high buildings, was not watched by soldiers. In one of\nthese midnight wanderings, I saw light in a casement that overlooked the\nrampart, and which, I observed, was immediately over my prison-chamber.\nIt occurred to me, that you might be in that apartment, and, with the\nhope of seeing you, I placed myself opposite to the window.'\n\nEmily, remembering the figure that had formerly appeared on the terrace,\nand which had occasioned her so much anxiety, exclaimed, 'It was you\nthen, Monsieur Du Pont, who occasioned me much foolish terror; my\nspirits were, at that time, so much weakened by long suffering, that\nthey took alarm at every hint.' Du Pont, after lamenting, that he\nhad occasioned her any apprehension, added, 'As I rested on the\nwall, opposite to your casement, the consideration of your melancholy\nsituation and of my own called from me involuntary sounds of\nlamentation, which drew you, I fancy, to the casement; I saw there a\nperson, whom I believed to be you. O! I will say nothing of my emotion\nat that moment; I wished to speak, but prudence restrained me, till\nthe distant foot-step of a sentinel compelled me suddenly to quit my\nstation.\n\n'It was some time, before I had another opportunity of walking, for I\ncould only leave my prison, when it happened to be the turn of one\nman to guard me; meanwhile I became convinced from some circumstances\nrelated by him, that your apartment was over mine, and, when again I\nventured forth, I returned to your casement, where again I saw you, but\nwithout daring to speak. I waved my hand, and you suddenly disappeared;\nthen it was, that I forgot my prudence, and yielded to lamentation;\nagain you appeared--you spoke--I heard the well-known accent of your\nvoice! and, at that moment, my discretion would have forsaken me\nagain, had I not heard also the approaching steps of a soldier, when I\ninstantly quitted the place, though not before the man had seen me.\nHe followed down the terrace and gained so fast upon me, that I was\ncompelled to make use of a stratagem, ridiculous enough, to save myself.\nI had heard of the superstition of many of these men, and I uttered\na strange noise, with a hope, that my pursuer would mistake it for\nsomething supernatural, and desist from pursuit. Luckily for myself I\nsucceeded; the man, it seems, was subject to fits, and the terror he\nsuffered threw him into one, by which accident I secured my retreat. A\nsense of the danger I had escaped, and the increased watchfulness, which\nmy appearance had occasioned among the sentinels, deterred me ever\nafter from walking on the terrace; but, in the stillness of night,\nI frequently beguiled myself with an old lute, procured for me by a\nsoldier, which I sometimes accompanied with my voice, and sometimes, I\nwill acknowledge, with a hope of making myself heard by you; but it was\nonly a few evenings ago, that this hope was answered. I then thought I\nheard a voice in the wind, calling me; yet, even then I feared to reply,\nlest the sentinel at the prison door should hear me. Was I right, madam,\nin this conjecture--was it you who spoke?'\n\n'Yes,' said Emily, with an involuntary sigh, 'you was right indeed.'\n\nDu Pont, observing the painful emotions, which this question revived,\nnow changed the subject. 'In one of my excursions through the passage,\nwhich I have mentioned, I overheard a singular conversation,' said he.\n\n'In the passage!' said Emily, with surprise.\n\n'I heard it in the passage,' said Du Pont, 'but it proceeded from an\napartment, adjoining the wall, within which the passage wound, and the\nshell of the wall was there so thin, and was also somewhat decayed,\nthat I could distinctly hear every word, spoken on the other side. It\nhappened that Montoni and his companions were assembled in the room,\nand Montoni began to relate the extraordinary history of the lady, his\npredecessor, in the castle. He did, indeed, mention some very surprising\ncircumstances, and whether they were strictly true, his conscience\nmust decide; I fear it will determine against him. But you, madam, have\ndoubtless heard the report, which he designs should circulate, on the\nsubject of that lady's mysterious fate.'\n\n'I have, sir,' replied Emily, 'and I perceive, that you doubt it.'\n\n'I doubted it before the period I am speaking of,' rejoined Du\nPont;--'but some circumstances, mentioned by Montoni, greatly\ncontributed to my suspicions. The account I then heard, almost convinced\nme, that he was a murderer. I trembled for you;--the more so that I had\nheard the guests mention your name in a manner, that threatened your\nrepose; and, knowing, that the most impious men are often the most\nsuperstitious, I determined to try whether I could not awaken their\nconsciences, and awe them from the commission of the crime I dreaded. I\nlistened closely to Montoni, and, in the most striking passages of his\nstory, I joined my voice, and repeated his last words, in a disguised\nand hollow tone.'\n\n'But was you not afraid of being discovered?' said Emily.\n\n'I was not,' replied Du Pont; 'for I knew, that, if Montoni had been\nacquainted with the secret of this passage, he would not have confined\nme in the apartment, to which it led. I knew also, from better\nauthority, that he was ignorant of it. The party, for some time,\nappeared inattentive to my voice; but, at length, were so much alarmed,\nthat they quitted the apartment; and, having heard Montoni order his\nservants to search it, I returned to my prison, which was very distant\nfrom this part of the passage.' 'I remember perfectly to have heard of\nthe conversation you mention,' said Emily; 'it spread a general alarm\namong Montoni's people, and I will own I was weak enough to partake of\nit.'\n\nMonsieur Du Pont and Emily thus continued to converse of Montoni, and\nthen of France, and of the plan of their voyage; when Emily told him,\nthat it was her intention to retire to a convent in Languedoc, where she\nhad been formerly treated with much kindness, and from thence to write\nto her relation Monsieur Quesnel, and inform him of her conduct. There,\nshe designed to wait, till La Vallee should again be her own, whither\nshe hoped her income would some time permit her to return; for Du\nPont now taught her to expect, that the estate, of which Montoni had\nattempted to defraud her, was not irrecoverably lost, and he again\ncongratulated her on her escape from Montoni, who, he had not a doubt,\nmeant to have detained her for life. The possibility of recovering her\naunt's estates for Valancourt and herself lighted up a joy in Emily's\nheart, such as she had not known for many months; but she endeavoured to\nconceal this from Monsieur Du Pont, lest it should lead him to a painful\nremembrance of his rival.\n\nThey continued to converse, till the sun was declining in the west, when\nDu Pont awoke Ludovico, and they set forward on their journey. Gradually\ndescending the lower slopes of the valley, they reached the Arno, and\nwound along its pastoral margin, for many miles, delighted with the\nscenery around them, and with the remembrances, which its classic waves\nrevived. At a distance, they heard the gay song of the peasants among\nthe vineyards, and observed the setting sun tint the waves with yellow\nlustre, and twilight draw a dusky purple over the mountains, which, at\nlength, deepened into night. Then the LUCCIOLA, the fire-fly of Tuscany,\nwas seen to flash its sudden sparks among the foliage, while the\ncicala, with its shrill note, became more clamorous than even during the\nnoon-day heat, loving best the hour when the English beetle, with less\noffensive sound,\n\n     winds\n His small but sullen horn,\n As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,\n Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum.*\n\n(* Collins. [A. R.])\n\n\nThe travellers crossed the Arno by moon-light, at a ferry, and, learning\nthat Pisa was distant only a few miles down the river, they wished to\nhave proceeded thither in a boat, but, as none could be procured, they\nset out on their wearied horses for that city. As they approached it,\nthe vale expanded into a plain, variegated with vineyards, corn, olives\nand mulberry groves; but it was late, before they reached its gates,\nwhere Emily was surprised to hear the busy sound of footsteps and the\ntones of musical instruments, as well as to see the lively groups, that\nfilled the streets, and she almost fancied herself again at Venice;\nbut here was no moon-light sea--no gay gondolas, dashing the waves,--no\nPALLADIAN palaces, to throw enchantment over the fancy and lead it into\nthe wilds of fairy story. The Arno rolled through the town, but no music\ntrembled from balconies over its waters; it gave only the busy voices\nof sailors on board vessels just arrived from the Mediterranean;\nthe melancholy heaving of the anchor, and the shrill boatswain's\nwhistle;--sounds, which, since that period, have there sunk almost into\nsilence. They then served to remind Du Pont, that it was probable he\nmight hear of a vessel, sailing soon to France from this port, and thus\nbe spared the trouble of going to Leghorn. As soon as Emily had reached\nthe inn, he went therefore to the quay, to make his enquiries; but,\nafter all the endeavours of himself and Ludovico, they could hear of no\nbark, destined immediately for France, and the travellers returned to\ntheir resting-place. Here also, Du Pont endeavoured to learn where his\nregiment then lay, but could acquire no information concerning it. The\ntravellers retired early to rest, after the fatigues of this day;\nand, on the following, rose early, and, without pausing to view the\ncelebrated antiquities of the place, or the wonders of its hanging\ntower, pursued their journey in the cooler hours, through a charming\ncountry, rich with wine, and corn and oil. The Apennines, no longer\nawful, or even grand, here softened into the beauty of sylvan and\npastoral landscape; and Emily, as she descended them, looked down\ndelighted on Leghorn, and its spacious bay, filled with vessels, and\ncrowned with these beautiful hills.\n\nShe was no less surprised and amused, on entering this town, to find\nit crowded with persons in the dresses of all nations; a scene, which\nreminded her of a Venetian masquerade, such as she had witnessed at the\ntime of the Carnival; but here, was bustle, without gaiety, and noise\ninstead of music, while elegance was to be looked for only in the waving\noutlines of the surrounding hills.\n\nMonsieur Du Pont, immediately on their arrival, went down to the quay,\nwhere he heard of several French vessels, and of one, that was to sail,\nin a few days, for Marseilles, from whence another vessel could be\nprocured, without difficulty, to take them across the gulf of Lyons\ntowards Narbonne, on the coast not many leagues from which city he\nunderstood the convent was seated, to which Emily wished to retire.\nHe, therefore, immediately engaged with the captain to take them to\nMarseilles, and Emily was delighted to hear, that her passage to France\nwas secured. Her mind was now relieved from the terror of pursuit, and\nthe pleasing hope of soon seeing her native country--that country which\nheld Valancourt, restored to her spirits a degree of cheerfulness, such\nas she had scarcely known, since the death of her father. At Leghorn\nalso, Du Pont heard of his regiment, and that it had embarked for\nFrance; a circumstance, which gave him great satisfaction, for he could\nnow accompany Emily thither, without reproach to his conscience, or\napprehension of displeasure from his commander. During these days, he\nscrupulously forbore to distress her by a mention of his passion, and\nshe was compelled to esteem and pity, though she could not love him. He\nendeavoured to amuse her by shewing the environs of the town, and they\noften walked together on the sea-shore, and on the busy quays, where\nEmily was frequently interested by the arrival and departure of vessels,\nparticipating in the joy of meeting friends, and, sometimes, shedding\na sympathetic tear to the sorrow of those, that were separating. It was\nafter having witnessed a scene of the latter kind, that she arranged the\nfollowing stanzas:\n\nTHE MARINER\n\n Soft came the breath of spring; smooth flow'd the tide;\n And blue the heaven in its mirror smil'd;\n The white sail trembled, swell'd, expanded wide,\n The busy sailors at the anchor toil'd.\n\n With anxious friends, that shed the parting tear,\n The deck was throng'd--how swift the moments fly!\n The vessel heaves, the farewel signs appear;\n Mute is each tongue, and eloquent each eye!\n\n The last dread moment comes!--The sailor-youth\n Hides the big drop, then smiles amid his pain,\n Sooths his sad bride, and vows eternal truth,\n 'Farewel, my love--we shall--shall meet again!'\n\n Long on the stern, with waving hand, he stood;\n The crowded shore sinks, lessening, from his view,\n As gradual glides the bark along the flood;\n His bride is seen no more--'Adieu!--adieu!'\n\n The breeze of Eve moans low, her smile is o'er,\n Dim steals her twilight down the crimson'd west,\n He climbs the top-most mast, to seek once more\n The far-seen coast, where all his wishes rest.\n\n He views its dark line on the distant sky,\n And Fancy leads him to his little home,\n He sees his weeping love, he hears her sigh,\n He sooths her griefs, and tells of joys to come.\n\n Eve yields to night, the breeze to wintry gales,\n In one vast shade the seas and shores repose;\n He turns his aching eyes,--his spirit fails,\n The chill tear falls;--sad to the deck he goes!\n\n The storm of midnight swells, the sails are furl'd,\n Deep sounds the lead, but finds no friendly shore,\n Fast o'er the waves the wretched bark is hurl'd,\n 'O Ellen, Ellen! we must meet no more!'\n\n Lightnings, that shew the vast and foamy deep,\n The rending thunders, as they onward roll,\n The loud, loud winds, that o'er the billows sweep--\n Shake the firm nerve, appall the bravest soul!\n\n Ah! what avails the seamen's toiling care!\n The straining cordage bursts, the mast is riv'n;\n The sounds of terror groan along the air,\n Then sink afar;--the bark on rocks is driv'n!\n\n Fierce o'er the wreck the whelming waters pass'd,\n The helpless crew sunk in the roaring main!\n Henry's faint accents trembled in the blast--\n 'Farewel, my love!--we ne'er shall meet again!'\n\n Oft, at the calm and silent evening hour,\n When summer-breezes linger on the wave,\n A melancholy voice is heard to pour\n Its lonely sweetness o'er poor Henry's grave!\n\n And oft, at midnight, airy strains are heard\n Around the grove, where Ellen's form is laid;\n Nor is the dirge by village-maidens fear'd,\n For lovers' spirits guard the holy shade!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\n     Oh! the joy\n Of young ideas, painted on the mind\n In the warm glowing colours fancy spreads\n On objects not yet known, when all is new,\n And all is lovely!\n     SACRED DRAMAS\n\nWe now return to Languedoc and to the mention of Count De Villefort, the\nnobleman, who succeeded to an estate of the Marquis De Villeroi situated\nnear the monastery of St. Claire. It may be recollected, that this\nchateau was uninhabited, when St. Aubert and his daughter were in the\nneighbourhood, and that the former was much affected on discovering\nhimself to be so near Chateau-le-Blanc, a place, concerning which the\ngood old La Voisin afterwards dropped some hints, that had alarmed\nEmily's curiosity.\n\nIt was in the year 1584, the beginning of that, in which St. Aubert\ndied, that Francis Beauveau, Count De Villefort, came into possession\nof the mansion and extensive domain called Chateau-le-Blanc, situated\nin the province of Languedoc, on the shore of the Mediterranean. This\nestate, which, during some centuries, had belonged to his family,\nnow descended to him, on the decease of his relative, the Marquis De\nVilleroi, who had been latterly a man of reserved manners and austere\ncharacter; circumstances, which, together with the duties of his\nprofession, that often called him into the field, had prevented any\ndegree of intimacy with his cousin, the Count De Villefort. For many\nyears, they had known little of each other, and the Count received the\nfirst intelligence of his death, which happened in a distant part of\nFrance, together with the instruments, that gave him possession of the\ndomain Chateau-le-Blanc; but it was not till the following year, that\nhe determined to visit that estate, when he designed to pass the autumn\nthere. The scenes of Chateau-le-Blanc often came to his remembrance,\nheightened by the touches, which a warm imagination gives to the\nrecollection of early pleasures; for, many years before, in the\nlife-time of the Marchioness, and at that age when the mind is\nparticularly sensible to impressions of gaiety and delight, he had once\nvisited this spot, and, though he had passed a long intervening period\namidst the vexations and tumults of public affairs, which too frequently\ncorrode the heart, and vitiate the taste, the shades of Languedoc and\nthe grandeur of its distant scenery had never been remembered by him\nwith indifference.\n\nDuring many years, the chateau had been abandoned by the late Marquis,\nand, being inhabited only by an old steward and his wife, had been\nsuffered to fall much into decay. To superintend the repairs, that would\nbe requisite to make it a comfortable residence, had been a principal\nmotive with the Count for passing the autumnal months in Languedoc; and\nneither the remonstrances, or the tears of the Countess, for, on\nurgent occasions, she could weep, were powerful enough to overcome his\ndetermination. She prepared, therefore, to obey the command, which she\ncould not conquer, and to resign the gay assemblies of Paris,--where her\nbeauty was generally unrivalled and won the applause, to which her\nwit had but feeble claim--for the twilight canopy of woods, the lonely\ngrandeur of mountains and the solemnity of gothic halls and of long,\nlong galleries, which echoed only the solitary step of a domestic, or\nthe measured clink, that ascended from the great clock--the ancient\nmonitor of the hall below. From these melancholy expectations she\nendeavoured to relieve her spirits by recollecting all that she had ever\nheard, concerning the joyous vintage of the plains of Languedoc; but\nthere, alas! no airy forms would bound to the gay melody of Parisian\ndances, and a view of the rustic festivities of peasants could afford\nlittle pleasure to a heart, in which even the feelings of ordinary\nbenevolence had long since decayed under the corruptions of luxury.\n\nThe Count had a son and a daughter, the children of a former marriage,\nwho, he designed, should accompany him to the south of France; Henri,\nwho was in his twentieth year, was in the French service; and Blanche,\nwho was not yet eighteen, had been hitherto confined to the convent,\nwhere she had been placed immediately on her father's second\nmarriage. The present Countess, who had neither sufficient ability, or\ninclination, to superintend the education of her daughter-in-law, had\nadvised this step, and the dread of superior beauty had since urged\nher to employ every art, that might prevail on the Count to prolong\nthe period of Blanche's seclusion; it was, therefore, with extreme\nmortification, that she now understood he would no longer submit on this\nsubject, yet it afforded her some consolation to consider, that, though\nthe Lady Blanche would emerge from her convent, the shades of the\ncountry would, for some time, veil her beauty from the public eye.\n\nOn the morning, which commenced the journey, the postillions stopped at\nthe convent, by the Count's order, to take up Blanche, whose heart beat\nwith delight, at the prospect of novelty and freedom now before her. As\nthe time of her departure drew nigh, her impatience had increased, and\nthe last night, during which she counted every note of every hour, had\nappeared the most tedious of any she had ever known. The morning light,\nat length, dawned; the matin-bell rang; she heard the nuns descending\nfrom their chambers, and she started from a sleepless pillow to welcome\nthe day, which was to emancipate her from the severities of a cloister,\nand introduce her to a world, where pleasure was ever smiling, and\ngoodness ever blessed--where, in short, nothing but pleasure and\ngoodness reigned! When the bell of the great gate rang, and the sound\nwas followed by that of carriage wheels, she ran, with a palpitating\nheart, to her lattice, and, perceiving her father's carriage in the\ncourt below, danced, with airy steps, along the gallery, where she was\nmet by a nun with a summons from the abbess. In the next moment, she was\nin the parlour, and in the presence of the Countess who now appeared to\nher as an angel, that was to lead her into happiness. But the emotions\nof the Countess, on beholding her, were not in unison with those of\nBlanche, who had never appeared so lovely as at this moment, when her\ncountenance, animated by the lightning smile of joy, glowed with the\nbeauty of happy innocence.\n\nAfter conversing for a few minutes with the abbess, the Countess rose to\ngo. This was the moment, which Blanche had anticipated with such eager\nexpectation, the summit from which she looked down upon the fairy-land\nof happiness, and surveyed all its enchantment; was it a moment, then,\nfor tears of regret? Yet it was so. She turned, with an altered and\ndejected countenance, to her young companions, who were come to bid her\nfarewell, and wept! Even my lady abbess, so stately and so solemn, she\nsaluted with a degree of sorrow, which, an hour before, she would\nhave believed it impossible to feel, and which may be accounted for by\nconsidering how reluctantly we all part, even with unpleasing objects,\nwhen the separation is consciously for ever. Again, she kissed the poor\nnuns and then followed the Countess from that spot with tears, which she\nexpected to leave only with smiles.\n\nBut the presence of her father and the variety of objects, on the road,\nsoon engaged her attention, and dissipated the shade, which tender\nregret had thrown upon her spirits. Inattentive to a conversation, which\nwas passing between the Countess and a Mademoiselle Bearn, her friend,\nBlanche sat, lost in pleasing reverie, as she watched the clouds\nfloating silently along the blue expanse, now veiling the sun and\nstretching their shadows along the distant scene, and then disclosing\nall his brightness. The journey continued to give Blanche inexpressible\ndelight, for new scenes of nature were every instant opening to her\nview, and her fancy became stored with gay and beautiful imagery.\n\nIt was on the evening of the seventh day, that the travellers came\nwithin view of Chateau-le-Blanc, the romantic beauty of whose situation\nstrongly impressed the imagination of Blanche, who observed, with\nsublime astonishment, the Pyrenean mountains, which had been seen only\nat a distance during the day, now rising within a few leagues, with\ntheir wild cliffs and immense precipices, which the evening clouds,\nfloating round them, now disclosed, and again veiled. The setting rays,\nthat tinged their snowy summits with a roseate hue, touched their lower\npoints with various colouring, while the blueish tint, that pervaded\ntheir shadowy recesses, gave the strength of contrast to the splendour\nof light. The plains of Languedoc, blushing with the purple vine and\ndiversified with groves of mulberry, almond and olives, spread far to\nthe north and the east; to the south, appeared the Mediterranean, clear\nas crystal, and blue as the heavens it reflected, bearing on its bosom\nvessels, whose white sails caught the sun-beams, and gave animation\nto the scene. On a high promontory, washed by the waters of the\nMediterranean, stood her father's mansion, almost secluded from the\neye by woods of intermingled pine, oak and chesnut, which crowned the\neminence, and sloped towards the plains, on one side; while, on the\nother, they extended to a considerable distance along the sea-shores.\n\nAs Blanche drew nearer, the gothic features of this antient mansion\nsuccessively appeared--first an embattled turret, rising above the\ntrees--then the broken arch of an immense gate-way, retiring beyond\nthem; and she almost fancied herself approaching a castle, such as is\noften celebrated in early story, where the knights look out from the\nbattlements on some champion below, who, clothed in black armour,\ncomes, with his companions, to rescue the fair lady of his love from\nthe oppression of his rival; a sort of legends, to which she had once\nor twice obtained access in the library of her convent, that, like\nmany others, belonging to the monks, was stored with these reliques of\nromantic fiction.\n\nThe carriages stopped at a gate, which led into the domain of the\nchateau, but which was now fastened; and the great bell, that had\nformerly served to announce the arrival of strangers, having long since\nfallen from its station, a servant climbed over a ruined part of the\nadjoining wall, to give notice to those within of the arrival of their\nlord.\n\nAs Blanche leaned from the coach window, she resigned herself to the\nsweet and gentle emotions, which the hour and the scenery awakened. The\nsun had now left the earth, and twilight began to darken the mountains;\nwhile the distant waters, reflecting the blush that still glowed in\nthe west, appeared like a line of light, skirting the horizon. The low\nmurmur of waves, breaking on the shore, came in the breeze, and, now and\nthen, the melancholy dashing of oars was feebly heard from a distance.\nShe was suffered to indulge her pensive mood, for the thoughts of the\nrest of the party were silently engaged upon the subjects of their\nseveral interests. Meanwhile, the Countess, reflecting, with regret,\nupon the gay parties she had left at Paris, surveyed, with disgust, what\nshe thought the gloomy woods and solitary wildness of the scene; and,\nshrinking from the prospect of being shut up in an old castle, was\nprepared to meet every object with displeasure. The feelings of Henri\nwere somewhat similar to those of the Countess; he gave a mournful sigh\nto the delights of the capital, and to the remembrance of a lady,\nwho, he believed, had engaged his affections, and who had certainly\nfascinated his imagination; but the surrounding country, and the mode\nof life, on which he was entering, had, for him, at least, the charm of\nnovelty, and his regret was softened by the gay expectations of youth.\nThe gates being at length unbarred, the carriage moved slowly on, under\nspreading chesnuts, that almost excluded the remains of day, following\nwhat had been formerly a road, but which now, overgrown with luxuriant\nvegetation, could be traced only by the boundary, formed by trees,\non either side, and which wound for near half a mile among the woods,\nbefore it reached the chateau. This was the very avenue that St.\nAubert and Emily had formerly entered, on their first arrival in the\nneighbourhood, with the hope of finding a house, that would receive\nthem, for the night, and had so abruptly quitted, on perceiving the\nwildness of the place, and a figure, which the postillion had fancied\nwas a robber.\n\n'What a dismal place is this!' exclaimed the Countess, as the carriage\npenetrated the deeper recesses of the woods. 'Surely, my lord, you do\nnot mean to pass all the autumn in this barbarous spot! One ought to\nbring hither a cup of the waters of Lethe, that the remembrance of\npleasanter scenes may not heighten, at least, the natural dreariness of\nthese.'\n\n'I shall be governed by circumstances, madam,' said the Count, 'this\nbarbarous spot was inhabited by my ancestors.'\n\nThe carriage now stopped at the chateau, where, at the door of the great\nhall, appeared the old steward and the Parisian servants, who had been\nsent to prepare the chateau, waiting to receive their lord. Lady Blanche\nnow perceived, that the edifice was not built entirely in the gothic\nstyle, but that it had additions of a more modern date; the large and\ngloomy hall, however, into which she now entered, was entirely gothic,\nand sumptuous tapestry, which it was now too dark to distinguish, hung\nupon the walls, and depictured scenes from some of the antient Provencal\nromances. A vast gothic window, embroidered with CLEMATIS and eglantine,\nthat ascended to the south, led the eye, now that the casements were\nthrown open, through this verdant shade, over a sloping lawn, to the\ntops of dark woods, that hung upon the brow of the promontory. Beyond,\nappeared the waters of the Mediterranean, stretching far to the south,\nand to the east, where they were lost in the horizon; while, to the\nnorth-east, they were bounded by the luxuriant shores of Languedoc and\nProvence, enriched with wood, and gay with vines and sloping pastures;\nand, to the south-west, by the majestic Pyrenees, now fading from the\neye, beneath the gradual gloom.\n\nBlanche, as she crossed the hall, stopped a moment to observe this\nlovely prospect, which the evening twilight obscured, yet did not\nconceal. But she was quickly awakened from the complacent delight,\nwhich this scene had diffused upon her mind, by the Countess, who,\ndiscontented with every object around, and impatient for refreshment\nand repose, hastened forward to a large parlour, whose cedar wainscot,\nnarrow, pointed casements, and dark ceiling of carved cypress wood,\ngave it an aspect of peculiar gloom, which the dingy green velvet of the\nchairs and couches, fringed with tarnished gold, had once been designed\nto enliven.\n\nWhile the Countess enquired for refreshment, the Count, attended by\nhis son, went to look over some part of the chateau, and Lady Blanche\nreluctantly remained to witness the discontent and ill-humour of her\nstep-mother.\n\n'How long have you lived in this desolate place?' said her ladyship, to\nthe old house keeper, who came to pay her duty.\n\n'Above twenty years, your ladyship, on the next feast of St. Jerome.'\n\n'How happened it, that you have lived here so long, and almost alone,\ntoo? I understood, that the chateau had been shut up for some years?'\n\n'Yes, madam, it was for many years after my late lord, the Count, went\nto the wars; but it is above twenty years, since I and my husband came\ninto his service. The place is so large, and has of late been so lonely,\nthat we were lost in it, and, after some time, we went to live in a\ncottage at the end of the woods, near some of the tenants, and came to\nlook after the chateau, every now and then. When my lord returned to\nFrance from the wars, he took a dislike to the place, and never came\nto live here again, and so he was satisfied with our remaining at the\ncottage. Alas--alas! how the chateau is changed from what it once was!\nWhat delight my late lady used to take in it! I well remember when she\ncame here a bride, and how fine it was. Now, it has been neglected so\nlong, and is gone into such decay! I shall never see those days again!'\n\nThe Countess appearing to be somewhat offended by the thoughtless\nsimplicity, with which the old woman regretted former times, Dorothee\nadded--'But the chateau will now be inhabited, and cheerful again; not\nall the world could tempt me to live in it alone.'\n\n'Well, the experiment will not be made, I believe,' said the Countess,\ndispleased that her own silence had been unable to awe the loquacity of\nthis rustic old housekeeper, now spared from further attendance by the\nentrance of the Count, who said he had been viewing part of the\nchateau, and found, that it would require considerable repairs and some\nalterations, before it would be perfectly comfortable, as a place of\nresidence. 'I am sorry to hear it, my lord,' replied the Countess. 'And\nwhy sorry, madam?' 'Because the place will ill repay your trouble; and\nwere it even a paradise, it would be insufferable at such a distance\nfrom Paris.'\n\nThe Count made no reply, but walked abruptly to a window. 'There are\nwindows, my lord, but they neither admit entertainment, or light; they\nshew only a scene of savage nature.'\n\n'I am at a loss, madam,' said the Count, 'to conjecture what you mean by\nsavage nature. Do those plains, or those woods, or that fine expanse of\nwater, deserve the name?'\n\n'Those mountains certainly do, my lord,' rejoined the Countess, pointing\nto the Pyrenees, 'and this chateau, though not a work of rude nature,\nis, to my taste, at least, one of savage art.' The Count coloured\nhighly. 'This place, madam, was the work of my ancestors,' said he,\n'and you must allow me to say, that your present conversation discovers\nneither good taste, or good manners.' Blanche, now shocked at an\naltercation, which appeared to be increasing to a serious disagreement,\nrose to leave the room, when her mother's woman entered it; and the\nCountess, immediately desiring to be shewn to her own apartment,\nwithdrew, attended by Mademoiselle Bearn.\n\nLady Blanche, it being not yet dark, took this opportunity of exploring\nnew scenes, and, leaving the parlour, she passed from the hall into\na wide gallery, whose walls were decorated by marble pilasters, which\nsupported an arched roof, composed of a rich mosaic work. Through a\ndistant window, that seemed to terminate the gallery, were seen the\npurple clouds of evening and a landscape, whose features, thinly veiled\nin twilight, no longer appeared distinctly, but, blended into one grand\nmass, stretched to the horizon, coloured only with a tint of solemn\ngrey.\n\nThe gallery terminated in a saloon, to which the window she had seen\nthrough an open door, belonged; but the increasing dusk permitted her\nonly an imperfect view of this apartment, which seemed to be magnificent\nand of modern architecture; though it had been either suffered to fall\ninto decay, or had never been properly finished. The windows, which were\nnumerous and large, descended low, and afforded a very extensive, and\nwhat Blanche's fancy represented to be, a very lovely prospect; and\nshe stood for some time, surveying the grey obscurity and depicturing\nimaginary woods and mountains, vallies and rivers, on this scene of\nnight; her solemn sensations rather assisted, than interrupted, by the\ndistant bark of a watch-dog, and by the breeze, as it trembled upon the\nlight foliage of the shrubs. Now and then, appeared for a moment, among\nthe woods, a cottage light; and, at length, was heard, afar off, the\nevening bell of a convent, dying on the air. When she withdrew her\nthoughts from these subjects of fanciful delight, the gloom and silence\nof the saloon somewhat awed her; and, having sought the door of the\ngallery, and pursued, for a considerable time, a dark passage, she came\nto a hall, but one totally different from that she had formerly seen.\nBy the twilight, admitted through an open portico, she could just\ndistinguish this apartment to be of very light and airy architecture,\nand that it was paved with white marble, pillars of which supported the\nroof, that rose into arches built in the Moorish style. While Blanche\nstood on the steps of this portico, the moon rose over the sea, and\ngradually disclosed, in partial light, the beauties of the eminence, on\nwhich she stood, whence a lawn, now rude and overgrown with high grass,\nsloped to the woods, that, almost surrounding the chateau, extended in a\ngrand sweep down the southern sides of the promontory to the very margin\nof the ocean. Beyond the woods, on the north-side, appeared a long tract\nof the plains of Languedoc; and, to the east, the landscape she had\nbefore dimly seen, with the towers of a monastery, illumined by the\nmoon, rising over dark groves.\n\nThe soft and shadowy tint, that overspread the scene, the waves,\nundulating in the moon-light, and their low and measured murmurs on the\nbeach, were circumstances, that united to elevate the unaccustomed mind\nof Blanche to enthusiasm.\n\n'And have I lived in this glorious world so long,' said she, 'and never\ntill now beheld such a prospect--never experienced these delights! Every\npeasant girl, on my father's domain, has viewed from her infancy the\nface of nature; has ranged, at liberty, her romantic wilds, while I have\nbeen shut in a cloister from the view of these beautiful appearances,\nwhich were designed to enchant all eyes, and awaken all hearts. How\ncan the poor nuns and friars feel the full fervour of devotion, if they\nnever see the sun rise, or set? Never, till this evening, did I know\nwhat true devotion is; for, never before did I see the sun sink below\nthe vast earth! To-morrow, for the first time in my life, I will see\nit rise. O, who would live in Paris, to look upon black walls and dirty\nstreets, when, in the country, they might gaze on the blue heavens, and\nall the green earth!'\n\nThis enthusiastic soliloquy was interrupted by a rustling noise in the\nhall; and, while the loneliness of the place made her sensible to fear,\nshe thought she perceived something moving between the pillars. For\na moment, she continued silently observing it, till, ashamed of her\nridiculous apprehensions, she recollected courage enough to demand who\nwas there. 'O my young lady, is it you?' said the old housekeeper, who\nwas come to shut the windows, 'I am glad it is you.' The manner, in\nwhich she spoke this, with a faint breath, rather surprised Blanche, who\nsaid, 'You seemed frightened, Dorothee, what is the matter?'\n\n'No, not frightened, ma'amselle,' replied Dorothee, hesitating and\ntrying to appear composed, 'but I am old, and--a little matter startles\nme.' The Lady Blanche smiled at the distinction. 'I am glad, that my\nlord the Count is come to live at the chateau, ma'amselle,' continued\nDorothee, 'for it has been many a year deserted, and dreary enough; now,\nthe place will look a little as it used to do, when my poor lady was\nalive.' Blanche enquired how long it was, since the Marchioness died?\n'Alas! my lady,' replied Dorothee, 'so long--that I have ceased to count\nthe years! The place, to my mind, has mourned ever since, and I am sure\nmy lord's vassals have! But you have lost yourself, ma'amselle,--shall I\nshew you to the other side of the chateau?'\n\nBlanche enquired how long this part of the edifice had been built. 'Soon\nafter my lord's marriage, ma'am,' replied Dorothee. 'The place was large\nenough without this addition, for many rooms of the old building were\neven then never made use of, and my lord had a princely household too;\nbut he thought the antient mansion gloomy, and gloomy enough it is!'\nLady Blanche now desired to be shewn to the inhabited part of the\nchateau; and, as the passages were entirely dark, Dorothee conducted her\nalong the edge of the lawn to the opposite side of the edifice, where,\na door opening into the great hall, she was met by Mademoiselle Bearn.\n'Where have you been so long?' said she, 'I had begun to think some\nwonderful adventure had befallen you, and that the giant of this\nenchanted castle, or the ghost, which, no doubt, haunts it, had conveyed\nyou through a trap-door into some subterranean vault, whence you was\nnever to return.'\n\n'No,' replied Blanche, laughingly, 'you seem to love adventures so well,\nthat I leave them for you to achieve.'\n\n'Well, I am willing to achieve them, provided I am allowed to describe\nthem.'\n\n'My dear Mademoiselle Bearn,' said Henri, as he met her at the door of\nthe parlour, 'no ghost of these days would be so savage as to impose\nsilence on you. Our ghosts are more civilized than to condemn a lady to\na purgatory severer even, than their own, be it what it may.'\n\nMademoiselle Bearn replied only by a laugh; and, the Count now entering\nthe room, supper was served, during which he spoke little, frequently\nappeared to be abstracted from the company, and more than once remarked,\nthat the place was greatly altered, since he had last seen it. 'Many\nyears have intervened since that period,' said he; 'and, though the\ngrand features of the scenery admit of no change, they impress me with\nsensations very different from those I formerly experienced.'\n\n'Did these scenes, sir,' said Blanche, 'ever appear more lovely, than\nthey do now? To me this seems hardly possible.' The Count, regarding her\nwith a melancholy smile, said, 'They once were as delightful to me, as\nthey are now to you; the landscape is not changed, but time has changed\nme; from my mind the illusion, which gave spirit to the colouring of\nnature, is fading fast! If you live, my dear Blanche, to re-visit this\nspot, at the distance of many years, you will, perhaps, remember and\nunderstand the feelings of your father.'\n\nLady Blanche, affected by these words, remained silent; she looked\nforward to the period, which the Count anticipated, and considering,\nthat he, who now spoke, would then probably be no more, her eyes, bent\nto the ground, were filed with tears. She gave her hand to her father,\nwho, smiling affectionately, rose from his chair, and went to a window\nto conceal his emotion.\n\nThe fatigues of the day made the party separate at an early hour,\nwhen Blanche retired through a long oak gallery to her chamber, whose\nspacious and lofty walls, high antiquated casements, and, what was the\neffect of these, its gloomy air, did not reconcile her to its remote\nsituation, in this antient building. The furniture, also, was of antient\ndate; the bed was of blue damask, trimmed with tarnished gold lace,\nand its lofty tester rose in the form of a canopy, whence the curtains\ndescended, like those of such tents as are sometimes represented in old\npictures, and, indeed, much resembling those, exhibited on the faded\ntapestry, with which the chamber was hung. To Blanche, every object here\nwas matter of curiosity; and, taking the light from her woman to examine\nthe tapestry, she perceived, that it represented scenes from the wars\nof Troy, though the almost colourless worsted now mocked the glowing\nactions they once had painted. She laughed at the ludicrous absurdity\nshe observed, till, recollecting, that the hands, which had wove it,\nwere, like the poet, whose thoughts of fire they had attempted to\nexpress, long since mouldered into dust, a train of melancholy ideas\npassed over her mind, and she almost wept.\n\nHaving given her woman a strict injunction to awaken her, before\nsun-rise, she dismissed her; and then, to dissipate the gloom, which\nreflection had cast upon her spirits, opened one of the high casements,\nand was again cheered by the face of living nature. The shadowy earth,\nthe air, and ocean--all was still. Along the deep serene of the heavens,\na few light clouds floated slowly, through whose skirts the stars now\nseemed to tremble, and now to emerge with purer splendour. Blanche's\nthoughts arose involuntarily to the Great Author of the sublime objects\nshe contemplated, and she breathed a prayer of finer devotion, than any\nshe had ever uttered beneath the vaulted roof of a cloister. At this\ncasement, she remained till the glooms of midnight were stretched over\nthe prospect. She then retired to her pillow, and, 'with gay visions of\nto-morrow,' to those sweet slumbers, which health and happy innocence\nonly know.\n\n  To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\n     What transport to retrace our early plays,\n Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supplied\n The woods, the mountains and the warbling maze\n Of the wild brooks!\n     THOMSON\n\nBlanche's slumbers continued, till long after the hour, which she had\nso impatiently anticipated, for her woman, fatigued with travelling,\ndid not call her, till breakfast was nearly ready. Her disappointment,\nhowever, was instantly forgotten, when, on opening the casement, she\nsaw, on one hand, the wide sea sparkling in the morning rays, with its\nstealing sails and glancing oars; and, on the other, the fresh woods,\nthe plains far-stretching and the blue mountains, all glowing with the\nsplendour of day.\n\nAs she inspired the pure breeze, health spread a deeper blush upon her\ncountenance, and pleasure danced in her eyes.\n\n'Who could first invent convents!' said she, 'and who could first\npersuade people to go into them? and to make religion a pretence, too,\nwhere all that should inspire it, is so carefully shut out! God is\nbest pleased with the homage of a grateful heart, and, when we view his\nglories, we feel most grateful. I never felt so much devotion, during\nthe many dull years I was in the convent, as I have done in the few\nhours, that I have been here, where I need only look on all around\nme--to adore God in my inmost heart!'\n\nSaying this, she left the window, bounded along the gallery, and, in\nthe next moment, was in the breakfast room, where the Count was\nalready seated. The cheerfulness of a bright sunshine had dispersed\nthe melancholy glooms of his reflections, a pleasant smile was on his\ncountenance, and he spoke in an enlivening voice to Blanche, whose\nheart echoed back the tones. Henri and, soon after, the Countess with\nMademoiselle Bearn appeared, and the whole party seemed to acknowledge\nthe influence of the scene; even the Countess was so much re-animated as\nto receive the civilities of her husband with complacency, and but once\nforgot her good-humour, which was when she asked whether they had any\nneighbours, who were likely to make THIS BARBAROUS SPOT more tolerable,\nand whether the Count believed it possible for her to exist here,\nwithout some amusement?\n\nSoon after breakfast the party dispersed; the Count, ordering his\nsteward to attend him in the library, went to survey the condition of\nhis premises, and to visit some of his tenants; Henri hastened with\nalacrity to the shore to examine a boat, that was to bear them on a\nlittle voyage in the evening and to superintend the adjustment of a silk\nawning; while the Countess, attended by Mademoiselle Bearn, retired to\nan apartment on the modern side of the chateau, which was fitted up with\nairy elegance; and, as the windows opened upon balconies, that fronted\nthe sea, she was there saved from a view of the HORRID Pyrenees. Here,\nwhile she reclined on a sofa, and, casting her languid eyes over the\nocean, which appeared beyond the wood-tops, indulged in the luxuries of\nENNUI, her companion read aloud a sentimental novel, on some fashionable\nsystem of philosophy, for the Countess was herself somewhat of a\nPHILOSOPHER, especially as to INFIDELITY, and among a certain circle her\nopinions were waited for with impatience, and received as doctrines.\n\nThe Lady Blanche, meanwhile, hastened to indulge, amidst the wild\nwood-walks around the chateau, her new enthusiasm, where, as she\nwandered under the shades, her gay spirits gradually yielded to pensive\ncomplacency. Now, she moved with solemn steps, beneath the gloom of\nthickly interwoven branches, where the fresh dew still hung upon every\nflower, that peeped from among the grass; and now tripped sportively\nalong the path, on which the sunbeams darted and the checquered foliage\ntrembled--where the tender greens of the beech, the acacia and the\nmountain-ash, mingling with the solemn tints of the cedar, the pine and\ncypress, exhibited as fine a contrast of colouring, as the majestic oak\nand oriental plane did of form, to the feathery lightness of the cork\ntree and the waving grace of the poplar.\n\nHaving reached a rustic seat, within a deep recess of the woods, she\nrested awhile, and, as her eyes caught, through a distant opening, a\nglimpse of the blue waters of the Mediterranean, with the white sail,\ngliding on its bosom, or of the broad mountain, glowing beneath the\nmid-day sun, her mind experienced somewhat of that exquisite delight,\nwhich awakens the fancy, and leads to poetry. The hum of bees alone\nbroke the stillness around her, as, with other insects of various\nhues, they sported gaily in the shade, or sipped sweets from the fresh\nflowers: and, while Blanche watched a butter-fly, flitting from bud to\nbud, she indulged herself in imagining the pleasures of its short day,\ntill she had composed the following stanzas.\n\n  THE BUTTER-FLY TO HIS LOVE\n\n What bowery dell, with fragrant breath,\n Courts thee to stay thy airy flight;\n Nor seek again the purple heath,\n So oft the scene of gay delight?\n\n Long I've watch'd i' the lily's bell,\n Whose whiteness stole the morning's beam;\n No fluttering sounds thy coming tell,\n No waving wings, at distance, gleam.\n\n But fountain fresh, nor breathing grove,\n Nor sunny mead, nor blossom'd tree,\n So sweet as lily's cell shall prove,--\n The bower of constant love and me.\n\n When April buds begin to blow,\n The prim-rose, and the hare-bell blue,\n That on the verdant moss bank grow,\n With violet cups, that weep in dew;\n\n When wanton gales breathe through the shade,\n And shake the blooms, and steal their sweets,\n And swell the song of ev'ry glade,\n I range the forest's green retreats:\n\n There, through the tangled wood-walks play,\n Where no rude urchin paces near,\n Where sparely peeps the sultry day,\n And light dews freshen all the air.\n\n High on a sun-beam oft I sport\n O'er bower and fountain, vale and hill;\n Oft ev'ry blushing flow'ret court,\n That hangs its head o'er winding rill.\n\n But these I'll leave to be thy guide,\n And shew thee, where the jasmine spreads\n Her snowy leaf, where may-flow'rs hide,\n And rose-buds rear their peeping heads.\n\n With me the mountain's summit scale,\n And taste the wild-thyme's honied bloom,\n Whose fragrance, floating on the gale,\n Oft leads me to the cedar's gloom.\n\n Yet, yet, no sound comes in the breeze!\n What shade thus dares to tempt thy stay?\n Once, me alone thou wish'd to please,\n And with me only thou wouldst stray.\n\n But, while thy long delay I mourn,\n And chide the sweet shades for their guile,\n Thou may'st be true, and they forlorn,\n And fairy favours court thy smile.\n\n The tiny queen of fairy-land,\n Who knows thy speed, hath sent thee far,\n To bring, or ere the night-watch stand,\n Rich essence for her shadowy car:\n\n Perchance her acorn-cups to fill\n With nectar from the Indian rose,\n Or gather, near some haunted rill,\n May-dews, that lull to sleep Love's woes:\n\n Or, o'er the mountains, bade thee fly,\n To tell her fairy love to speed,\n When ev'ning steals upon the sky,\n To dance along the twilight mead.\n\n But now I see thee sailing low,\n Gay as the brightest flow'rs of spring,\n Thy coat of blue and jet I know,\n And well thy gold and purple wing.\n\n Borne on the gale, thou com'st to me;\n O! welcome, welcome to my home!\n In lily's cell we'll live in glee,\n Together o'er the mountains roam!\n\nWhen Lady Blanche returned to the chateau, instead of going to the\napartment of the Countess, she amused herself with wandering over that\npart of the edifice, which she had not yet examined, of which the most\nantient first attracted her curiosity; for, though what she had seen of\nthe modern was gay and elegant, there was something in the former more\ninteresting to her imagination. Having passed up the great stair-case,\nand through the oak gallery, she entered upon a long suite of chambers,\nwhose walls were either hung with tapestry, or wainscoted with cedar,\nthe furniture of which looked almost as antient as the rooms themselves;\nthe spacious fire-places, where no mark of social cheer remained,\npresented an image of cold desolation; and the whole suite had so much\nthe air of neglect and desertion, that it seemed, as if the venerable\npersons, whose portraits hung upon the walls, had been the last to\ninhabit them.\n\nOn leaving these rooms, she found herself in another gallery, one end of\nwhich was terminated by a back stair-case, and the other by a door,\nthat seemed to communicate with the north-side of the chateau, but which\nbeing fastened, she descended the stair-case, and, opening a door in\nthe wall, a few steps down, found herself in a small square room, that\nformed part of the west turret of the castle. Three windows presented\neach a separate and beautiful prospect; that to the north, overlooking\nLanguedoc; another to the west, the hills ascending towards the\nPyrenees, whose awful summits crowned the landscape; and a third,\nfronting the south, gave the Mediterranean, and a part of the wild\nshores of Rousillon, to the eye.\n\nHaving left the turret, and descended the narrow stair-case, she found\nherself in a dusky passage, where she wandered, unable to find her way,\ntill impatience yielded to apprehension, and she called for assistance.\nPresently steps approached, and light glimmered through a door at the\nother extremity of the passage, which was opened with caution by some\nperson, who did not venture beyond it, and whom Blanche observed\nin silence, till the door was closing, when she called aloud, and,\nhastening towards it, perceived the old housekeeper. 'Dear ma'amselle!\nis it you?' said Dorothee, 'How could you find your way hither?' Had\nBlanche been less occupied by her own fears, she would probably have\nobserved the strong expressions of terror and surprise on Dorothee's\ncountenance, who now led her through a long succession of passages and\nrooms, that looked as if they had been uninhabited for a century,\ntill they reached that appropriated to the housekeeper, where Dorothee\nentreated she would sit down and take refreshment. Blanche accepted the\nsweet meats, offered to her, mentioned her discovery of the pleasant\nturret, and her wish to appropriate it to her own use. Whether\nDorothee's taste was not so sensible to the beauties of landscape as her\nyoung lady's, or that the constant view of lovely scenery had deadened\nit, she forbore to praise the subject of Blanche's enthusiasm, which,\nhowever, her silence did not repress. To Lady Blanche's enquiry of\nwhither the door she had found fastened at the end of the gallery led,\nshe replied, that it opened to a suite of rooms, which had not been\nentered, during many years, 'For,' added she, 'my late lady died in one\nof them, and I could never find in my heart to go into them since.'\n\nBlanche, though she wished to see these chambers, forbore, on observing\nthat Dorothee's eyes were filled with tears, to ask her to unlock them,\nand, soon after, went to dress for dinner, at which the whole party met\nin good spirits and good humour, except the Countess, whose vacant mind,\novercome by the languor of idleness, would neither suffer her to be\nhappy herself, or to contribute to the happiness of others. Mademoiselle\nBearn, attempting to be witty, directed her badinage against Henri,\nwho answered, because he could not well avoid it, rather than from any\ninclination to notice her, whose liveliness sometimes amused, but whose\nconceit and insensibility often disgusted him.\n\nThe cheerfulness, with which Blanche rejoined the party, vanished, on\nher reaching the margin of the sea; she gazed with apprehension upon\nthe immense expanse of waters, which, at a distance, she had beheld only\nwith delight and astonishment, and it was by a strong effort, that she\nso far overcame her fears as to follow her father into the boat.\n\nAs she silently surveyed the vast horizon, bending round the distant\nverge of the ocean, an emotion of sublimest rapture struggled to\novercome a sense of personal danger. A light breeze played on the\nwater, and on the silk awning of the boat, and waved the foliage of the\nreceding woods, that crowned the cliffs, for many miles, and which the\nCount surveyed with the pride of conscious property, as well as with the\neye of taste.\n\nAt some distance, among these woods, stood a pavilion, which had once\nbeen the scene of social gaiety, and which its situation still made\none of romantic beauty. Thither, the Count had ordered coffee and other\nrefreshment to be carried, and thither the sailors now steered\ntheir course, following the windings of the shore round many a woody\npromontory and circling bay; while the pensive tones of horns and other\nwind instruments, played by the attendants in a distant boat, echoed\namong the rocks, and died along the waves. Blanche had now subdued her\nfears; a delightful tranquillity stole over her mind, and held her in\nsilence; and she was too happy even to remember the convent, or her\nformer sorrows, as subjects of comparison with her present felicity.\n\nThe Countess felt less unhappy than she had done, since the moment of\nher leaving Paris; for her mind was now under some degree of restraint;\nshe feared to indulge its wayward humours, and even wished to recover\nthe Count's good opinion. On his family, and on the surrounding scene,\nhe looked with tempered pleasure and benevolent satisfaction, while his\nson exhibited the gay spirits of youth, anticipating new delights, and\nregretless of those, that were passed.\n\nAfter near an hour's rowing, the party landed, and ascended a little\npath, overgrown with vegetation. At a little distance from the point\nof the eminence, within the shadowy recess of the woods, appeared\nthe pavilion, which Blanche perceived, as she caught a glimpse of its\nportico between the trees, to be built of variegated marble. As she\nfollowed the Countess, she often turned her eyes with rapture towards\nthe ocean, seen beneath the dark foliage, far below, and from thence\nupon the deep woods, whose silence and impenetrable gloom awakened\nemotions more solemn, but scarcely less delightful.\n\nThe pavilion had been prepared, as far as was possible, on a very short\nnotice, for the reception of its visitors; but the faded colours of\nits painted walls and ceiling, and the decayed drapery of its once\nmagnificent furniture, declared how long it had been neglected, and\nabandoned to the empire of the changing seasons. While the party partook\nof a collation of fruit and coffee, the horns, placed in a distant part\nof the woods, where an echo sweetened and prolonged their melancholy\ntones, broke softly on the stillness of the scene. This spot seemed to\nattract even the admiration of the Countess, or, perhaps, it was merely\nthe pleasure of planning furniture and decorations, that made her dwell\nso long on the necessity of repairing and adorning it; while the Count,\nnever happier than when he saw her mind engaged by natural and simple\nobjects, acquiesced in all her designs, concerning the pavilion.\nThe paintings on the walls and coved ceiling were to be renewed, the\ncanopies and sofas were to be of light green damask; marble statues of\nwood-nymphs, bearing on their heads baskets of living flowers, were to\nadorn the recesses between the windows, which, descending to the ground,\nwere to admit to every part of the room, and it was of octagonal form,\nthe various landscape. One window opened upon a romantic glade, where\nthe eye roved among the woody recesses, and the scene was bounded\nonly by a lengthened pomp of groves; from another, the woods receding\ndisclosed the distant summits of the Pyrenees; a third fronted an\navenue, beyond which the grey towers of Chateau-le-Blanc, and a\npicturesque part of its ruin were seen partially among the foliage;\nwhile a fourth gave, between the trees, a glimpse of the green pastures\nand villages, that diversify the banks of the Aude. The Mediterranean,\nwith the bold cliffs, that overlooked its shores, were the grand objects\nof a fifth window, and the others gave, in different points of view, the\nwild scenery of the woods.\n\nAfter wandering, for some time, in these, the party returned to the\nshore and embarked; and, the beauty of the evening tempting them to\nextend their excursion, they proceeded further up the bay. A dead calm\nhad succeeded the light breeze, that wafted them hither, and the men\ntook to their oars. Around, the waters were spread into one vast expanse\nof polished mirror, reflecting the grey cliffs and feathery woods, that\nover-hung its surface, the glow of the western horizon and the dark\nclouds, that came slowly from the east. Blanche loved to see the dipping\noars imprint the water, and to watch the spreading circles they left,\nwhich gave a tremulous motion to the reflected landscape, without\ndestroying the harmony of its features.\n\nAbove the darkness of the woods, her eye now caught a cluster of high\ntowers, touched with the splendour of the setting rays; and, soon after,\nthe horns being then silent, she heard the faint swell of choral voices\nfrom a distance.\n\n'What voices are those, upon the air?' said the Count, looking\nround, and listening; but the strain had ceased. 'It seemed to be a\nvesper-hymn, which I have often heard in my convent,' said Blanche.\n\n'We are near the monastery, then,' observed the Count; and, the boat\nsoon after doubling a lofty head-land, the monastery of St. Claire\nappeared, seated near the margin of the sea, where the cliffs, suddenly\nsinking, formed a low shore within a small bay, almost encircled with\nwoods, among which partial features of the edifice were seen;--the great\ngate and gothic window of the hall, the cloisters and the side of a\nchapel more remote; while a venerable arch, which had once led to a part\nof the fabric, now demolished, stood a majestic ruin detached from the\nmain building, beyond which appeared a grand perspective of the woods.\nOn the grey walls, the moss had fastened, and, round the pointed windows\nof the chapel, the ivy and the briony hung in many a fantastic wreath.\n\nAll without was silent and forsaken; but, while Blanche gazed with\nadmiration on this venerable pile, whose effect was heightened by the\nstrong lights and shadows thrown athwart it by a cloudy sun-set, a sound\nof many voices, slowly chanting, arose from within. The Count bade his\nmen rest on their oars. The monks were singing the hymn of vespers, and\nsome female voices mingled with the strain, which rose by soft degrees,\ntill the high organ and the choral sounds swelled into full and solemn\nharmony. The strain, soon after, dropped into sudden silence, and was\nrenewed in a low and still more solemn key, till, at length, the holy\nchorus died away, and was heard no more.--Blanche sighed, tears trembled\nin her eyes, and her thoughts seemed wafted with the sounds to heaven.\nWhile a rapt stillness prevailed in the boat, a train of friars, and\nthen of nuns, veiled in white, issued from the cloisters, and passed,\nunder the shade of the woods, to the main body of the edifice.\n\nThe Countess was the first of her party to awaken from this pause of\nsilence.\n\n'These dismal hymns and friars make one quite melancholy,' said she;\n'twilight is coming on; pray let us return, or it will be dark before we\nget home.'\n\nThe count, looking up, now perceived, that the twilight of evening\nwas anticipated by an approaching storm. In the east a tempest was\ncollecting; a heavy gloom came on, opposing and contrasting the glowing\nsplendour of the setting sun. The clamorous sea-fowl skimmed in fleet\ncircles upon the surface of the sea, dipping their light pinions in the\nwave, as they fled away in search of shelter. The boatmen pulled hard\nat their oars; but the thunder, that now muttered at a distance, and the\nheavy drops, that began to dimple the water, made the Count determine\nto put back to the monastery for shelter, and the course of the boat\nwas immediately changed. As the clouds approached the west, their lurid\ndarkness changed to a deep ruddy glow, which, by reflection, seemed to\nfire the tops of the woods and the shattered towers of the monastery.\n\nThe appearance of the heavens alarmed the Countess and Mademoiselle\nBearn, whose expressions of apprehension distressed the Count, and\nperplexed his men; while Blanche continued silent, now agitated with\nfear, and now with admiration, as she viewed the grandeur of the clouds,\nand their effect on the scenery, and listened to the long, long peals of\nthunder, that rolled through the air.\n\nThe boat having reached the lawn before the monastery, the Count sent a\nservant to announce his arrival, and to entreat shelter of the Superior,\nwho, soon after, appeared at the great gate, attended by several\nmonks, while the servant returned with a message, expressive at once of\nhospitality and pride, but of pride disguised in submission. The party\nimmediately disembarked, and, having hastily crossed the lawn--for the\nshower was now heavy--were received at the gate by the Superior, who, as\nthey entered, stretched forth his hands and gave his blessing; and they\npassed into the great hall, where the lady abbess waited, attended by\nseveral nuns, clothed, like herself, in black, and veiled in white.\nThe veil of the abbess was, however, thrown half back, and discovered a\ncountenance, whose chaste dignity was sweetened by the smile of welcome,\nwith which she addressed the Countess, whom she led, with Blanche and\nMademoiselle Bearn, into the convent parlour, while the Count and Henri\nwere conducted by the Superior to the refectory.\n\nThe Countess, fatigued and discontented, received the politeness of the\nabbess with careless haughtiness, and had followed her, with indolent\nsteps, to the parlour, over which the painted casements and wainscot of\nlarch-wood threw, at all times, a melancholy shade, and where the gloom\nof evening now loured almost to darkness.\n\nWhile the lady abbess ordered refreshment, and conversed with the\nCountess, Blanche withdrew to a window, the lower panes of which, being\nwithout painting, allowed her to observe the progress of the storm over\nthe Mediterranean, whose dark waves, that had so lately slept, now came\nboldly swelling, in long succession, to the shore, where they burst in\nwhite foam, and threw up a high spray over the rocks. A red sulphureous\ntint overspread the long line of clouds, that hung above the western\nhorizon, beneath whose dark skirts the sun looking out, illumined the\ndistant shores of Languedoc, as well as the tufted summits of the nearer\nwoods, and shed a partial gleam on the western waves. The rest of the\nscene was in deep gloom, except where a sun-beam, darting between the\nclouds, glanced on the white wings of the sea-fowl, that circled high\namong them, or touched the swelling sail of a vessel, which was seen\nlabouring in the storm. Blanche, for some time, anxiously watched the\nprogress of the bark, as it threw the waves in foam around it, and, as\nthe lightnings flashed, looked to the opening heavens, with many a sigh\nfor the fate of the poor mariners.\n\nThe sun, at length, set, and the heavy clouds, which had long impended,\ndropped over the splendour of his course; the vessel, however, was\nyet dimly seen, and Blanche continued to observe it, till the quick\nsuccession of flashes, lighting up the gloom of the whole horizon,\nwarned her to retire from the window, and she joined the Abbess, who,\nhaving exhausted all her topics of conversation with the Countess, had\nnow leisure to notice her.\n\nBut their discourse was interrupted by tremendous peals of thunder;\nand the bell of the monastery soon after ringing out, summoned the\ninhabitants to prayer. As Blanche passed the window, she gave another\nlook to the ocean, where, by the momentary flash, that illumined the\nvast body of the waters, she distinguished the vessel she had observed\nbefore, amidst a sea of foam, breaking the billows, the mast now bowing\nto the waves, and then rising high in air.\n\nShe sighed fervently as she gazed, and then followed the Lady Abbess\nand the Countess to the chapel. Meanwhile, some of the Count's servants,\nhaving gone by land to the chateau for carriages, returned soon after\nvespers had concluded, when, the storm being somewhat abated, the Count\nand his family returned home. Blanche was surprised to discover how much\nthe windings of the shore had deceived her, concerning the distance of\nthe chateau from the monastery, whose vesper bell she had heard, on the\npreceding evening, from the windows of the west saloon, and whose towers\nshe would also have seen from thence, had not twilight veiled them.\n\nOn their arrival at the chateau, the Countess, affecting more fatigue,\nthan she really felt, withdrew to her apartment, and the Count, with\nhis daughter and Henri, went to the supper-room, where they had not been\nlong, when they heard, in a pause of the gust, a firing of guns, which\nthe Count understanding to be signals of distress from some vessel in\nthe storm, went to a window, that opened towards the Mediterranean, to\nobserve further; but the sea was now involved in utter darkness, and\nthe loud howlings of the tempest had again overcome every other sound.\nBlanche, remembering the bark, which she had before seen, now joined her\nfather, with trembling anxiety. In a few moments, the report of guns was\nagain borne along the wind, and as suddenly wafted away; a tremendous\nburst of thunder followed, and, in the flash, that had preceded it, and\nwhich seemed to quiver over the whole surface of the waters, a vessel\nwas discovered, tossing amidst the white foam of the waves at some\ndistance from the shore. Impenetrable darkness again involved the scene,\nbut soon a second flash shewed the bark, with one sail unfurled, driving\ntowards the coast. Blanche hung upon her father's arm, with looks full\nof the agony of united terror and pity, which were unnecessary to\nawaken the heart of the Count, who gazed upon the sea with a piteous\nexpression, and, perceiving, that no boat could live in the storm,\nforbore to send one; but he gave orders to his people to carry torches\nout upon the cliffs, hoping they might prove a kind of beacon to the\nvessel, or, at least, warn the crew of the rocks they were approaching.\nWhile Henri went out to direct on what part of the cliffs the lights\nshould appear, Blanche remained with her father, at the window,\ncatching, every now and then, as the lightnings flashed, a glimpse of\nthe vessel; and she soon saw, with reviving hope, the torches flaming\non the blackness of night, and, as they waved over the cliffs, casting a\nred gleam on the gasping billows. When the firing of guns was repeated,\nthe torches were tossed high in the air, as if answering the signal, and\nthe firing was then redoubled; but, though the wind bore the sound away,\nshe fancied, as the lightnings glanced, that the vessel was much nearer\nthe shore.\n\nThe Count's servants were now seen, running to and fro, on the rocks;\nsome venturing almost to the point of the crags, and bending over, held\nout their torches fastened to long poles; while others, whose steps\ncould be traced only by the course of the lights, descended the steep\nand dangerous path, that wound to the margin of the sea, and, with loud\nhalloos, hailed the mariners, whose shrill whistle, and then feeble\nvoices, were heard, at intervals, mingling with the storm. Sudden shouts\nfrom the people on the rocks increased the anxiety of Blanche to an\nalmost intolerable degree: but her suspense, concerning the fate of the\nmariners, was soon over, when Henri, running breathless into the room,\ntold that the vessel was anchored in the bay below, but in so shattered\na condition, that it was feared she would part before the crew could\ndisembark. The Count immediately gave orders for his own boats to assist\nin bringing them to shore, and that such of these unfortunate\nstrangers as could not be accommodated in the adjacent hamlet should\nbe entertained at the chateau. Among the latter, were Emily St. Aubert,\nMonsieur Du Pont, Ludovico and Annette, who, having embarked at Leghorn\nand reached Marseilles, were from thence crossing the Gulf of Lyons,\nwhen this storm overtook them. They were received by the Count with his\nusual benignity, who, though Emily wished to have proceeded immediately\nto the monastery of St. Claire, would not allow her to leave the\nchateau, that night; and, indeed, the terror and fatigue she had\nsuffered would scarcely have permitted her to go farther.\n\nIn Monsieur Du Pont the Count discovered an old acquaintance, and\nmuch joy and congratulation passed between them, after which Emily was\nintroduced by name to the Count's family, whose hospitable benevolence\ndissipated the little embarrassment, which her situation had occasioned\nher, and the party were soon seated at the supper-table. The unaffected\nkindness of Blanche and the lively joy she expressed on the escape of\nthe strangers, for whom her pity had been so much interested, gradually\nrevived Emily's languid spirits; and Du Pont, relieved from his terrors\nfor her and for himself, felt the full contrast, between his late\nsituation on a dark and tremendous ocean, and his present one, in a\ncheerful mansion, where he was surrounded with plenty, elegance and\nsmiles of welcome.\n\nAnnette, meanwhile, in the servants' hall, was telling of all the\ndangers she had encountered, and congratulating herself so heartily upon\nher own and Ludovico's escape, and on her present comforts, that\nshe often made all that part of the chateau ring with merriment\nand laughter. Ludovico's spirits were as gay as her own, but he had\ndiscretion enough to restrain them, and tried to check hers, though in\nvain, till her laughter, at length, ascended to MY LADY'S chamber, who\nsent to enquire what occasioned so much uproar in the chateau, and to\ncommand silence.\n\nEmily withdrew early to seek the repose she so much required, but\nher pillow was long a sleepless one. On this her return to her native\ncountry, many interesting remembrances were awakened; all the events\nand sufferings she had experienced, since she quitted it, came in\nlong succession to her fancy, and were chased only by the image of\nValancourt, with whom to believe herself once more in the same land,\nafter they had been so long, and so distantly separated, gave her\nemotions of indescribable joy, but which afterwards yielded to anxiety\nand apprehension, when she considered the long period, that had elapsed,\nsince any letter had passed between them, and how much might have\nhappened in this interval to affect her future peace. But the thought,\nthat Valancourt might be now no more, or, if living, might have\nforgotten her, was so very terrible to her heart, that she would\nscarcely suffer herself to pause upon the possibility. She determined to\ninform him, on the following day, of her arrival in France, which it was\nscarcely possible he could know but by a letter from herself, and, after\nsoothing her spirits with the hope of soon hearing, that he was well,\nand unchanged in his affections, she, at length, sunk to repose.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\n     Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia, silver-bright,\n In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of folly,\n With freedom by my side, and soft-ey'd melancholy.\n     GRAY\n\nThe Lady Blanche was so much interested for Emily, that, upon hearing\nshe was going to reside in the neighbouring convent, she requested the\nCount would invite her to lengthen her stay at the chateau. 'And you\nknow, my dear sir,' added Blanche, 'how delighted I shall be with such\na companion; for, at present, I have no friend to walk, or to read with,\nsince Mademoiselle Bearn is my mamma's friend only.'\n\nThe Count smiled at the youthful simplicity, with which his daughter\nyielded to first impressions; and, though he chose to warn her of their\ndanger, he silently applauded the benevolence, that could thus readily\nexpand in confidence to a stranger. He had observed Emily, with\nattention, on the preceding evening, and was as much pleased with\nher, as it was possible he could be with any person, on so short an\nacquaintance. The mention, made of her by Mons. Du Pont, had also given\nhim a favourable impression of Emily; but, extremely cautious as\nto those, whom he introduced to the intimacy of his daughter, he\ndetermined, on hearing that the former was no stranger at the convent of\nSt. Claire, to visit the abbess, and, if her account corresponded with\nhis wish, to invite Emily to pass some time at the chateau. On this\nsubject, he was influenced by a consideration of the Lady Blanche's\nwelfare, still more than by either a wish to oblige her, or to befriend\nthe orphan Emily, for whom, however, he felt considerably interested.\n\nOn the following morning, Emily was too much fatigued to appear; but\nMons. Du Pont was at the breakfast-table, when the Count entered the\nroom, who pressed him, as his former acquaintance, and the son of a very\nold friend, to prolong his stay at the chateau; an invitation, which Du\nPont willingly accepted, since it would allow him to be near Emily; and,\nthough he was not conscious of encouraging a hope, that she would\never return his affection, he had not fortitude enough to attempt, at\npresent, to overcome it.\n\nEmily, when she was somewhat recovered, wandered with her new friend\nover the grounds belonging to the chateau, as much delighted with the\nsurrounding views, as Blanche, in the benevolence of her heart, had\nwished; from thence she perceived, beyond the woods, the towers of the\nmonastery, and remarked, that it was to this convent she designed to go.\n\n'Ah!' said Blanche with surprise, 'I am but just released from a\nconvent, and would you go into one? If you could know what pleasure\nI feel in wandering here, at liberty,--and in seeing the sky and the\nfields, and the woods all round me, I think you would not.' Emily,\nsmiling at the warmth, with which the Lady Blanche spoke, observed, that\nshe did not mean to confine herself to a convent for life.\n\n'No, you may not intend it now,' said Blanche; 'but you do not know to\nwhat the nuns may persuade you to consent: I know how kind they will\nappear, and how happy, for I have seen too much of their art.'\n\nWhen they returned to the chateau, Lady Blanche conducted Emily to\nher favourite turret, and from thence they rambled through the ancient\nchambers, which Blanche had visited before. Emily was amused by\nobserving the structure of these apartments, and the fashion of their\nold but still magnificent furniture, and by comparing them with those\nof the castle of Udolpho, which were yet more antique and grotesque.\nShe was also interested by Dorothee the house-keeper, who attended them,\nwhose appearance was almost as antique as the objects around her, and\nwho seemed no less interested by Emily, on whom she frequently gazed\nwith so much deep attention, as scarcely to hear what was said to her.\n\nWhile Emily looked from one of the casements, she perceived, with\nsurprise, some objects, that were familiar to her memory;--the fields\nand woods, with the gleaming brook, which she had passed with La Voisin,\none evening, soon after the death of Monsieur St. Aubert, in her way\nfrom the monastery to her cottage; and she now knew this to be the\nchateau, which he had then avoided, and concerning which he had dropped\nsome remarkable hints.\n\nShocked by this discovery, yet scarcely knowing why, she mused for\nsome time in silence, and remembered the emotion, which her father\nhad betrayed on finding himself so near this mansion, and some other\ncircumstances of his conduct, that now greatly interested her. The\nmusic, too, which she had formerly heard, and, respecting which La\nVoisin had given such an odd account, occurred to her, and, desirous of\nknowing more concerning it, she asked Dorothee whether it returned at\nmidnight, as usual, and whether the musician had yet been discovered.\n\n'Yes, ma'amselle,' replied Dorothee, 'that music is still heard, but\nthe musician has never been found out, nor ever will, I believe; though\nthere are some people, who can guess.'\n\n'Indeed!' said Emily, 'then why do they not pursue the enquiry?'\n\n'Ah, young lady! enquiry enough has been made--but who can pursue a\nspirit?'\n\nEmily smiled, and, remembering how lately she had suffered herself to be\nled away by superstition, determined now to resist its contagion; yet,\nin spite of her efforts, she felt awe mingle with her curiosity, on\nthis subject; and Blanche, who had hitherto listened in silence, now\nenquired what this music was, and how long it had been heard.\n\n'Ever since the death of my lady, madam,' replied Dorothee.\n\n'Why, the place is not haunted, surely?' said Blanche, between jesting\nand seriousness.\n\n'I have heard that music almost ever since my dear lady died,' continued\nDorothee, 'and never before then. But that is nothing to some things I\ncould tell of.'\n\n'Do, pray, tell them, then,' said Lady Blanche, now more in earnest than\nin jest. 'I am much interested, for I have heard sister Henriette, and\nsister Sophie, in the convent, tell of such strange appearances, which\nthey themselves had witnessed!'\n\n'You never heard, my lady, I suppose, what made us leave the chateau,\nand go and live in a cottage,' said Dorothee. 'Never!' replied Blanche\nwith impatience.\n\n'Nor the reason, that my lord, the Marquis'--Dorothee checked herself,\nhesitated, and then endeavoured to change the topic; but the curiosity\nof Blanche was too much awakened to suffer the subject thus easily to\nescape her, and she pressed the old house-keeper to proceed with her\naccount, upon whom, however, no entreaties could prevail; and it was\nevident, that she was alarmed for the imprudence, into which she had\nalready betrayed herself.\n\n'I perceive,' said Emily, smiling, 'that all old mansions are haunted; I\nam lately come from a place of wonders; but unluckily, since I left it,\nI have heard almost all of them explained.'\n\nBlanche was silent; Dorothee looked grave, and sighed; and Emily felt\nherself still inclined to believe more of the wonderful, than she\nchose to acknowledge. Just then, she remembered the spectacle she had\nwitnessed in a chamber of Udolpho, and, by an odd kind of coincidence,\nthe alarming words, that had accidentally met her eye in the MS. papers,\nwhich she had destroyed, in obedience to the command of her father; and\nshe shuddered at the meaning they seemed to impart, almost as much as at\nthe horrible appearance, disclosed by the black veil.\n\nThe Lady Blanche, meanwhile, unable to prevail with Dorothee to explain\nthe subject of her late hints, had desired, on reaching the door, that\nterminated the gallery, and which she found fastened on the preceding\nday, to see the suite of rooms beyond. 'Dear young lady,' said the\nhousekeeper, 'I have told you my reason for not opening them; I have\nnever seen them, since my dear lady died; and it would go hard with me\nto see them now. Pray, madam, do not ask me again.'\n\n'Certainly I will not,' replied Blanche, 'if that is really your\nobjection.'\n\n'Alas! it is,' said the old woman: 'we all loved her well, and I shall\nalways grieve for her. Time runs round! it is now many years, since she\ndied; but I remember every thing, that happened then, as if it was but\nyesterday. Many things, that have passed of late years, are gone quite\nfrom my memory, while those so long ago, I can see as if in a glass.'\nShe paused, but afterwards, as they walked up the gallery, added to\nEmily, 'this young lady sometimes brings the late Marchioness to my\nmind; I can remember, when she looked just as blooming, and very like\nher, when she smiles. Poor lady! how gay she was, when she first came to\nthe chateau!'\n\n'And was she not gay, afterwards?' said Blanche.\n\nDorothee shook her head; and Emily observed her, with eyes strongly\nexpressive of the interest she now felt. 'Let us sit down in this\nwindow,' said the Lady Blanche, on reaching the opposite end of the\ngallery: 'and pray, Dorothee, if it is not painful to you, tell us\nsomething more about the Marchioness. I should like to look into the\nglass you spoke of just now, and see a few of the circumstances, which\nyou say often pass over it.'\n\n'No, my lady,' replied Dorothee; 'if you knew as much as I do, you would\nnot, for you would find there a dismal train of them; I often wish I\ncould shut them out, but they will rise to my mind. I see my dear lady\non her death-bed,--her very look,--and remember all she said--it was a\nterrible scene!'\n\n'Why was it so terrible?' said Emily with emotion.\n\n'Ah, dear young lady! is not death always terrible?' replied Dorothee.\n\nTo some further enquiries of Blanche Dorothee was silent; and Emily,\nobserving the tears in her eyes, forbore to urge the subject, and\nendeavoured to withdraw the attention of her young friend to some object\nin the gardens, where the Count, with the Countess and Monsieur Du Pont,\nappearing, they went down to join them.\n\nWhen he perceived Emily, he advanced to meet her, and presented her to\nthe Countess, in a manner so benign, that it recalled most powerfully\nto her mind the idea of her late father, and she felt more gratitude to\nhim, than embarrassment towards the Countess, who, however, received\nher with one of those fascinating smiles, which her caprice sometimes\nallowed her to assume, and which was now the result of a conversation\nthe Count had held with her, concerning Emily. Whatever this might be,\nor whatever had passed in his conversation with the lady abbess, whom\nhe had just visited, esteem and kindness were strongly apparent in his\nmanner, when he addressed Emily, who experienced that sweet emotion,\nwhich arises from the consciousness of possessing the approbation of\nthe good; for to the Count's worth she had been inclined to yield her\nconfidence almost from the first moment, in which she had seen him.\n\nBefore she could finish her acknowledgments for the hospitality she had\nreceived, and mention of her design of going immediately to the convent,\nshe was interrupted by an invitation to lengthen her stay at the\nchateau, which was pressed by the Count and the Countess, with an\nappearance of such friendly sincerity, that, though she much wished to\nsee her old friends at the monastery, and to sigh, once more, over her\nfather's grave, she consented to remain a few days at the chateau.\n\nTo the abbess, however, she immediately wrote, mentioning her arrival\nin Languedoc and her wish to be received into the convent, as a boarder;\nshe also sent letters to Monsieur Quesnel and to Valancourt, whom she\nmerely informed of her arrival in France; and, as she knew not where the\nlatter might be stationed, she directed her letter to his brother's seat\nin Gascony.\n\nIn the evening, Lady Blanche and Mons. Du Pont walked with Emily to\nthe cottage of La Voisin, which she had now a melancholy pleasure in\napproaching, for time had softened her grief for the loss of St. Aubert,\nthough it could not annihilate it, and she felt a soothing sadness in\nindulging the recollections, which this scene recalled. La Voisin was\nstill living, and seemed to enjoy, as much as formerly, the tranquil\nevening of a blameless life. He was sitting at the door of his cottage,\nwatching some of his grandchildren, playing on the grass before him,\nand, now and then, with a laugh, or a commendation, encouraging their\nsports. He immediately recollected Emily, whom he was much pleased to\nsee, and she was as rejoiced to hear, that he had not lost one of his\nfamily, since her departure.\n\n'Yes, ma'amselle,' said the old man, 'we all live merrily together\nstill, thank God! and I believe there is not a happier family to be\nfound in Languedoc, than ours.'\n\nEmily did not trust herself in the chamber, where St. Aubert died; and,\nafter half an hour's conversation with La Voisin and his family, she\nleft the cottage.\n\nDuring these the first days of her stay at Chateau-le-Blanc, she was\noften affected, by observing the deep, but silent melancholy, which, at\ntimes, stole over Du Pont; and Emily, pitying the self-delusion, which\ndisarmed him of the will to depart, determined to withdraw herself as\nsoon as the respect she owed the Count and Countess De Villefort would\npermit. The dejection of his friend soon alarmed the anxiety of the\nCount, to whom Du Pont, at length, confided the secret of his hopeless\naffection, which, however, the former could only commiserate, though he\nsecretly determined to befriend his suit, if an opportunity of doing so\nshould ever occur. Considering the dangerous situation of Du Pont, he\nbut feebly opposed his intention of leaving Chateau-le-Blanc, on the\nfollowing day, but drew from him a promise of a longer visit, when he\ncould return with safety to his peace. Emily herself, though she could\nnot encourage his affection, esteemed him both for the many virtues he\npossessed, and for the services she had received from him; and it was\nnot without tender emotions of gratitude and pity, that she now saw him\ndepart for his family seat in Gascony; while he took leave of her with\na countenance so expressive of love and grief, as to interest the Count\nmore warmly in his cause than before.\n\nIn a few days, Emily also left the chateau, but not before the Count and\nCountess had received her promise to repeat her visit very soon; and\nshe was welcomed by the abbess, with the same maternal kindness she had\nformerly experienced, and by the nuns, with much expression of regard.\nThe well-known scenes of the convent occasioned her many melancholy\nrecollections, but with these were mingled others, that inspired\ngratitude for having escaped the various dangers, that had pursued her,\nsince she quitted it, and for the good, which she yet possessed; and,\nthough she once more wept over her father's grave, with tears of tender\naffection, her grief was softened from its former acuteness.\n\nSome time after her return to the monastery, she received a letter from\nher uncle, Mons. Quesnel, in answer to information that she had arrived\nin France, and to her enquiries, concerning such of her affairs as\nhe had undertaken to conduct during her absence, especially as to the\nperiod for which La Vallee had been let, whither it was her wish to\nreturn, if it should appear, that her income would permit her to do\nso. The reply of Mons. Quesnel was cold and formal, as she expected,\nexpressing neither concern for the evils she suffered, nor pleasure,\nthat she was now removed from them; nor did he allow the opportunity\nto pass, of reproving her for her rejection of Count Morano, whom he\naffected still to believe a man of honour and fortune; nor of vehemently\ndeclaiming against Montoni, to whom he had always, till now, felt\nhimself to be inferior. On Emily's pecuniary concerns, he was not very\nexplicit; he informed her, however, that the term, for which La Vallee\nhad been engaged, was nearly expired; but, without inviting her to his\nown house, added, that her circumstances would by no means allow her to\nreside there, and earnestly advised her to remain, for the present, in\nthe convent of St. Claire.\n\nTo her enquiries respecting poor old Theresa, her late father's servant,\nhe gave no answer. In the postscript to his letter, Monsieur Quesnel\nmentioned M. Motteville, in whose hands the late St. Aubert had placed\nthe chief of his personal property, as being likely to arrange his\naffairs nearly to the satisfaction of his creditors, and that Emily\nwould recover much more of her fortune, than she had formerly reason to\nexpect. The letter also inclosed to Emily an order upon a merchant at\nNarbonne, for a small sum of money.\n\nThe tranquillity of the monastery, and the liberty she was suffered\nto enjoy, in wandering among the woods and shores of this delightful\nprovince, gradually restored her spirits to their natural tone, except\nthat anxiety would sometimes intrude, concerning Valancourt, as the time\napproached, when it was possible that she might receive an answer to her\nletter.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\n     As when a wave, that from a cloud impends,\n And, swell'd with tempests, on the ship descends,\n White are the decks with foam; the winds aloud,\n Howl o'er the masts, and sing through ev'ry shroud:\n Pale, trembling, tir'd, the sailors freeze with fears,\n And instant death on ev'ry wave appears.\n     POPE'S HOMER\n\nThe Lady Blanche, meanwhile, who was left much alone, became impatient\nfor the company of her new friend, whom she wished to observe sharing in\nthe delight she received from the beautiful scenery around. She had now\nno person, to whom she could express her admiration and communicate\nher pleasures, no eye, that sparkled to her smile, or countenance, that\nreflected her happiness; and she became spiritless and pensive. The\nCount, observing her dissatisfaction, readily yielded to her entreaties,\nand reminded Emily of her promised visit; but the silence of Valancourt,\nwhich was now prolonged far beyond the period, when a letter might\nhave arrived from Estuviere, oppressed Emily with severe anxiety, and,\nrendering her averse to society, she would willingly have deferred her\nacceptance of this invitation, till her spirits should be relieved.\nThe Count and his family, however, pressed to see her; and, as the\ncircumstances, that prompted her wish for solitude, could not be\nexplained, there was an appearance of caprice in her refusal, which she\ncould not persevere in, without offending the friends, whose esteem\nshe valued. At length, therefore, she returned upon a second visit\nto Chateau-le-Blanc. Here the friendly manner of Count De Villefort\nencouraged Emily to mention to him her situation, respecting the estates\nof her late aunt, and to consult him on the means of recovering them. He\nhad little doubt, that the law would decide in her favour, and, advising\nher to apply to it, offered first to write to an advocate at Avignon,\non whose opinion he thought he could rely. His kindness was gratefully\naccepted by Emily, who, soothed by the courtesy she daily experienced,\nwould have been once more happy, could she have been assured of\nValancourt's welfare and unaltered affection. She had now been above a\nweek at the chateau, without receiving intelligence of him, and, though\nshe knew, that, if he was absent from his brother's residence, it was\nscarcely probable her letter had yet reached him, she could not forbear\nto admit doubts and fears, that destroyed her peace. Again she would\nconsider of all, that might have happened in the long period, since her\nfirst seclusion at Udolpho, and her mind was sometimes so overwhelmed\nwith an apprehension, that Valancourt was no more, or that he lived\nno longer for her, that the company even of Blanche became intolerably\noppressive, and she would sit alone in her apartment for hours together,\nwhen the engagements of the family allowed her to do so, without\nincivility.\n\nIn one of these solitary hours, she unlocked a little box, which\ncontained some letters of Valancourt, with some drawings she had\nsketched, during her stay in Tuscany, the latter of which were no\nlonger interesting to her; but, in the letters, she now, with melancholy\nindulgence, meant to retrace the tenderness, that had so often soothed\nher, and rendered her, for a moment, insensible of the distance, which\nseparated her from the writer. But their effect was now changed; the\naffection they expressed appealed so forcibly to her heart, when she\nconsidered that it had, perhaps, yielded to the powers of time and\nabsence, and even the view of the hand-writing recalled so many painful\nrecollections, that she found herself unable to go through the first she\nhad opened, and sat musing, with her cheek resting on her arm, and tears\nstealing from her eyes, when old Dorothee entered the room to inform\nher, that dinner would be ready, an hour before the usual time. Emily\nstarted on perceiving her, and hastily put up the papers, but not before\nDorothee had observed both her agitation and her tears.\n\n'Ah, ma'amselle!' said she, 'you, who are so young,--have you reason for\nsorrow?'\n\nEmily tried to smile, but was unable to speak.\n\n'Alas! dear young lady, when you come to my age, you will not weep at\ntrifles; and surely you have nothing serious, to grieve you.'\n\n'No, Dorothee, nothing of any consequence,' replied Emily. Dorothee, now\nstooping to pick up something, that had dropped from among the papers,\nsuddenly exclaimed, 'Holy Mary! what is it I see?' and then, trembling,\nsat down in a chair, that stood by the table.\n\n'What is it you do see?' said Emily, alarmed by her manner, and looking\nround the room.\n\n'It is herself,' said Dorothee, 'her very self! just as she looked a\nlittle before she died!'\n\nEmily, still more alarmed, began now to fear, that Dorothee was seized\nwith sudden phrensy, but entreated her to explain herself.\n\n'That picture!' said she, 'where did you find it, lady? it is my blessed\nmistress herself!'\n\nShe laid on the table the miniature, which Emily had long ago found\namong the papers her father had enjoined her to destroy, and over\nwhich she had once seen him shed such tender and affecting tears; and,\nrecollecting all the various circumstances of his conduct, that had long\nperplexed her, her emotions increased to an excess, which deprived her\nof all power to ask the questions she trembled to have answered, and she\ncould only enquire, whether Dorothee was certain the picture resembled\nthe late marchioness.\n\n'O, ma'amselle!' said she, 'how came it to strike me so, the instant I\nsaw it, if it was not my lady's likeness? Ah!' added she, taking up the\nminiature, 'these are her own blue eyes--looking so sweet and so mild;\nand there is her very look, such as I have often seen it, when she had\nsat thinking for a long while, and then, the tears would often steal\ndown her cheeks--but she never would complain! It was that look so meek,\nas it were, and resigned, that used to break my heart and make me love\nher so!'\n\n'Dorothee!' said Emily solemnly, 'I am interested in the cause of that\ngrief, more so, perhaps, than you may imagine; and I entreat, that you\nwill no longer refuse to indulge my curiosity;--it is not a common one.'\n\nAs Emily said this, she remembered the papers, with which the picture\nhad been found, and had scarcely a doubt, that they had concerned the\nMarchioness de Villeroi; but with this supposition came a scruple,\nwhether she ought to enquire further on a subject, which might prove to\nbe the same, that her father had so carefully endeavoured to conceal.\nHer curiosity, concerning the Marchioness, powerful as it was, it is\nprobable she would now have resisted, as she had formerly done, on\nunwarily observing the few terrible words in the papers, which had never\nsince been erased from her memory, had she been certain that the history\nof that lady was the subject of those papers, or, that such simple\nparticulars only as it was probable Dorothee could relate were included\nin her father's command. What was known to her could be no secret to\nmany other persons; and, since it appeared very unlikely, that St.\nAubert should attempt to conceal what Emily might learn by ordinary\nmeans, she at length concluded, that, if the papers had related to the\nstory of the Marchioness, it was not those circumstances of it, which\nDorothee could disclose, that he had thought sufficiently important to\nwish to have concealed. She, therefore, no longer hesitated to make the\nenquiries, that might lead to the gratification of her curiosity.\n\n'Ah, ma'amselle!' said Dorothee, 'it is a sad story, and cannot be told\nnow: but what am I saying? I never will tell it. Many years have passed,\nsince it happened; and I never loved to talk of the Marchioness to any\nbody, but my husband. He lived in the family, at that time, as well as\nmyself, and he knew many particulars from me, which nobody else did; for\nI was about the person of my lady in her last illness, and saw and heard\nas much, or more than my lord himself. Sweet saint! how patient she was!\nWhen she died, I thought I could have died with her!'\n\n'Dorothee,' said Emily, interrupting her, 'what you shall tell, you may\ndepend upon it, shall never be disclosed by me. I have, I repeat it,\nparticular reasons for wishing to be informed on this subject, and am\nwilling to bind myself, in the most solemn manner, never to mention what\nyou shall wish me to conceal.'\n\nDorothee seemed surprised at the earnestness of Emily's manner, and,\nafter regarding her for some moments, in silence, said, 'Young lady!\nthat look of yours pleads for you--it is so like my dear mistress's,\nthat I can almost fancy I see her before me; if you were her daughter,\nyou could not remind me of her more. But dinner will be ready--had you\nnot better go down?'\n\n'You will first promise to grant my request,' said Emily.\n\n'And ought not you first to tell me, ma'amselle, how this picture fell\ninto your hands, and the reasons you say you have for curiosity about my\nlady?'\n\n'Why, no, Dorothee,' replied Emily, recollecting herself, 'I have also\nparticular reasons for observing silence, on these subjects, at least,\ntill I know further; and, remember, I do not promise ever to speak upon\nthem; therefore, do not let me induce you to satisfy my curiosity, from\nan expectation, that I shall gratify yours. What I may judge proper to\nconceal, does not concern myself alone, or I should have less scruple\nin revealing it: let a confidence in my honour alone persuade you to\ndisclose what I request.'\n\n'Well, lady!' replied Dorothee, after a long pause, during which her\neyes were fixed upon Emily, 'you seem so much interested,--and this\npicture and that face of yours make me think you have some reason to\nbe so,--that I will trust you--and tell some things, that I never told\nbefore to any body, but my husband, though there are people, who have\nsuspected as much. I will tell you the particulars of my lady's death,\ntoo, and some of my own suspicions; but you must first promise me by all\nthe saints'--\n\nEmily, interrupting her, solemnly promised never to reveal what should\nbe confided to her, without Dorothee's consent.\n\n'But there is the horn, ma'amselle, sounding for dinner,' said Dorothee;\n'I must be gone.'\n\n'When shall I see you again?' enquired Emily.\n\nDorothee mused, and then replied, 'Why, madam, it may make people\ncurious, if it is known I am so much in your apartment, and that\nI should be sorry for; so I will come when I am least likely to be\nobserved. I have little leisure in the day, and I shall have a good deal\nto say; so, if you please, ma'am, I will come, when the family are all\nin bed.'\n\n'That will suit me very well,' replied Emily: 'Remember, then,\nto-night'--\n\n'Aye, that is well remembered,' said Dorothee, 'I fear I cannot come\nto-night, madam, for there will be the dance of the vintage, and it will\nbe late, before the servants go to rest; for, when they once set in to\ndance, they will keep it up, in the cool of the air, till morning; at\nleast, it used to be so in my time.'\n\n'Ah! is it the dance of the vintage?' said Emily, with a deep sigh,\nremembering, that it was on the evening of this festival, in the\npreceding year, that St. Aubert and herself had arrived in the\nneighbourhood of Chateau-le-Blanc. She paused a moment, overcome by\nthe sudden recollection, and then, recovering herself, added--'But this\ndance is in the open woods; you, therefore, will not be wanted, and can\neasily come to me.'\n\nDorothee replied, that she had been accustomed to be present at the\ndance of the vintage, and she did not wish to be absent now; 'but if I\ncan get away, madam, I will,' said she.\n\nEmily then hastened to the dining-room, where the Count conducted\nhimself with the courtesy, which is inseparable from true dignity, and\nof which the Countess frequently practised little, though her manner to\nEmily was an exception to her usual habit. But, if she retained few of\nthe ornamental virtues, she cherished other qualities, which she seemed\nto consider invaluable. She had dismissed the grace of modesty, but\nthen she knew perfectly well how to manage the stare of assurance; her\nmanners had little of the tempered sweetness, which is necessary to\nrender the female character interesting, but she could occasionally\nthrow into them an affectation of spirits, which seemed to triumph over\nevery person, who approached her. In the country, however, she generally\naffected an elegant languor, that persuaded her almost to faint,\nwhen her favourite read to her a story of fictitious sorrow; but\nher countenance suffered no change, when living objects of distress\nsolicited her charity, and her heart beat with no transport to the\nthought of giving them instant relief;--she was a stranger to the\nhighest luxury, of which, perhaps, the human mind can be sensible, for\nher benevolence had never yet called smiles upon the face of misery.\n\nIn the evening, the Count, with all his family, except the Countess and\nMademoiselle Bearn, went to the woods to witness the festivity of the\npeasants. The scene was in a glade, where the trees, opening, formed a\ncircle round the turf they highly overshadowed; between their branches,\nvines, loaded with ripe clusters, were hung in gay festoons; and,\nbeneath, were tables, with fruit, wine, cheese and other rural\nfare,--and seats for the Count and his family. At a little distance,\nwere benches for the elder peasants, few of whom, however, could forbear\nto join the jocund dance, which began soon after sun-set, when several\nof sixty tripped it with almost as much glee and airy lightness, as\nthose of sixteen.\n\nThe musicians, who sat carelessly on the grass, at the foot of a tree,\nseemed inspired by the sound of their own instruments, which were\nchiefly flutes and a kind of long guitar. Behind, stood a boy,\nflourishing a tamborine, and dancing a solo, except that, as he\nsometimes gaily tossed the instrument, he tripped among the other\ndancers, when his antic gestures called forth a broader laugh, and\nheightened the rustic spirit of the scene.\n\nThe Count was highly delighted with the happiness he witnessed, to which\nhis bounty had largely contributed, and the Lady Blanche joined the\ndance with a young gentleman of her father's party. Du Pont requested\nEmily's hand, but her spirits were too much depressed, to permit her to\nengage in the present festivity, which called to her remembrance that\nof the preceding year, when St. Aubert was living, and of the melancholy\nscenes, which had immediately followed it.\n\nOvercome by these recollections, she, at length, left the spot, and\nwalked slowly into the woods, where the softened music, floating at a\ndistance, soothed her melancholy mind. The moon threw a mellow light\namong the foliage; the air was balmy and cool, and Emily, lost in\nthought, strolled on, without observing whither, till she perceived the\nsounds sinking afar off, and an awful stillness round her, except that,\nsometimes, the nightingale beguiled the silence with\n\n     Liquid notes, that close the eye of day.\n\nAt length, she found herself near the avenue, which, on the night of her\nfather's arrival, Michael had attempted to pass in search of a house,\nwhich was still nearly as wild and desolate as it had then appeared; for\nthe Count had been so much engaged in directing other improvements, that\nhe had neglected to give orders, concerning this extensive approach,\nand the road was yet broken, and the trees overloaded with their own\nluxuriance.\n\nAs she stood surveying it, and remembering the emotions, which she had\nformerly suffered there, she suddenly recollected the figure, that had\nbeen seen stealing among the trees, and which had returned no answer to\nMichael's repeated calls; and she experienced somewhat of the fear, that\nhad then assailed her, for it did not appear improbable, that these deep\nwoods were occasionally the haunt of banditti. She, therefore, turned\nback, and was hastily pursuing her way to the dancers, when she heard\nsteps approaching from the avenue; and, being still beyond the call of\nthe peasants on the green, for she could neither hear their voices, or\ntheir music, she quickened her pace; but the persons following gained\nfast upon her, and, at length, distinguishing the voice of Henri, she\nwalked leisurely, till he came up. He expressed some surprise at meeting\nher so far from the company; and, on her saying, that the pleasant\nmoon-light had beguiled her to walk farther than she intended, an\nexclamation burst from the lips of his companion, and she thought she\nheard Valancourt speak! It was, indeed, he! and the meeting was such as\nmay be imagined, between persons so affectionate, and so long separated\nas they had been.\n\nIn the joy of these moments, Emily forgot all her past sufferings, and\nValancourt seemed to have forgotten, that any person but Emily existed;\nwhile Henri was a silent and astonished spectator of the scene.\n\nValancourt asked a thousand questions, concerning herself and Montoni,\nwhich there was now no time to answer; but she learned, that her letter\nhad been forwarded to him, at Paris, which he had previously quitted,\nand was returning to Gascony, whither the letter also returned, which,\nat length, informed him of Emily's arrival, and on the receipt of which\nhe had immediately set out for Languedoc. On reaching the\nmonastery, whence she had dated her letter, he found, to his extreme\ndisappointment, that the gates were already closed for the night;\nand believing, that he should not see Emily, till the morrow, he was\nreturning to his little inn, with the intention of writing to her, when\nhe was overtaken by Henri, with whom he had been intimate at Paris, and\nwas led to her, whom he was secretly lamenting that he should not see,\ntill the following day.\n\nEmily, with Valancourt and Henri, now returned to the green, where the\nlatter presented Valancourt to the Count, who, she fancied, received him\nwith less than his usual benignity, though it appeared, that they were\nnot strangers to each other. He was invited, however, to partake of the\ndiversions of the evening; and, when he had paid his respects to the\nCount, and while the dancers continued their festivity, he seated\nhimself by Emily, and conversed, without restraint. The lights, which\nwere hung among the trees, under which they sat, allowed her a more\nperfect view of the countenance she had so frequently in absence\nendeavoured to recollect, and she perceived, with some regret, that\nit was not the same as when last she saw it. There was all its wonted\nintelligence and fire; but it had lost much of the simplicity, and\nsomewhat of the open benevolence, that used to characterise it. Still,\nhowever, it was an interesting countenance; but Emily thought she\nperceived, at intervals, anxiety contract, and melancholy fix the\nfeatures of Valancourt; sometimes, too, he fell into a momentary musing,\nand then appeared anxious to dissipate thought; while, at others, as he\nfixed his eyes on Emily, a kind of sudden distraction seemed to\ncross his mind. In her he perceived the same goodness and beautiful\nsimplicity, that had charmed him, on their first acquaintance. The bloom\nof her countenance was somewhat faded, but all its sweetness remained,\nand it was rendered more interesting, than ever, by the faint expression\nof melancholy, that sometimes mingled with her smile.\n\nAt his request, she related the most important circumstances, that\nhad occurred to her, since she left France, and emotions of pity and\nindignation alternately prevailed in his mind, when he heard how much\nshe had suffered from the villany of Montoni. More than once, when she\nwas speaking of his conduct, of which the guilt was rather softened,\nthan exaggerated, by her representation, he started from his seat,\nand walked away, apparently overcome as much by self accusation as by\nresentment. Her sufferings alone were mentioned in the few words, which\nhe could address to her, and he listened not to the account, which she\nwas careful to give as distinctly as possible, of the present loss of\nMadame Montoni's estates, and of the little reason there was to expect\ntheir restoration. At length, Valancourt remained lost in thought, and\nthen some secret cause seemed to overcome him with anguish. Again he\nabruptly left her. When he returned, she perceived, that he had been\nweeping, and tenderly begged, that he would compose himself. 'My\nsufferings are all passed now,' said she, 'for I have escaped from the\ntyranny of Montoni, and I see you well--let me also see you happy.'\n\nValancourt was more agitated, than before. 'I am unworthy of you,\nEmily,' said he, 'I am unworthy of you;'--words, by his manner of\nuttering which Emily was then more shocked than by their import. She\nfixed on him a mournful and enquiring eye. 'Do not look thus on me,'\nsaid he, turning away and pressing her hand; 'I cannot bear those\nlooks.'\n\n'I would ask,' said Emily, in a gentle, but agitated voice, 'the meaning\nof your words; but I perceive, that the question would distress you\nnow. Let us talk on other subjects. To-morrow, perhaps, you may be more\ncomposed. Observe those moon light woods, and the towers, which\nappear obscurely in the perspective. You used to be a great admirer\nof landscape, and I have heard you say, that the faculty of deriving\nconsolation, under misfortune, from the sublime prospects, which neither\noppression, or poverty with-hold from us, was the peculiar blessing of\nthe innocent.' Valancourt was deeply affected. 'Yes,' replied he, 'I\nhad once a taste for innocent and elegant delights--I had once an\nuncorrupted heart.' Then, checking himself, he added, 'Do you remember\nour journey together in the Pyrenees?'\n\n'Can I forget it?' said Emily.--'Would that I could!' he replied;--'that\nwas the happiest period of my life. I then loved, with enthusiasm,\nwhatever was truly great, or good.' It was some time before Emily could\nrepress her tears, and try to command her emotions. 'If you wish to\nforget that journey,' said she, 'it must certainly be my wish to forget\nit also.' She paused, and then added, 'You make me very uneasy; but this\nis not the time for further enquiry;--yet, how can I bear to believe,\neven for a moment, that you are less worthy of my esteem than formerly?\nI have still sufficient confidence in your candour, to believe, that,\nwhen I shall ask for an explanation, you will give it me.'--'Yes,' said\nValancourt, 'yes, Emily: I have not yet lost my candour: if I had, I\ncould better have disguised my emotions, on learning what were your\nsufferings--your virtues, while I--I--but I will say no more. I did\nnot mean to have said even so much--I have been surprised into\nthe self-accusation. Tell me, Emily, that you will not forget that\njourney--will not wish to forget it, and I will be calm. I would not\nlose the remembrance of it for the whole earth.'\n\n'How contradictory is this!' said Emily;--'but we may be overheard. My\nrecollection of it shall depend upon yours; I will endeavour to forget,\nor to recollect it, as you may do. Let us join the Count.'--'Tell\nme first,' said Valancourt, 'that you forgive the uneasiness I have\noccasioned you, this evening, and that you will still love me.'--'I\nsincerely forgive you,' replied Emily. 'You best know whether I shall\ncontinue to love you, for you know whether you deserve my esteem. At\npresent, I will believe that you do. It is unnecessary to say,' added\nshe, observing his dejection, 'how much pain it would give me to believe\notherwise.--The young lady, who approaches, is the Count's daughter.'\n\nValancourt and Emily now joined the Lady Blanche; and the party, soon\nafter, sat down with the Count, his son, and the Chevalier Du Pont, at a\nbanquet, spread under a gay awning, beneath the trees. At the table also\nwere seated several of the most venerable of the Count's tenants, and\nit was a festive repast to all but Valancourt and Emily. When the Count\nretired to the chateau, he did not invite Valancourt to accompany him,\nwho, therefore, took leave of Emily, and retired to his solitary inn for\nthe night: meanwhile, she soon withdrew to her own apartment, where\nshe mused, with deep anxiety and concern, on his behaviour, and on the\nCount's reception of him. Her attention was thus so wholly engaged, that\nshe forgot Dorothee and her appointment, till morning was far advanced,\nwhen, knowing that the good old woman would not come, she retired, for a\nfew hours, to repose.\n\nOn the following day, when the Count had accidentally joined Emily in\none of the walks, they talked of the festival of the preceding evening,\nand this led him to a mention of Valancourt. 'That is a young man of\ntalents,' said he; 'you were formerly acquainted with him, I perceive.'\nEmily said, that she was. 'He was introduced to me, at Paris,' said the\nCount, 'and I was much pleased with him, on our first acquaintance.' He\npaused, and Emily trembled, between the desire of hearing more and the\nfear of shewing the Count, that she felt an interest on the subject.\n'May I ask,' said he, at length, 'how long you have known Monsieur\nValancourt?'--'Will you allow me to ask your reason for the question,\nsir?' said she; 'and I will answer it immediately.'--'Certainly,' said\nthe Count, 'that is but just. I will tell you my reason. I cannot but\nperceive, that Monsieur Valancourt admires you; in that, however, there\nis nothing extraordinary; every person, who sees you, must do the same.\nI am above using common-place compliments; I speak with sincerity. What\nI fear, is, that he is a favoured admirer.'--'Why do you fear it, sir?'\nsaid Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion.--'Because,' replied the\nCount, 'I think him not worthy of your favour.' Emily, greatly agitated,\nentreated further explanation. 'I will give it,' said he, 'if you will\nbelieve, that nothing but a strong interest in your welfare could induce\nme to hazard that assertion.'--'I must believe so, sir,' replied Emily.\n\n'But let us rest under these trees,' said the Count, observing the\npaleness of her countenance; 'here is a seat--you are fatigued.' They\nsat down, and the Count proceeded. 'Many young ladies, circumstanced as\nyou are, would think my conduct, on this occasion, and on so short\nan acquaintance, impertinent, instead of friendly; from what I have\nobserved of your temper and understanding, I do not fear such a return\nfrom you. Our acquaintance has been short, but long enough to make me\nesteem you, and feel a lively interest in your happiness. You deserve\nto be very happy, and I trust that you will be so.' Emily sighed\nsoftly, and bowed her thanks. The Count paused again. 'I am unpleasantly\ncircumstanced,' said he; 'but an opportunity of rendering you important\nservice shall overcome inferior considerations. Will you inform me of\nthe manner of your first acquaintance with the Chevalier Valancourt, if\nthe subject is not too painful?'\n\nEmily briefly related the accident of their meeting in the presence of\nher father, and then so earnestly entreated the Count not to hesitate in\ndeclaring what he knew, that he perceived the violent emotion, against\nwhich she was contending, and, regarding her with a look of tender\ncompassion, considered how he might communicate his information with\nleast pain to his anxious auditor.\n\n'The Chevalier and my son,' said he, 'were introduced to each other,\nat the table of a brother officer, at whose house I also met him, and\ninvited him to my own, whenever he should be disengaged. I did not then\nknow, that he had formed an acquaintance with a set of men, a disgrace\nto their species, who live by plunder and pass their lives in continual\ndebauchery. I knew several of the Chevalier's family, resident at Paris,\nand considered them as sufficient pledges for his introduction to my\nown. But you are ill; I will leave the subject.'--'No, sir,' said Emily,\n'I beg you will proceed: I am only distressed.'--'ONLY!' said the Count,\nwith emphasis; 'however, I will proceed. I soon learned, that these, his\nassociates, had drawn him into a course of dissipation, from which he\nappeared to have neither the power, nor the inclination, to extricate\nhimself. He lost large sums at the gaming-table; he became infatuated\nwith play; and was ruined. I spoke tenderly of this to his friends, who\nassured me, that they had remonstrated with him, till they were weary.\nI afterwards learned, that, in consideration of his talents for play,\nwhich were generally successful, when unopposed by the tricks of\nvillany,--that in consideration of these, the party had initiated him\ninto the secrets of their trade, and allotted him a share of their\nprofits.' 'Impossible!' said Emily suddenly; 'but--pardon me, sir, I\nscarcely know what I say; allow for the distress of my mind. I must,\nindeed, I must believe, that you have not been truly informed. The\nChevalier had, doubtless, enemies, who misrepresented him.'--'I should\nbe most happy to believe so,' replied the Count, 'but I cannot. Nothing\nshort of conviction, and a regard for your happiness, could have urged\nme to repeat these unpleasant reports.'\n\nEmily was silent. She recollected Valancourt's sayings, on the preceding\nevening, which discovered the pangs of self-reproach, and seemed to\nconfirm all that the Count had related. Yet she had not fortitude enough\nto dare conviction. Her heart was overwhelmed with anguish at the mere\nsuspicion of his guilt, and she could not endure a belief of it. After\na silence, the Count said, 'I perceive, and can allow for, your want\nof conviction. It is necessary I should give some proof of what I have\nasserted; but this I cannot do, without subjecting one, who is very dear\nto me, to danger.'--'What is the danger you apprehend, sir?' said Emily;\n'if I can prevent it, you may safely confide in my honour.'--'On your\nhonour I am certain I can rely,' said the Count; 'but can I trust your\nfortitude? Do you think you can resist the solicitation of a favoured\nadmirer, when he pleads, in affliction, for the name of one, who\nhas robbed him of a blessing?'--'I shall not be exposed to such a\ntemptation, sir,' said Emily, with modest pride, 'for I cannot favour\none, whom I must no longer esteem. I, however, readily give my word.'\nTears, in the mean time, contradicted her first assertion; and she felt,\nthat time and effort only could eradicate an affection, which had been\nformed on virtuous esteem, and cherished by habit and difficulty.\n\n'I will trust you then,' said the Count, 'for conviction is necessary\nto your peace, and cannot, I perceive, be obtained, without this\nconfidence. My son has too often been an eye-witness of the Chevalier's\nill conduct; he was very near being drawn in by it; he was, indeed,\ndrawn in to the commission of many follies, but I rescued him from guilt\nand destruction. Judge then, Mademoiselle St. Aubert, whether a father,\nwho had nearly lost his only son by the example of the Chevalier, has\nnot, from conviction, reason to warn those, whom he esteems, against\ntrusting their happiness in such hands. I have myself seen the Chevalier\nengaged in deep play with men, whom I almost shuddered to look upon. If\nyou still doubt, I will refer you to my son.'\n\n'I must not doubt what you have yourself witnessed,' replied Emily,\nsinking with grief, 'or what you assert. But the Chevalier has, perhaps,\nbeen drawn only into a transient folly, which he may never repeat. If\nyou had known the justness of his former principles, you would allow for\nmy present incredulity.'\n\n'Alas!' observed the Count, 'it is difficult to believe that, which\nwill make us wretched. But I will not sooth you by flattering and\nfalse hopes. We all know how fascinating the vice of gaming is, and how\ndifficult it is, also, to conquer habits; the Chevalier might, perhaps,\nreform for a while, but he would soon relapse into dissipation--for I\nfear, not only the bonds of habit would be powerful, but that his morals\nare corrupted. And--why should I conceal from you, that play is not his\nonly vice? he appears to have a taste for every vicious pleasure.'\n\nThe Count hesitated and paused; while Emily endeavoured to support\nherself, as, with increasing perturbation, she expected what he might\nfurther say. A long pause of silence ensued, during which he was visibly\nagitated; at length, he said, 'It would be a cruel delicacy, that\ncould prevail with me to be silent--and I will inform you, that the\nChevalier's extravagance has brought him twice into the prisons of\nParis, from whence he was last extricated, as I was told upon authority,\nwhich I cannot doubt, by a well-known Parisian Countess, with whom he\ncontinued to reside, when I left Paris.'\n\nHe paused again; and, looking at Emily, perceived her countenance\nchange, and that she was falling from the seat; he caught her, but she\nhad fainted, and he called loudly for assistance. They were, however,\nbeyond the hearing of his servants at the chateau, and he feared\nto leave her while he went thither for assistance, yet knew not how\notherwise to obtain it; till a fountain at no great distance caught his\neye, and he endeavoured to support Emily against the tree, under which\nshe had been sitting, while he went thither for water. But again he was\nperplexed, for he had nothing near him, in which water could be brought;\nbut while, with increased anxiety, he watched her, he thought he\nperceived in her countenance symptoms of returning life.\n\nIt was long, however, before she revived, and then she found herself\nsupported--not by the Count, but by Valancourt, who was observing her\nwith looks of earnest apprehension, and who now spoke to her in a tone,\ntremulous with his anxiety. At the sound of his well-known voice, she\nraised her eyes, but presently closed them, and a faintness again came\nover her.\n\nThe Count, with a look somewhat stern, waved him to withdraw; but he\nonly sighed heavily, and called on the name of Emily, as he again held\nthe water, that had been brought, to her lips. On the Count's repeating\nhis action, and accompanying it with words, Valancourt answered him\nwith a look of deep resentment, and refused to leave the place, till she\nshould revive, or to resign her for a moment to the care of any person.\nIn the next instant, his conscience seemed to inform him of what had\nbeen the subject of the Count's conversation with Emily, and indignation\nflashed in his eyes; but it was quickly repressed, and succeeded by an\nexpression of serious anguish, that induced the Count to regard him with\nmore pity than resentment, and the view of which so much affected Emily,\nwhen she again revived, that she yielded to the weakness of tears.\nBut she soon restrained them, and, exerting her resolution to appear\nrecovered, she rose, thanked the Count and Henri, with whom Valancourt\nhad entered the garden, for their care, and moved towards the chateau,\nwithout noticing Valancourt, who, heart-struck by her manner, exclaimed\nin a low voice--'Good God! how have I deserved this?--what has been\nsaid, to occasion this change?'\n\nEmily, without replying, but with increased emotion, quickened her\nsteps. 'What has thus disordered you, Emily?' said he, as he still\nwalked by her side: 'give me a few moments' conversation, I entreat\nyou;--I am very miserable!'\n\nThough this was spoken in a low voice, it was overheard by the Count,\nwho immediately replied, that Mademoiselle St. Aubert was then too much\nindisposed, to attend to any conversation, but that he would venture\nto promise she would see Monsieur Valancourt on the morrow, if she was\nbetter.\n\nValancourt's cheek was crimsoned: he looked haughtily at the Count,\nand then at Emily, with successive expressions of surprise, grief and\nsupplication, which she could neither misunderstand, or resist, and she\nsaid languidly--'I shall be better tomorrow, and if you wish to accept\nthe Count's permission, I will see you then.'\n\n'See me!' exclaimed Valancourt, as he threw a glance of mingled pride\nand resentment upon the Count; and then, seeming to recollect\nhimself, he added--'But I will come, madam; I will accept the Count's\nPERMISSION.'\n\nWhen they reached the door of the chateau, he lingered a moment, for\nhis resentment was now fled; and then, with a look so expressive of\ntenderness and grief, that Emily's heart was not proof against it, he\nbade her good morning, and, bowing slightly to the Count, disappeared.\n\nEmily withdrew to her own apartment, under such oppression of heart as\nshe had seldom known, when she endeavoured to recollect all that the\nCount had told, to examine the probability of the circumstances\nhe himself believed, and to consider of her future conduct towards\nValancourt. But, when she attempted to think, her mind refused controul,\nand she could only feel that she was miserable. One moment, she sunk\nunder the conviction, that Valancourt was no longer the same, whom she\nhad so tenderly loved, the idea of whom had hitherto supported her\nunder affliction, and cheered her with the hope of happier days,--but\na fallen, a worthless character, whom she must teach herself to\ndespise--if she could not forget. Then, unable to endure this terrible\nsupposition, she rejected it, and disdained to believe him capable of\nconduct, such as the Count had described, to whom she believed he had\nbeen misrepresented by some artful enemy; and there were moments, when\nshe even ventured to doubt the integrity of the Count himself, and to\nsuspect, that he was influenced by some selfish motive, to break her\nconnection with Valancourt. But this was the error of an instant, only;\nthe Count's character, which she had heard spoken of by Du Pont and\nmany other persons, and had herself observed, enabled her to judge, and\nforbade the supposition; had her confidence, indeed, been less, there\nappeared to be no temptation to betray him into conduct so treacherous,\nand so cruel. Nor did reflection suffer her to preserve the hope, that\nValancourt had been mis-represented to the Count, who had said, that he\nspoke chiefly from his own observation, and from his son's experience.\nShe must part from Valancourt, therefore, for ever--for what of either\nhappiness or tranquillity could she expect with a man, whose tastes were\ndegenerated into low inclinations, and to whom vice was become habitual?\nwhom she must no longer esteem, though the remembrance of what he once\nwas, and the long habit of loving him, would render it very difficult\nfor her to despise him. 'O Valancourt!' she would exclaim, 'having been\nseparated so long--do we meet, only to be miserable--only to part for\never?'\n\nAmidst all the tumult of her mind, she remembered pertinaciously the\nseeming candour and simplicity of his conduct, on the preceding night;\nand, had she dared to trust her own heart, it would have led her to hope\nmuch from this. Still she could not resolve to dismiss him for ever,\nwithout obtaining further proof of his ill conduct; yet she saw no\nprobability of procuring it, if, indeed, proof more positive was\npossible. Something, however, it was necessary to decide upon, and she\nalmost determined to be guided in her opinion solely by the manner, with\nwhich Valancourt should receive her hints concerning his late conduct.\n\nThus passed the hours till dinner-time, when Emily, struggling against\nthe pressure of her grief, dried her tears, and joined the family\nat table, where the Count preserved towards her the most delicate\nattention; but the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn, having looked, for a\nmoment, with surprise, on her dejected countenance, began, as usual,\nto talk of trifles, while the eyes of Lady Blanche asked much of her\nfriend, who could only reply by a mournful smile.\n\nEmily withdrew as soon after dinner as possible, and was followed by the\nLady Blanche, whose anxious enquiries, however, she found herself quite\nunequal to answer, and whom she entreated to spare her on the subject\nof her distress. To converse on any topic, was now, indeed, so extremely\npainful to her, that she soon gave up the attempt, and Blanche left\nher, with pity of the sorrow, which she perceived she had no power to\nassuage.\n\nEmily secretly determined to go to her convent in a day or two; for\ncompany, especially that of the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn, was\nintolerable to her, in the present state of her spirits; and, in the\nretirement of the convent, as well as the kindness of the abbess, she\nhoped to recover the command of her mind, and to teach it resignation to\nthe event, which, she too plainly perceived, was approaching.\n\nTo have lost Valancourt by death, or to have seen him married to\na rival, would, she thought, have given her less anguish, than a\nconviction of his unworthiness, which must terminate in misery to\nhimself, and which robbed her even of the solitary image her heart so\nlong had cherished. These painful reflections were interrupted, for a\nmoment, by a note from Valancourt, written in evident distraction\nof mind, entreating, that she would permit him to see her on the\napproaching evening, instead of the following morning; a request, which\noccasioned her so much agitation, that she was unable to answer it. She\nwished to see him, and to terminate her present state of suspense, yet\nshrunk from the interview, and, incapable of deciding for herself, she,\nat length, sent to beg a few moments' conversation with the Count in his\nlibrary, where she delivered to him the note, and requested his advice.\nAfter reading it, he said, that, if she believed herself well enough\nto support the interview, his opinion was, that, for the relief of both\nparties, it ought to take place, that evening.\n\n'His affection for you is, undoubtedly, a very sincere one,' added the\nCount; 'and he appears so much distressed, and you, my amiable friend,\nare so ill at ease--that the sooner the affair is decided, the better.'\n\nEmily replied, therefore, to Valancourt, that she would see him, and\nthen exerted herself in endeavours to attain fortitude and composure,\nto bear her through the approaching scene--a scene so afflictingly the\nreverse of any, to which she had looked forward!\n\n\n\n\nVOLUME 4\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\n  Is all the council that we two have shared,\n     the hours that we have spent,\n When we have chid the hasty-footed time\n For parting us--Oh! and is all forgot?\n\n And will you rend our ancient love asunder?\n     MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM\n\nIn the evening, when Emily was at length informed, that Count De\nVillefort requested to see her, she guessed that Valancourt was below,\nand, endeavouring to assume composure and to recollect all her spirits,\nshe rose and left the apartment; but on reaching the door of the\nlibrary, where she imagined him to be, her emotion returned with such\nenergy, that, fearing to trust herself in the room, she returned into\nthe hall, where she continued for a considerable time, unable to command\nher agitated spirits.\n\nWhen she could recall them, she found in the library Valancourt, seated\nwith the Count, who both rose on her entrance; but she did not dare\nto look at Valancourt, and the Count, having led her to a chair,\nimmediately withdrew.\n\nEmily remained with her eyes fixed on the floor, under such oppression\nof heart, that she could not speak, and with difficulty breathed; while\nValancourt threw himself into a chair beside her, and, sighing heavily,\ncontinued silent, when, had she raised her eyes, she would have\nperceived the violent emotions, with which he was agitated.\n\nAt length, in a tremulous voice, he said, 'I have solicited to see you\nthis evening, that I might, at least, be spared the further torture of\nsuspense, which your altered manner had occasioned me, and which the\nhints I have just received from the Count have in part explained. I\nperceive I have enemies, Emily, who envied me my late happiness, and\nwho have been busy in searching out the means to destroy it: I perceive,\ntoo, that time and absence have weakened the affection you once felt for\nme, and that you can now easily be taught to forget me.'\n\nHis last words faltered, and Emily, less able to speak than before,\ncontinued silent.\n\n'O what a meeting is this!' exclaimed Valancourt, starting from his\nseat, and pacing the room with hurried steps, 'what a meeting is this,\nafter our long--long separation!' Again he sat down, and, after the\nstruggle of a moment, he added in a firm but despairing tone, 'This is\ntoo much--I cannot bear it! Emily, will you not speak to me?'\n\nHe covered his face with his hand, as if to conceal his emotion, and\ntook Emily's, which she did not withdraw. Her tears could no longer\nbe restrained; and, when he raised his eyes and perceived that she was\nweeping, all his tenderness returned, and a gleam of hope appeared to\ncross his mind, for he exclaimed, 'O! you do pity me, then, you do love\nme! Yes, you are still my own Emily--let me believe those tears, that\ntell me so!'\n\nEmily now made an effort to recover her firmness, and, hastily drying\nthem, 'Yes,' said she, 'I do pity you--I weep for you--but, ought I to\nthink of you with affection? You may remember, that yester-evening I\nsaid, I had still sufficient confidence in your candour to believe,\nthat, when I should request an explanation of your words, you would give\nit. This explanation is now unnecessary, I understand them too well; but\nprove, at least, that your candour is deserving of the confidence I\ngive it, when I ask you, whether you are conscious of being the same\nestimable Valancourt--whom I once loved.'\n\n'Once loved!' cried he,--'the same--the same!' He paused in\nextreme emotion, and then added, in a voice at once solemn, and\ndejected,--'No--I am not the same!--I am lost--I am no longer worthy of\nyou!'\n\nHe again concealed his face. Emily was too much affected by this honest\nconfession to reply immediately, and, while she struggled to overcome\nthe pleadings of her heart, and to act with the decisive firmness, which\nwas necessary for her future peace, she perceived all the danger of\ntrusting long to her resolution, in the presence of Valancourt, and was\nanxious to conclude an interview, that tortured them both; yet, when\nshe considered, that this was probably their last meeting, her fortitude\nsunk at once, and she experienced only emotions of tenderness and of\ndespondency.\n\nValancourt, meanwhile, lost in emotions of remorse and grief, which he\nhad neither the power, or the will to express, sat insensible almost\nof the presence of Emily, his features still concealed, and his breast\nagitated by convulsive sighs.\n\n'Spare me the necessity,' said Emily, recollecting her fortitude, 'spare\nme the necessity of mentioning those circumstances of your conduct,\nwhich oblige me to break our connection forever.--We must part, I now\nsee you for the last time.'\n\n'Impossible!' cried Valancourt, roused from his deep silence, 'You\ncannot mean what you say!--you cannot mean to throw me from you\nforever!'\n\n'We must part,' repeated Emily, with emphasis,--'and that forever! Your\nown conduct has made this necessary.'\n\n'This is the Count's determination,' said he haughtily, 'not yours,\nand I shall enquire by what authority he interferes between us.' He now\nrose, and walked about the room in great emotion.\n\n'Let me save you from this error,' said Emily, not less agitated--'it is\nmy determination, and, if you reflect a moment on your late conduct, you\nwill perceive, that my future peace requires it.'\n\n'Your future peace requires, that we should part--part forever!' said\nValancourt, 'How little did I ever expect to hear you say so!'\n\n'And how little did I expect, that it would be necessary for me to say\nso!' rejoined Emily, while her voice softened into tenderness, and her\ntears flowed again.--'That you--you, Valancourt, would ever fall from my\nesteem!'\n\nHe was silent a moment, as if overwhelmed by the consciousness of no\nlonger deserving this esteem, as well as the certainty of having lost\nit, and then, with impassioned grief, lamented the criminality of his\nlate conduct and the misery to which it had reduced him, till, overcome\nby a recollection of the past and a conviction of the future, he burst\ninto tears, and uttered only deep and broken sighs.\n\nThe remorse he had expressed, and the distress he suffered could not\nbe witnessed by Emily with indifference, and, had she not called to\nher recollection all the circumstances, of which Count De Villefort\nhad informed her, and all he had said of the danger of confiding in\nrepentance, formed under the influence of passion, she might perhaps\nhave trusted to the assurances of her heart, and have forgotten his\nmisconduct in the tenderness, which that repentance excited.\n\nValancourt, returning to the chair beside her, at length, said, in a\ncalm voice, ''Tis true, I am fallen--fallen from my own esteem! but\ncould you, Emily, so soon, so suddenly resign, if you had not before\nceased to love me, or, if your conduct was not governed by the designs,\nI will say, the selfish designs of another person! Would you not\notherwise be willing to hope for my reformation--and could you bear, by\nestranging me from you, to abandon me to misery--to myself!'--Emily wept\naloud.--'No, Emily--no--you would not do this, if you still loved me.\nYou would find your own happiness in saving mine.'\n\n'There are too many probabilities against that hope,' said Emily, 'to\njustify me in trusting the comfort of my whole life to it. May I not\nalso ask, whether you could wish me to do this, if you really loved me?'\n\n'Really loved you!' exclaimed Valancourt--'is it possible you can doubt\nmy love! Yet it is reasonable, that you should do so, since you see,\nthat I am less ready to suffer the horror of parting with you, than\nthat of involving you in my ruin. Yes, Emily--I am ruined--irreparably\nruined--I am involved in debts, which I can never discharge!'\nValancourt's look, which was wild, as he spoke this, soon settled into\nan expression of gloomy despair; and Emily, while she was compelled to\nadmire his sincerity, saw, with unutterable anguish, new reasons for\nfear in the suddenness of his feelings and the extent of the misery, in\nwhich they might involve him. After some minutes, she seemed to\ncontend against her grief and to struggle for fortitude to conclude\nthe interview. 'I will not prolong these moments,' said she, 'by a\nconversation, which can answer no good purpose. Valancourt, farewell!'\n\n'You are not going?' said he, wildly interrupting her--'You will not\nleave me thus--you will not abandon me even before my mind has suggested\nany possibility of compromise between the last indulgence of my despair\nand the endurance of my loss!' Emily was terrified by the sternness\nof his look, and said, in a soothing voice, 'You have yourself\nacknowledged, that it is necessary we should part;--if you\nwish, that I should believe you love me, you will repeat the\nacknowledgment.'--'Never--never,' cried he--'I was distracted when I\nmade it. O! Emily--this is too much;--though you are not deceived as to\nmy faults, you must be deluded into this exasperation against them. The\nCount is the barrier between us; but he shall not long remain so.'\n\n'You are, indeed, distracted,' said Emily, 'the Count is not your enemy;\non the contrary, he is my friend, and that might, in some degree, induce\nyou to consider him as yours.'--'Your friend!' said Valancourt, hastily,\n'how long has he been your friend, that he can so easily make you forget\nyour lover? Was it he, who recommended to your favour the Monsieur Du\nPont, who, you say, accompanied you from Italy, and who, I say, has\nstolen your affections? But I have no right to question you;--you are\nyour own mistress. Du Pont, perhaps, may not long triumph over my fallen\nfortunes!' Emily, more frightened than before by the frantic looks of\nValancourt, said, in a tone scarcely audible, 'For heaven's sake be\nreasonable--be composed. Monsieur Du Pont is not your rival, nor is the\nCount his advocate. You have no rival; nor, except yourself, an enemy.\nMy heart is wrung with anguish, which must increase while your\nfrantic behaviour shews me, more than ever, that you are no longer the\nValancourt I have been accustomed to love.'\n\nHe made no reply, but sat with his arms rested on the table and his\nface concealed by his hands; while Emily stood, silent and trembling,\nwretched for herself and dreading to leave him in this state of mind.\n\n'O excess of misery!' he suddenly exclaimed, 'that I can never lament\nmy sufferings, without accusing myself, nor remember you, without\nrecollecting the folly and the vice, by which I have lost you! Why was I\nforced to Paris, and why did I yield to allurements, which were to make\nme despicable for ever! O! why cannot I look back, without interruption,\nto those days of innocence and peace, the days of our early love!'--The\nrecollection seemed to melt his heart, and the frenzy of despair yielded\nto tears. After a long pause, turning towards her and taking her hand,\nhe said, in a softened voice, 'Emily, can you bear that we should\npart--can you resolve to give up an heart, that loves you like mine--an\nheart, which, though it has erred--widely erred, is not irretrievable\nfrom error, as, you well know, it never can be retrievable from love?'\nEmily made no reply, but with her tears. 'Can you,' continued he, 'can\nyou forget all our former days of happiness and confidence--when I had\nnot a thought, that I might wish to conceal from you--when I had no\ntaste--no pleasures, in which you did not participate?'\n\n'O do not lead me to the remembrance of those days,' said Emily, 'unless\nyou can teach me to forget the present; I do not mean to reproach you;\nif I did, I should be spared these tears; but why will you render your\npresent sufferings more conspicuous, by contrasting them with your\nformer virtues?'\n\n'Those virtues,' said Valancourt, 'might, perhaps, again be mine, if\nyour affection, which nurtured them, was unchanged;--but I fear, indeed,\nI see, that you can no longer love me; else the happy hours, which we\nhave passed together, would plead for me, and you could not look\nback upon them unmoved. Yet, why should I torture myself with the\nremembrance--why do I linger here? Am I not ruined--would it not be\nmadness to involve you in my misfortunes, even if your heart was still\nmy own? I will not distress you further. Yet, before I go,' added he,\nin a solemn voice, 'let me repeat, that, whatever may be my\ndestiny--whatever I may be doomed to suffer, I must always love\nyou--most fondly love you! I am going, Emily, I am going to leave\nyou--to leave you, forever!' As he spoke the last words, his voice\ntrembled, and he threw himself again into the chair, from which he had\nrisen. Emily was utterly unable to leave the room, or to say farewell.\nAll impression of his criminal conduct and almost of his follies was\nobliterated from her mind, and she was sensible only of pity and grief.\n\n'My fortitude is gone,' said Valancourt at length; 'I can no longer\neven struggle to recall it. I cannot now leave you--I cannot bid you\nan eternal farewell; say, at least, that you will see me once again.'\nEmily's heart was somewhat relieved by the request, and she endeavoured\nto believe, that she ought not to refuse it. Yet she was embarrassed\nby recollecting, that she was a visitor in the house of the Count, who\ncould not be pleased by the return of Valancourt. Other considerations,\nhowever, soon overcame this, and she granted his request, on the\ncondition, that he would neither think of the Count, as his enemy, nor\nDu Pont as his rival. He then left her, with a heart, so much lightened\nby this short respite, that he almost lost every former sense of\nmisfortune.\n\nEmily withdrew to her own room, that she might compose her spirits and\nremove the traces of her tears, which would encourage the censorious\nremarks of the Countess and her favourite, as well as excite the\ncuriosity of the rest of the family. She found it, however, impossible\nto tranquillize her mind, from which she could not expel the remembrance\nof the late scene with Valancourt, or the consciousness, that she was to\nsee him again, on the morrow. This meeting now appeared more terrible to\nher than the last, for the ingenuous confession he had made of his\nill conduct and his embarrassed circumstances, with the strength and\ntenderness of affection, which this confession discovered, had deeply\nimpressed her, and, in spite of all she had heard and believed to his\ndisadvantage, her esteem began to return. It frequently appeared to her\nimpossible, that he could have been guilty of the depravities, reported\nof him, which, if not inconsistent with his warmth and impetuosity,\nwere entirely so with his candour and sensibility. Whatever was the\ncriminality, which had given rise to the reports, she could not now\nbelieve them to be wholly true, nor that his heart was finally closed\nagainst the charms of virtue. The deep consciousness, which he felt as\nwell as expressed of his errors, seemed to justify the opinion; and,\nas she understood not the instability of youthful dispositions, when\nopposed by habit, and that professions frequently deceive those, who\nmake, as well as those, who hear them, she might have yielded to the\nflattering persuasions of her own heart and the pleadings of Valancourt,\nhad she not been guided by the superior prudence of the Count. He\nrepresented to her, in a clear light, the danger of her present\nsituation, that of listening to promises of amendment, made under the\ninfluence of strong passion, and the slight hope, which could attach\nto a connection, whose chance of happiness rested upon the retrieval\nof ruined circumstances and the reform of corrupted habits. On these\naccounts, he lamented, that Emily had consented to a second interview,\nfor he saw how much it would shake her resolution and increase the\ndifficulty of her conquest.\n\nHer mind was now so entirely occupied by nearer interests, that she\nforgot the old housekeeper and the promised history, which so lately had\nexcited her curiosity, but which Dorothee was probably not very anxious\nto disclose, for night came; the hours passed; and she did not appear\nin Emily's chamber. With the latter it was a sleepless and dismal\nnight; the more she suffered her memory to dwell on the late scenes with\nValancourt, the more her resolution declined, and she was obliged\nto recollect all the arguments, which the Count had made use of to\nstrengthen it, and all the precepts, which she had received from her\ndeceased father, on the subject of self-command, to enable her to act,\nwith prudence and dignity, on this the most severe occasion of her\nlife. There were moments, when all her fortitude forsook her, and when,\nremembering the confidence of former times, she thought it impossible,\nthat she could renounce Valancourt. His reformation then appeared\ncertain; the arguments of Count De Villefort were forgotten; she readily\nbelieved all she wished, and was willing to encounter any evil, rather\nthan that of an immediate separation.\n\nThus passed the night in ineffectual struggles between affection\nand reason, and she rose, in the morning, with a mind, weakened and\nirresolute, and a frame, trembling with illness.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\n Come, weep with me;--past hope, past cure, past help!\n     ROMEO AND JULIET\n\nValancourt, meanwhile, suffered the tortures of remorse and despair.\nThe sight of Emily had renewed all the ardour, with which he first loved\nher, and which had suffered a temporary abatement from absence and the\npassing scenes of busy life. When, on the receipt of her letter, he set\nout for Languedoc, he then knew, that his own folly had involved him in\nruin, and it was no part of his design to conceal this from her. But\nhe lamented only the delay which his ill-conduct must give to their\nmarriage, and did not foresee, that the information could induce her to\nbreak their connection forever. While the prospect of this separation\noverwhelmed his mind, before stung with self-reproach, he awaited their\nsecond interview, in a state little short of distraction, yet was still\ninclined to hope, that his pleadings might prevail upon her not to exact\nit. In the morning, he sent to know at what hour she would see him;\nand his note arrived, when she was with the Count, who had sought an\nopportunity of again conversing with her of Valancourt; for he perceived\nthe extreme distress of her mind, and feared, more than ever, that her\nfortitude would desert her. Emily having dismissed the messenger, the\nCount returned to the subject of their late conversation, urging his\nfear of Valancourt's entreaties, and again pointing out to her the\nlengthened misery, that must ensue, if she should refuse to encounter\nsome present uneasiness. His repeated arguments could, indeed, alone\nhave protected her from the affection she still felt for Valancourt, and\nshe resolved to be governed by them.\n\nThe hour of interview, at length, arrived. Emily went to it, at least,\nwith composure of manner, but Valancourt was so much agitated, that\nhe could not speak, for several minutes, and his first words were\nalternately those of lamentation, entreaty, and self-reproach.\nAfterward, he said, 'Emily, I have loved you--I do love you, better than\nmy life; but I am ruined by my own conduct. Yet I would seek to entangle\nyou in a connection, that must be miserable for you, rather than subject\nmyself to the punishment, which is my due, the loss of you. I am a\nwretch, but I will be a villain no longer.--I will not endeavour to\nshake your resolution by the pleadings of a selfish passion. I resign\nyou, Emily, and will endeavour to find consolation in considering, that,\nthough I am miserable, you, at least, may be happy. The merit of the\nsacrifice is, indeed, not my own, for I should never have attained\nstrength of mind to surrender you, if your prudence had not demanded\nit.'\n\nHe paused a moment, while Emily attempted to conceal the tears, which\ncame to her eyes. She would have said, 'You speak now, as you were wont\nto do,' but she checked herself.--'Forgive me, Emily,' said he, 'all the\nsufferings I have occasioned you, and, sometimes, when you think of the\nwretched Valancourt, remember, that his only consolation would be to\nbelieve, that you are no longer unhappy by his folly.' The tears now\nfell fast upon her cheek, and he was relapsing into the phrensy of\ndespair, when Emily endeavoured to recall her fortitude and to terminate\nan interview, which only seemed to increase the distress of both.\nPerceiving her tears and that she was rising to go, Valancourt\nstruggled, once more, to overcome his own feelings and to sooth hers.\n'The remembrance of this sorrow,' said he, 'shall in future be my\nprotection. O! never again will example, or temptation have power to\nseduce me to evil, exalted as I shall be by the recollection of your\ngrief for me.'\n\nEmily was somewhat comforted by this assurance. 'We are now parting for\never,' said she; 'but, if my happiness is dear to you, you will always\nremember, that nothing can contribute to it more, than to believe, that\nyou have recovered your own esteem.' Valancourt took her hand;--his eyes\nwere covered with tears, and the farewell he would have spoken was lost\nin sighs. After a few moments, Emily said, with difficulty and emotion,\n'Farewell, Valancourt, may you be happy!' She repeated her 'farewell,'\nand attempted to withdraw her hand, but he still held it and bathed\nit with his tears. 'Why prolong these moments?' said Emily, in a voice\nscarcely audible, 'they are too painful to us both.' 'This is too--too\nmuch,' exclaimed Valancourt, resigning her hand and throwing himself\ninto a chair, where he covered his face with his hands and was overcome,\nfor some moments, by convulsive sighs. After a long pause, during which\nEmily wept in silence, and Valancourt seemed struggling with his grief,\nshe again rose to take leave of him. Then, endeavouring to recover his\ncomposure, 'I am again afflicting you,' said he, 'but let the anguish I\nsuffer plead for me.' He then added, in a solemn voice, which frequently\ntrembled with the agitation of his heart, 'Farewell, Emily, you will\nalways be the only object of my tenderness. Sometimes you will think of\nthe unhappy Valancourt, and it will be with pity, though it may not be\nwith esteem. O! what is the whole world to me, without you--without your\nesteem!' He checked himself--'I am falling again into the error I have\njust lamented. I must not intrude longer upon your patience, or I shall\nrelapse into despair.'\n\nHe once more bade Emily adieu, pressed her hand to his lips, looked at\nher, for the last time, and hurried out of the room.\n\nEmily remained in the chair, where he had left her, oppressed with\na pain at her heart, which scarcely permitted her to breathe, and\nlistening to his departing steps, sinking fainter and fainter, as\nhe crossed the hall. She was, at length, roused by the voice of the\nCountess in the garden, and, her attention being then awakened, the\nfirst object, which struck her sight, was the vacant chair, where\nValancourt had sat. The tears, which had been, for some time, repressed\nby the kind of astonishment, that followed his departure, now came to\nher relief, and she was, at length, sufficiently composed to return to\nher own room.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\n  This is no mortal business, nor no sound\n That the earth owes!\n     SHAKESPEARE\n\nWe now return to the mention of Montoni, whose rage and disappointment\nwere soon lost in nearer interests, than any, which the unhappy Emily\nhad awakened. His depredations having exceeded their usual limits, and\nreached an extent, at which neither the timidity of the then commercial\nsenate of Venice, nor their hope of his occasional assistance would\npermit them to connive, the same effort, it was resolved, should\ncomplete the suppression of his power and the correction of his\noutrages. While a corps of considerable strength was upon the point of\nreceiving orders to march for Udolpho, a young officer, prompted partly\nby resentment, for some injury, received from Montoni, and partly by\nthe hope of distinction, solicited an interview with the Minister, who\ndirected the enterprise. To him he represented, that the situation of\nUdolpho rendered it too strong to be taken by open force, except after\nsome tedious operations; that Montoni had lately shewn how capable he\nwas of adding to its strength all the advantages, which could be derived\nfrom the skill of a commander; that so considerable a body of troops, as\nthat allotted to the expedition, could not approach Udolpho without his\nknowledge, and that it was not for the honour of the republic to have a\nlarge part of its regular force employed, for such a time as the siege\nof Udolpho would require, upon the attack of a handful of banditti. The\nobject of the expedition, he thought, might be accomplished much more\nsafely and speedily by mingling contrivance with force. It was possible\nto meet Montoni and his party, without their walls, and to attack them\nthen; or, by approaching the fortress, with the secrecy, consistent with\nthe march of smaller bodies of troops, to take advantage either of the\ntreachery, or negligence of some of his party, and to rush unexpectedly\nupon the whole even in the castle of Udolpho.\n\nThis advice was seriously attended to, and the officer, who gave it,\nreceived the command of the troops, demanded for his purpose. His\nfirst efforts were accordingly those of contrivance alone. In the\nneighbourhood of Udolpho, he waited, till he had secured the assistance\nof several of the condottieri, of whom he found none, that he addressed,\nunwilling to punish their imperious master and to secure their own\npardon from the senate. He learned also the number of Montoni's troops,\nand that it had been much increased, since his late successes. The\nconclusion of his plan was soon effected. Having returned with his\nparty, who received the watch-word and other assistance from their\nfriends within, Montoni and his officers were surprised by one division,\nwho had been directed to their apartment, while the other maintained the\nslight combat, which preceded the surrender of the whole garrison. Among\nthe persons, seized with Montoni, was Orsino, the assassin, who had\njoined him on his first arrival at Udolpho, and whose concealment had\nbeen made known to the senate by Count Morano, after the unsuccessful\nattempt of the latter to carry off Emily. It was, indeed, partly for\nthe purpose of capturing this man, by whom one of the senate had been\nmurdered, that the expedition was undertaken, and its success was so\nacceptable to them, that Morano was instantly released, notwithstanding\nthe political suspicions, which Montoni, by his secret accusation,\nhad excited against him. The celerity and ease, with which this whole\ntransaction was completed, prevented it from attracting curiosity, or\neven from obtaining a place in any of the published records of that\ntime; so that Emily, who remained in Languedoc, was ignorant of the\ndefeat and signal humiliation of her late persecutor.\n\nHer mind was now occupied with sufferings, which no effort of reason had\nyet been able to controul. Count De Villefort, who sincerely attempted\nwhatever benevolence could suggest for softening them, sometimes\nallowed her the solitude she wished for, sometimes led her into friendly\nparties, and constantly protected her, as much as possible, from the\nshrewd enquiries and critical conversation of the Countess. He often\ninvited her to make excursions, with him and his daughter, during which\nhe conversed entirely on questions, suitable to her taste, without\nappearing to consult it, and thus endeavoured gradually to withdraw her\nfrom the subject of her grief, and to awake other interests in her mind.\nEmily, to whom he appeared as the enlightened friend and protector of\nher youth, soon felt for him the tender affection of a daughter, and\nher heart expanded to her young friend Blanche, as to a sister, whose\nkindness and simplicity compensated for the want of more brilliant\nqualities. It was long before she could sufficiently abstract her\nmind from Valancourt to listen to the story, promised by old Dorothee,\nconcerning which her curiosity had once been so deeply interested; but\nDorothee, at length, reminded her of it, and Emily desired, that she\nwould come, that night, to her chamber.\n\nStill her thoughts were employed by considerations, which weakened her\ncuriosity, and Dorothee's tap at the door, soon after twelve, surprised\nher almost as much as if it had not been appointed. 'I am come, at\nlast, lady,' said she; 'I wonder what it is makes my old limbs shake\nso, to-night. I thought, once or twice, I should have dropped, as I\nwas a-coming.' Emily seated her in a chair, and desired, that she would\ncompose her spirits, before she entered upon the subject, that had\nbrought her thither. 'Alas,' said Dorothee, 'it is thinking of that, I\nbelieve, which has disturbed me so. In my way hither too, I passed\nthe chamber, where my dear lady died, and every thing was so still and\ngloomy about me, that I almost fancied I saw her, as she appeared upon\nher death-bed.'\n\nEmily now drew her chair near to Dorothee, who went on. 'It is about\ntwenty years since my lady Marchioness came a bride to the chateau. O!\nI well remember how she looked, when she came into the great hall, where\nwe servants were all assembled to welcome her, and how happy my lord the\nMarquis seemed. Ah! who would have thought then!--But, as I was saying,\nma'amselle, I thought the Marchioness, with all her sweet looks, did not\nlook happy at heart, and so I told my husband, and he said it was all\nfancy; so I said no more, but I made my remarks, for all that. My lady\nMarchioness was then about your age, and, as I have often thought, very\nlike you. Well! my lord the Marquis kept open house, for a long time,\nand gave such entertainments and there were such gay doings as have\nnever been in the chateau since. I was younger, ma'amselle, then, than\nI am now, and was as gay at the best of them. I remember I danced with\nPhilip, the butler, in a pink gown, with yellow ribbons, and a coif, not\nsuch as they wear now, but plaited high, with ribbons all about it. It\nwas very becoming truly;--my lord, the Marquis, noticed me. Ah! he was a\ngood-natured gentleman then--who would have thought that he!'--\n\n'But the Marchioness, Dorothee,' said Emily, 'you was telling me of\nher.'\n\n'O yes, my lady Marchioness, I thought she did not seem happy at heart,\nand once, soon after the marriage, I caught her crying in her chamber;\nbut, when she saw me, she dried her eyes, and pretended to smile. I did\nnot dare then to ask what was the matter; but, the next time I saw her\ncrying, I did, and she seemed displeased;--so I said no more. I found\nout, some time after, how it was. Her father, it seems, had commanded\nher to marry my lord, the Marquis, for his money, and there was another\nnobleman, or else a chevalier, that she liked better and that was very\nfond of her, and she fretted for the loss of him, I fancy, but she never\ntold me so. My lady always tried to conceal her tears from the Marquis,\nfor I have often seen her, after she has been so sorrowful, look so calm\nand sweet, when he came into the room! But my lord, all of a sudden,\ngrew gloomy and fretful, and very unkind sometimes to my lady. This\nafflicted her very much, as I saw, for she never complained, and she\nused to try so sweetly to oblige him and to bring him into a good\nhumour, that my heart has often ached to see it. But he used to be\nstubborn, and give her harsh answers, and then, when she found it all\nin vain, she would go to her own room, and cry so! I used to hear her\nin the anti-room, poor dear lady! but I seldom ventured to go to her.\nI used, sometimes, to think my lord was jealous. To be sure my lady was\ngreatly admired, but she was too good to deserve suspicion. Among the\nmany chevaliers, that visited at the chateau, there was one, that I\nalways thought seemed just suited for my lady; he was so courteous, yet\nso spirited, and there was such a grace, as it were, in all he did, or\nsaid. I always observed, that, whenever he had been there, the Marquis\nwas more gloomy and my lady more thoughtful, and it came into my head,\nthat this was the chevalier she ought to have married, but I never could\nlearn for certain.'\n\n'What was the chevalier's name, Dorothee?' said Emily.\n\n'Why that I will not tell even to you, ma'amselle, for evil may come of\nit. I once heard from a person, who is since dead, that the Marchioness\nwas not in law the wife of the Marquis, for that she had before been\nprivately married to the gentleman she was so much attached to, and was\nafterwards afraid to own it to her father, who was a very stern man; but\nthis seems very unlikely, and I never gave much faith to it. As I was\nsaying, the Marquis was most out of humour, as I thought, when the\nchevalier I spoke of had been at the chateau, and, at last, his ill\ntreatment of my lady made her quite miserable. He would see hardly any\nvisitors at the castle, and made her live almost by herself. I was\nher constant attendant, and saw all she suffered, but still she never\ncomplained.\n\n'After matters had gone on thus, for near a year, my lady was taken ill,\nand I thought her long fretting had made her so,--but, alas! I fear it\nwas worse than that.'\n\n'Worse! Dorothee,' said Emily, 'can that be possible?'\n\n'I fear it was so, madam, there were strange appearances. But I will\nonly tell what happened. My lord, the Marquis--'\n\n'Hush, Dorothee, what sounds were those?' said Emily.\n\nDorothee changed countenance, and, while they both listened, they heard,\non the stillness of the night, music of uncommon sweetness.\n\n'I have surely heard that voice before!' said Emily, at length.\n\n'I have often heard it, and at this same hour,' said Dorothee, solemnly,\n'and, if spirits ever bring music--that is surely the music of one!'\n\nEmily, as the sounds drew nearer, knew them to be the same she had\nformerly heard at the time of her father's death, and, whether it was\nthe remembrance they now revived of that melancholy event, or that\nshe was struck with superstitious awe, it is certain she was so much\naffected, that she had nearly fainted.\n\n'I think I once told you, madam,' said Dorothee, 'that I first heard\nthis music, soon after my lady's death! I well remember the night!'--\n'Hark! it comes again!' said Emily, 'let us open the window, and\nlisten.'\n\nThey did so; but, soon, the sounds floated gradually away into distance,\nand all was again still; they seemed to have sunk among the woods,\nwhose tufted tops were visible upon the clear horizon, while every other\nfeature of the scene was involved in the night-shade, which, however,\nallowed the eye an indistinct view of some objects in the garden below.\n\nAs Emily leaned on the window, gazing with a kind of thrilling awe\nupon the obscurity beneath, and then upon the cloudless arch above,\nenlightened only by the stars, Dorothee, in a low voice, resumed her\nnarrative.\n\n'I was saying, ma'amselle, that I well remember when first I heard that\nmusic. It was one night, soon after my lady's death, that I had sat up\nlater than usual, and I don't know how it was, but I had been thinking\na great deal about my poor mistress, and of the sad scene I had lately\nwitnessed. The chateau was quite still, and I was in the chamber at a\ngood distance from the rest of the servants, and this, with the mournful\nthings I had been thinking of, I suppose, made me low spirited, for I\nfelt very lonely and forlorn, as it were, and listened often, wishing to\nhear a sound in the chateau, for you know, ma'amselle, when one can hear\npeople moving, one does not so much mind, about one's fears. But all the\nservants were gone to bed, and I sat, thinking and thinking, till I was\nalmost afraid to look round the room, and my poor lady's countenance\noften came to my mind, such as I had seen her when she was dying, and,\nonce or twice, I almost thought I saw her before me,--when suddenly I\nheard such sweet music! It seemed just at my window, and I shall never\nforget what I felt. I had not power to move from my chair, but then,\nwhen I thought it was my dear lady's voice, the tears came to my eyes.\nI had often heard her sing, in her life-time, and to be sure she had a\nvery fine voice; it had made me cry to hear her, many a time, when she\nhas sat in her oriel, of an evening, playing upon her lute such sad\nsongs, and singing so. O! it went to one's heart! I have listened in\nthe anti-chamber, for the hour together, and she would sometimes sit\nplaying, with the window open, when it was summer time, till it was\nquite dark, and when I have gone in, to shut it, she has hardly seemed\nto know what hour it was. But, as I said, madam,' continued Dorothee,\n'when first I heard the music, that came just now, I thought it was my\nlate lady's, and I have often thought so again, when I have heard it, as\nI have done at intervals, ever since. Sometimes, many months have gone\nby, but still it has returned.'\n\n'It is extraordinary,' observed Emily, 'that no person has yet\ndiscovered the musician.'\n\n'Aye, ma'amselle, if it had been any thing earthly it would have been\ndiscovered long ago, but who could have courage to follow a spirit, and\nif they had, what good could it do?--for spirits, YOU KNOW, ma'am, can\ntake any shape, or no shape, and they will be here, one minute, and, the\nnext perhaps, in a quite different place!'\n\n'Pray resume your story of the Marchioness,' said Emily, 'and acquaint\nme with the manner of her death.'\n\n'I will, ma'am,' said Dorothee, 'but shall we leave the window?'\n\n'This cool air refreshes me,' replied Emily, 'and I love to hear it\ncreep along the woods, and to look upon this dusky landscape. You was\nspeaking of my lord, the Marquis, when the music interrupted us.'\n\n'Yes, madam, my lord, the Marquis, became more and more gloomy; and\nmy lady grew worse and worse, till, one night, she was taken very ill,\nindeed. I was called up, and, when I came to her bedside, I was shocked\nto see her countenance--it was so changed! She looked piteously up at\nme, and desired I would call the Marquis again, for he was not yet come,\nand tell him she had something particular to say to him. At last, he\ncame, and he did, to be sure, seem very sorry to see her, but he said\nvery little. My lady told him she felt herself to be dying, and wished\nto speak with him alone, and then I left the room, but I shall never\nforget his look as I went.'\n\n'When I returned, I ventured to remind my lord about sending for a\ndoctor, for I supposed he had forgot to do so, in his grief; but my lady\nsaid it was then too late; but my lord, so far from thinking so, seemed\nto think light of her disorder--till she was seized with such terrible\npains! O, I never shall forget her shriek! My lord then sent off a man\nand horse for the doctor, and walked about the room and all over the\nchateau in the greatest distress; and I staid by my dear lady, and did\nwhat I could to ease her sufferings. She had intervals of ease, and in\none of these she sent for my lord again; when he came, I was going, but\nshe desired I would not leave her. O! I shall never forget what a\nscene passed--I can hardly bear to think of it now! My lord was almost\ndistracted, for my lady behaved with so much goodness, and took such\npains to comfort him, that, if he ever had suffered a suspicion to enter\nhis head, he must now have been convinced he was wrong. And to be sure\nhe did seem to be overwhelmed with the thought of his treatment of her,\nand this affected her so much, that she fainted away.\n\n'We then got my lord out of the room; he went into his library, and\nthrew himself on the floor, and there he staid, and would hear no\nreason, that was talked to him. When my lady recovered, she enquired\nfor him, but, afterwards, said she could not bear to see his grief, and\ndesired we would let her die quietly. She died in my arms, ma'amselle,\nand she went off as peacefully as a child, for all the violence of her\ndisorder was passed.'\n\nDorothee paused, and wept, and Emily wept with her; for she was much\naffected by the goodness of the late Marchioness, and by the meek\npatience, with which she had suffered.\n\n'When the doctor came,' resumed Dorothee, 'alas! he came too late;\nhe appeared greatly shocked to see her, for soon after her death a\nfrightful blackness spread all over her face. When he had sent the\nattendants out of the room, he asked me several odd questions about the\nMarchioness, particularly concerning the manner, in which she had been\nseized, and he often shook his head at my answers, and seemed to mean\nmore, than he chose to say. But I understood him too well. However, I\nkept my remarks to myself, and only told them to my husband, who bade\nme hold my tongue. Some of the other servants, however, suspected what\nI did, and strange reports were whispered about the neighbourhood, but\nnobody dared to make any stir about them. When my lord heard that my\nlady was dead, he shut himself up, and would see nobody but the doctor,\nwho used to be with him alone, sometimes for an hour together; and,\nafter that, the doctor never talked with me again about my lady. When\nshe was buried in the church of the convent, at a little distance\nyonder, if the moon was up you might see the towers here, ma'amselle,\nall my lord's vassals followed the funeral, and there was not a dry eye\namong them, for she had done a deal of good among the poor. My lord, the\nMarquis, I never saw any body so melancholy as he was afterwards, and\nsometimes he would be in such fits of violence, that we almost thought\nhe had lost his senses. He did not stay long at the chateau, but joined\nhis regiment, and, soon after, all the servants, except my husband and\nI, received notice to go, for my lord went to the wars. I never saw him\nafter, for he would not return to the chateau, though it is such a fine\nplace, and never finished those fine rooms he was building on the west\nside of it, and it has, in a manner, been shut up ever since, till my\nlord the Count came here.'\n\n'The death of the Marchioness appears extraordinary,' said Emily, who\nwas anxious to know more than she dared to ask.\n\n'Yes, madam,' replied Dorothee, 'it was extraordinary; I have told you\nall I saw, and you may easily guess what I think, I cannot say more,\nbecause I would not spread reports, that might offend my lord the\nCount.'\n\n'You are very right,' said Emily;--'where did the Marquis die?'--'In the\nnorth of France, I believe, ma'amselle,' replied Dorothee. 'I was very\nglad, when I heard my lord the Count was coming, for this had been a\nsad desolate place, these many years, and we heard such strange noises,\nsometimes, after my lady's death, that, as I told you before, my husband\nand I left it for a neighbouring cottage. And now, lady, I have told you\nall this sad history, and all my thoughts, and you have promised, you\nknow, never to give the least hint about it.'--'I have,' said Emily,\n'and I will be faithful to my promise, Dorothee;--what you have told\nhas interested me more than you can imagine. I only wish I could\nprevail upon you to tell the name of the chevalier, whom you thought so\ndeserving of the Marchioness.'\n\nDorothee, however, steadily refused to do this, and then returned to the\nnotice of Emily's likeness to the late Marchioness. 'There is another\npicture of her,' added she, 'hanging in a room of the suite, which was\nshut up. It was drawn, as I have heard, before she was married, and is\nmuch more like you than the miniature.' When Emily expressed a strong\ndesire to see this, Dorothee replied, that she did not like to open\nthose rooms; but Emily reminded her, that the Count had talked the other\nday of ordering them to be opened; of which Dorothee seemed to consider\nmuch, and then she owned, that she should feel less, if she went into\nthem with Emily first, than otherwise, and at length promised to shew\nthe picture.\n\nThe night was too far advanced and Emily was too much affected by the\nnarrative of the scenes, which had passed in those apartments, to wish\nto visit them at this hour, but she requested that Dorothee would return\non the following night, when they were not likely to be observed, and\nconduct her thither. Besides her wish to examine the portrait, she felt\na thrilling curiosity to see the chamber, in which the Marchioness had\ndied, and which Dorothee had said remained, with the bed and furniture,\njust as when the corpse was removed for interment. The solemn emotions,\nwhich the expectation of viewing such a scene had awakened, were\nin unison with the present tone of her mind, depressed by severe\ndisappointment. Cheerful objects rather added to, than removed this\ndepression; but, perhaps, she yielded too much to her melancholy\ninclination, and imprudently lamented the misfortune, which no virtue of\nher own could have taught her to avoid, though no effort of reason could\nmake her look unmoved upon the self-degradation of him, whom she had\nonce esteemed and loved.\n\nDorothee promised to return, on the following night, with the keys of\nthe chambers, and then wished Emily good repose, and departed. Emily,\nhowever, continued at the window, musing upon the melancholy fate of\nthe Marchioness and listening, in awful expectation, for a return of the\nmusic. But the stillness of the night remained long unbroken, except by\nthe murmuring sounds of the woods, as they waved in the breeze, and then\nby the distant bell of the convent, striking one. She now withdrew\nfrom the window, and, as she sat at her bed-side, indulging melancholy\nreveries, which the loneliness of the hour assisted, the stillness was\nsuddenly interrupted not by music, but by very uncommon sounds, that\nseemed to come either from the room, adjoining her own, or from one\nbelow. The terrible catastrophe, that had been related to her, together\nwith the mysterious circumstances, said to have since occurred in the\nchateau, had so much shocked her spirits, that she now sunk, for a\nmoment, under the weakness of superstition. The sounds, however, did not\nreturn, and she retired, to forget in sleep the disastrous story she had\nheard.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV\n\n\n Now it is the time of night,\n That, the graves all gaping wide,\n Every one lets forth his spite,\n In the church-way path to glide.\n     SHAKESPEARE\n\nOn the next night, about the same hour as before, Dorothee came to\nEmily's chamber, with the keys of that suite of rooms, which had been\nparticularly appropriated to the late Marchioness. These extended along\nthe north side of the chateau, forming part of the old building; and, as\nEmily's room was in the south, they had to pass over a great extent\nof the castle, and by the chambers of several of the family, whose\nobservations Dorothee was anxious to avoid, since it might excite\nenquiry, and raise reports, such as would displease the Count. She,\ntherefore, requested, that Emily would wait half an hour, before they\nventured forth, that they might be certain all the servants were gone\nto bed. It was nearly one, before the chateau was perfectly still, or\nDorothee thought it prudent to leave the chamber. In this interval, her\nspirits seemed to be greatly affected by the remembrance of past events,\nand by the prospect of entering again upon places, where these had\noccurred, and in which she had not been for so many years. Emily too was\naffected, but her feelings had more of solemnity, and less of fear.\nFrom the silence, into which reflection and expectation had thrown them,\nthey, at length, roused themselves, and left the chamber. Dorothee, at\nfirst, carried the lamp, but her hand trembled so much with infirmity\nand alarm, that Emily took it from her, and offered her arm, to support\nher feeble steps.\n\nThey had to descend the great stair-case, and, after passing over a\nwide extent of the chateau, to ascend another, which led to the suite\nof rooms they were in quest of. They stepped cautiously along the open\ncorridor, that ran round the great hall, and into which the chambers\nof the Count, Countess, and the Lady Blanche, opened, and, from\nthence, descending the chief stair-case, they crossed the hall itself.\nProceeding through the servants hall, where the dying embers of a wood\nfire still glimmered on the hearth, and the supper table was surrounded\nby chairs, that obstructed their passage, they came to the foot of the\nback stair-case. Old Dorothee here paused, and looked around; 'Let us\nlisten,' said she, 'if any thing is stirring; Ma'amselle, do you hear\nany voice?' 'None,' said Emily, 'there certainly is no person up in the\nchateau, besides ourselves.'--'No, ma'amselle,' said Dorothee, 'but I\nhave never been here at this hour before, and, after what I know,\nmy fears are not wonderful.'--'What do you know?' said Emily.--'O,\nma'amselle, we have no time for talking now; let us go on. That door on\nthe left is the one we must open.'\n\nThey proceeded, and, having reached the top of the stair-case, Dorothee\napplied the key to the lock. 'Ah,' said she, as she endeavoured to turn\nit, 'so many years have passed since this was opened, that I fear it\nwill not move.' Emily was more successful, and they presently entered a\nspacious and ancient chamber.\n\n'Alas!' exclaimed Dorothee, as she entered, 'the last time I passed\nthrough this door--I followed my poor lady's corpse!'\n\nEmily, struck with the circumstance, and affected by the dusky and\nsolemn air of the apartment, remained silent, and they passed on through\na long suite of rooms, till they came to one more spacious than the\nrest, and rich in the remains of faded magnificence.\n\n'Let us rest here awhile, madam,' said Dorothee faintly, 'we are going\ninto the chamber, where my lady died! that door opens into it. Ah,\nma'amselle! why did you persuade me to come?'\n\nEmily drew one of the massy arm-chairs, with which the apartment was\nfurnished, and begged Dorothee would sit down, and try to compose her\nspirits.\n\n'How the sight of this place brings all that passed formerly to my\nmind!' said Dorothee; 'it seems as if it was but yesterday since all\nthat sad affair happened!'\n\n'Hark! what noise is that?' said Emily.\n\nDorothee, half starting from her chair, looked round the apartment, and\nthey listened--but, every thing remaining still, the old woman spoke\nagain upon the subject of her sorrow. 'This saloon, ma'amselle, was in\nmy lady's time the finest apartment in the chateau, and it was fitted\nup according to her own taste. All this grand furniture, but you can\nnow hardly see what it is for the dust, and our light is none of the\nbest--ah! how I have seen this room lighted up in my lady's time!--all\nthis grand furniture came from Paris, and was made after the fashion of\nsome in the Louvre there, except those large glasses, and they came from\nsome outlandish place, and that rich tapestry. How the colours are faded\nalready!--since I saw it last!'\n\n'I understood, that was twenty years ago,' observed Emily.\n\n'Thereabout, madam,' said Dorothee, 'and well remembered, but all the\ntime between then and now seems as nothing. That tapestry used to be\ngreatly admired at, it tells the stories out of some famous book, or\nother, but I have forgot the name.'\n\nEmily now rose to examine the figures it exhibited, and discovered, by\nverses in the Provencal tongue, wrought underneath each scene, that it\nexhibited stories from some of the most celebrated ancient romances.\n\nDorothee's spirits being now more composed, she rose, and unlocked the\ndoor that led into the late Marchioness's apartment, and Emily passed\ninto a lofty chamber, hung round with dark arras, and so spacious, that\nthe lamp she held up did not shew its extent; while Dorothee, when she\nentered, had dropped into a chair, where, sighing deeply, she scarcely\ntrusted herself with the view of a scene so affecting to her. It was\nsome time before Emily perceived, through the dusk, the bed on which the\nMarchioness was said to have died; when, advancing to the upper end of\nthe room, she discovered the high canopied tester of dark green damask,\nwith the curtains descending to the floor in the fashion of a tent,\nhalf drawn, and remaining apparently, as they had been left twenty years\nbefore; and over the whole bedding was thrown a counterpane, or pall, of\nblack velvet, that hung down to the floor. Emily shuddered, as she held\nthe lamp over it, and looked within the dark curtains, where she almost\nexpected to have seen a human face, and, suddenly remembering the\nhorror she had suffered upon discovering the dying Madame Montoni in the\nturret-chamber of Udolpho, her spirits fainted, and she was turning from\nthe bed, when Dorothee, who had now reached it, exclaimed, 'Holy Virgin!\nmethinks I see my lady stretched upon that pall--as when last I saw\nher!'\n\nEmily, shocked by this exclamation, looked involuntarily again within\nthe curtains, but the blackness of the pall only appeared; while\nDorothee was compelled to support herself upon the side of the bed, and\npresently tears brought her some relief.\n\n'Ah!' said she, after she had wept awhile, 'it was here I sat on that\nterrible night, and held my lady's hand, and heard her last words, and\nsaw all her sufferings--HERE she died in my arms!'\n\n'Do not indulge these painful recollections,' said Emily, 'let us go.\nShew me the picture you mentioned, if it will not too much affect you.'\n\n'It hangs in the oriel,' said Dorothee rising, and going towards a small\ndoor near the bed's head, which she opened, and Emily followed with the\nlight, into the closet of the late Marchioness.\n\n'Alas! there she is, ma'amselle,' said Dorothee, pointing to a portrait\nof a lady, 'there is her very self! just as she looked when she came\nfirst to the chateau. You see, madam, she was all blooming like you,\nthen--and so soon to be cut off!'\n\nWhile Dorothee spoke, Emily was attentively examining the picture, which\nbore a strong resemblance to the miniature, though the expression of the\ncountenance in each was somewhat different; but still she thought she\nperceived something of that pensive melancholy in the portrait, which so\nstrongly characterised the miniature.\n\n'Pray, ma'amselle, stand beside the picture, that I may look at you\ntogether,' said Dorothee, who, when the request was complied with,\nexclaimed again at the resemblance. Emily also, as she gazed upon it,\nthought that she had somewhere seen a person very like it, though she\ncould not now recollect who this was.\n\nIn this closet were many memorials of the departed Marchioness; a robe\nand several articles of her dress were scattered upon the chairs, as if\nthey had just been thrown off. On the floor were a pair of black satin\nslippers, and, on the dressing-table, a pair of gloves and a long black\nveil, which, as Emily took it up to examine, she perceived was dropping\nto pieces with age.\n\n'Ah!' said Dorothee, observing the veil, 'my lady's hand laid it there;\nit has never been moved since!'\n\nEmily, shuddering, immediately laid it down again. 'I well remember\nseeing her take it off,' continued Dorothee, 'it was on the night before\nher death, when she had returned from a little walk I had persuaded her\nto take in the gardens, and she seemed refreshed by it. I told her how\nmuch better she looked, and I remember what a languid smile she gave me;\nbut, alas! she little thought, or I either, that she was to die, that\nnight.'\n\nDorothee wept again, and then, taking up the veil, threw it suddenly\nover Emily, who shuddered to find it wrapped round her, descending even\nto her feet, and, as she endeavoured to throw it off, Dorothee intreated\nthat she would keep it on for one moment. 'I thought,' added she, 'how\nlike you would look to my dear mistress in that veil;--may your life,\nma'amselle, be a happier one than hers!'\n\nEmily, having disengaged herself from the veil, laid it again on the\ndressing-table, and surveyed the closet, where every object, on which\nher eye fixed, seemed to speak of the Marchioness. In a large oriel\nwindow of painted glass, stood a table, with a silver crucifix, and a\nprayer-book open; and Emily remembered with emotion what Dorothee had\nmentioned concerning her custom of playing on her lute in this window,\nbefore she observed the lute itself, lying on a corner of the table, as\nif it had been carelessly placed there by the hand, that had so often\nawakened it.\n\n'This is a sad forlorn place!' said Dorothee, 'for, when my dear lady\ndied, I had no heart to put it to rights, or the chamber either; and my\nlord never came into the rooms after, so they remain just as they did\nwhen my lady was removed for interment.'\n\nWhile Dorothee spoke, Emily was still looking on the lute, which was a\nSpanish one, and remarkably large; and then, with a hesitating hand,\nshe took it up, and passed her fingers over the chords. They were out\nof tune, but uttered a deep and full sound. Dorothee started at their\nwell-known tones, and, seeing the lute in Emily's hand, said, 'This is\nthe lute my lady Marchioness loved so! I remember when last she played\nupon it--it was on the night that she died. I came as usual to undress\nher, and, as I entered the bed-chamber, I heard the sound of music from\nthe oriel, and perceiving it was my lady's, who was sitting there, I\nstepped softly to the door, which stood a little open, to listen; for\nthe music--though it was mournful--was so sweet! There I saw her, with\nthe lute in her hand, looking upwards, and the tears fell upon her\ncheeks, while she sung a vesper hymn, so soft, and so solemn! and her\nvoice trembled, as it were, and then she would stop for a moment, and\nwipe away her tears, and go on again, lower than before. O! I had often\nlistened to my lady, but never heard any thing so sweet as this; it made\nme cry, almost, to hear it. She had been at prayers, I fancy, for there\nwas the book open on the table beside her--aye, and there it lies open\nstill! Pray, let us leave the oriel, ma'amselle,' added Dorothee, 'this\nis a heart-breaking place!'\n\nHaving returned into the chamber, she desired to look once more upon\nthe bed, when, as they came opposite to the open door, leading into\nthe saloon, Emily, in the partial gleam, which the lamp threw into it,\nthought she saw something glide along into the obscurer part of the\nroom. Her spirits had been much affected by the surrounding scene, or it\nis probable this circumstance, whether real or imaginary, would not have\naffected her in the degree it did; but she endeavoured to conceal her\nemotion from Dorothee, who, however, observing her countenance change,\nenquired if she was ill.\n\n'Let us go,' said Emily, faintly, 'the air of these rooms is\nunwholesome;' but, when she attempted to do so, considering that she\nmust pass through the apartment where the phantom of her terror had\nappeared, this terror increased, and, too faint to support herself, she\nsad down on the side of the bed.\n\nDorothee, believing that she was only affected by a consideration of the\nmelancholy catastrophe, which had happened on this spot, endeavoured\nto cheer her; and then, as they sat together on the bed, she began to\nrelate other particulars concerning it, and this without reflecting,\nthat it might increase Emily's emotion, but because they were\nparticularly interesting to herself. 'A little before my lady's death,'\nsaid she, 'when the pains were gone off, she called me to her, and\nstretching out her hand to me, I sat down just there--where the curtain\nfalls upon the bed. How well I remember her look at the time--death\nwas in it!--I can almost fancy I see her now.--There she lay,\nma'amselle--her face was upon the pillow there! This black counterpane\nwas not upon the bed then; it was laid on, after her death, and she was\nlaid out upon it.'\n\nEmily turned to look within the dusky curtains, as if she could have\nseen the countenance of which Dorothee spoke. The edge of the white\npillow only appeared above the blackness of the pall, but, as her eyes\nwandered over the pall itself, she fancied she saw it move. Without\nspeaking, she caught Dorothee's arm, who, surprised by the action, and\nby the look of terror that accompanied it, turned her eyes from Emily to\nthe bed, where, in the next moment she, too, saw the pall slowly lifted,\nand fall again.\n\nEmily attempted to go, but Dorothee stood fixed and gazing upon the bed;\nand, at length, said--'It is only the wind, that waves it, ma'amselle;\nwe have left all the doors open: see how the air waves the lamp,\ntoo.--It is only the wind.'\n\nShe had scarcely uttered these words, when the pall was more violently\nagitated than before; but Emily, somewhat ashamed of her terrors,\nstepped back to the bed, willing to be convinced that the wind only had\noccasioned her alarm; when, as she gazed within the curtains, the\npall moved again, and, in the next moment, the apparition of a human\ncountenance rose above it.\n\nScreaming with terror, they both fled, and got out of the chamber as\nfast as their trembling limbs would bear them, leaving open the doors\nof all the rooms, through which they passed. When they reached the\nstair-case, Dorothee threw open a chamber door, where some of the female\nservants slept, and sunk breathless on the bed; while Emily, deprived of\nall presence of mind, made only a feeble attempt to conceal the occasion\nof her terror from the astonished servants; and, though Dorothee, when\nshe could speak, endeavoured to laugh at her own fright, and was joined\nby Emily, no remonstrances could prevail with the servants, who had\nquickly taken the alarm, to pass even the remainder of the night in a\nroom so near to these terrific chambers.\n\nDorothee having accompanied Emily to her own apartment, they then began\nto talk over, with some degree of coolness, the strange circumstance,\nthat had just occurred; and Emily would almost have doubted her own\nperceptions, had not those of Dorothee attested their truth. Having\nnow mentioned what she had observed in the outer chamber, she asked the\nhousekeeper, whether she was certain no door had been left unfastened,\nby which a person might secretly have entered the apartments? Dorothee\nreplied, that she had constantly kept the keys of the several doors\nin her own possession; that, when she had gone her rounds through the\ncastle, as she frequently did, to examine if all was safe, she had tried\nthese doors among the rest, and had always found them fastened. It\nwas, therefore, impossible, she added, that any person could have\ngot admittance into the apartments; and, if they could--it was very\nimprobable they should have chose to sleep in a place so cold and\nforlorn.\n\nEmily observed, that their visit to these chambers had, perhaps, been\nwatched, and that some person, for a frolic, had followed them into\nthe rooms, with a design to frighten them, and, while they were in the\noriel, had taken the opportunity of concealing himself in the bed.\n\nDorothee allowed, that this was possible, till she recollected, that, on\nentering the apartments, she had turned the key of the outer door, and\nthis, which had been done to prevent their visit being noticed by any\nof the family, who might happen to be up, must effectually have\nexcluded every person, except themselves, from the chambers; and she now\npersisted in affirming, that the ghastly countenance she had seen was\nnothing human, but some dreadful apparition.\n\nEmily was very solemnly affected. Of whatever nature might be the\nappearance she had witnessed, whether human or supernatural, the fate\nof the deceased Marchioness was a truth not to be doubted; and\nthis unaccountable circumstance, occurring in the very scene of her\nsufferings, affected Emily's imagination with a superstitious awe, to\nwhich, after having detected the fallacies at Udolpho, she might not\nhave yielded, had she been ignorant of the unhappy story, related by the\nhousekeeper. Her she now solemnly conjured to conceal the occurrence of\nthis night, and to make light of the terror she had already betrayed,\nthat the Count might not be distressed by reports, which would certainly\nspread alarm and confusion among his family. 'Time,' she added, 'may\nexplain this mysterious affair; meanwhile let us watch the event in\nsilence.'\n\nDorothee readily acquiesced; but she now recollected that she had left\nall the doors of the north suite of rooms open, and, not having courage\nto return alone to lock even the outer one, Emily, after some effort,\nso far conquered her own fears, that she offered to accompany her to the\nfoot of the back stair-case, and to wait there while Dorothee ascended,\nwhose resolution being re-assured by this circumstance, she consented to\ngo, and they left Emily's apartment together.\n\nNo sound disturbed the stillness, as they passed along the halls and\ngalleries; but, on reaching the foot of the back stair-case, Dorothee's\nresolution failed again; having, however, paused a moment to listen,\nand no sound being heard above, she ascended, leaving Emily below,\nand, scarcely suffering her eye to glance within the first chamber,\nshe fastened the door, which shut up the whole suite of apartments, and\nreturned to Emily.\n\nAs they stepped along the passage, leading into the great hall, a sound\nof lamentation was heard, which seemed to come from the hall itself, and\nthey stopped in new alarm to listen, when Emily presently distinguished\nthe voice of Annette, whom she found crossing the hall, with another\nfemale servant, and so terrified by the report, which the other maids\nhad spread, that, believing she could be safe only where her lady was,\nshe was going for refuge to her apartment. Emily's endeavours to\nlaugh, or to argue her out of these terrors, were equally vain, and, in\ncompassion to her distress, she consented that she should remain in her\nroom during the night.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V\n\n\n  Hail, mildly-pleasing Solitude!\n Companion of the wise and good--\n\n This is the balmy breath of morn,\n Just as the dew-bent rose is born.\n\n But chief when evening scenes decay\n And the faint landscape swims away,\n Thine is the doubtful, soft decline,\n And that best hour of musing thine.\n     THOMSON\n\nEmily's injunctions to Annette to be silent on the subject of her terror\nwere ineffectual, and the occurrence of the preceding night spread such\nalarm among the servants, who now all affirmed, that they had frequently\nheard unaccountable noises in the chateau, that a report soon reached\nthe Count of the north side of the castle being haunted. He treated\nthis, at first, with ridicule, but, perceiving, that it was productive\nof serious evil, in the confusion it occasioned among his household, he\nforbade any person to repeat it, on pain of punishment.\n\nThe arrival of a party of his friends soon withdrew his thoughts\nentirely from this subject, and his servants had now little leisure to\nbrood over it, except, indeed, in the evenings after supper, when they\nall assembled in their hall, and related stories of ghosts, till they\nfeared to look round the room; started, if the echo of a closing door\nmurmured along the passage, and refused to go singly to any part of the\ncastle.\n\nOn these occasions Annette made a distinguished figure. When she told\nnot only of all the wonders she had witnessed, but of all that she\nhad imagined, in the castle of Udolpho, with the story of the strange\ndisappearance of Signora Laurentini, she made no trifling impression on\nthe mind of her attentive auditors. Her suspicions, concerning Montoni,\nshe would also have freely disclosed, had not Ludovico, who was now in\nthe service of the Count, prudently checked her loquacity, whenever it\npointed to that subject.\n\nAmong the visitors at the chateau was the Baron de Saint Foix, an old\nfriend of the Count, and his son, the Chevalier St. Foix, a sensible\nand amiable young man, who, having in the preceding year seen the Lady\nBlanche, at Paris, had become her declared admirer. The friendship,\nwhich the Count had long entertained for his father, and the equality\nof their circumstances made him secretly approve of the connection; but,\nthinking his daughter at this time too young to fix her choice for\nlife, and wishing to prove the sincerity and strength of the Chevalier's\nattachment, he then rejected his suit, though without forbidding his\nfuture hope. This young man now came, with the Baron, his father,\nto claim the reward of a steady affection, a claim, which the Count\nadmitted and which Blanche did not reject.\n\nWhile these visitors were at the chateau, it became a scene of gaiety\nand splendour. The pavilion in the woods was fitted up and frequented,\nin the fine evenings, as a supper-room, when the hour usually concluded\nwith a concert, at which the Count and Countess, who were scientific\nperformers, and the Chevaliers Henri and St. Foix, with the Lady Blanche\nand Emily, whose voices and fine taste compensated for the want of more\nskilful execution, usually assisted. Several of the Count's servants\nperformed on horns and other instruments, some of which, placed at\na little distance among the woods, spoke, in sweet response, to the\nharmony, that proceeded from the pavilion.\n\nAt any other period, these parties would have been delightful to\nEmily; but her spirits were now oppressed with a melancholy, which\nshe perceived that no kind of what is called amusement had power to\ndissipate, and which the tender and, frequently, pathetic, melody of\nthese concerts sometimes increased to a very painful degree.\n\nShe was particularly fond of walking in the woods, that hung on a\npromontory, overlooking the sea. Their luxuriant shade was soothing to\nher pensive mind, and, in the partial views, which they afforded of\nthe Mediterranean, with its winding shores and passing sails, tranquil\nbeauty was united with grandeur. The paths were rude and frequently\novergrown with vegetation, but their tasteful owner would suffer little\nto be done to them, and scarcely a single branch to be lopped from the\nvenerable trees. On an eminence, in one of the most sequestered parts\nof these woods, was a rustic seat, formed of the trunk of a decayed oak,\nwhich had once been a noble tree, and of which many lofty branches still\nflourishing united with beech and pines to over-canopy the spot. Beneath\ntheir deep umbrage, the eye passed over the tops of other woods, to the\nMediterranean, and, to the left, through an opening, was seen a ruined\nwatch-tower, standing on a point of rock, near the sea, and rising from\namong the tufted foliage.\n\nHither Emily often came alone in the silence of evening, and, soothed\nby the scenery and by the faint murmur, that rose from the waves, would\nsit, till darkness obliged her to return to the chateau. Frequently,\nalso, she visited the watch-tower, which commanded the entire\nprospect, and, when she leaned against its broken walls, and thought of\nValancourt, she not once imagined, what was so true, that this tower had\nbeen almost as frequently his resort, as her own, since his estrangement\nfrom the neighbouring chateau.\n\nOne evening, she lingered here to a late hour. She had sat on the steps\nof the building, watching, in tranquil melancholy, the gradual effect\nof evening over the extensive prospect, till the gray waters of the\nMediterranean and the massy woods were almost the only features of the\nscene, that remained visible; when, as she gazed alternately on these,\nand on the mild blue of the heavens, where the first pale star of\nevening appeared, she personified the hour in the following lines:--\n\n  SONG OF THE EVENING HOUR\n\n Last of the Hours, that track the fading Day,\n I move along the realms of twilight air,\n And hear, remote, the choral song decay\n Of sister-nymphs, who dance around his car.\n\n Then, as I follow through the azure void,\n His partial splendour from my straining eye\n Sinks in the depth of space; my only guide\n His faint ray dawning on the farthest sky;\n\n Save that sweet, lingering strain of gayer Hours,\n Whose close my voice prolongs in dying notes,\n While mortals on the green earth own its pow'rs,\n As downward on the evening gale it floats.\n\n When fades along the West the Sun's last beam,\n As, weary, to the nether world he goes,\n And mountain-summits catch the purple gleam,\n And slumbering ocean faint and fainter glows,\n\n Silent upon the globe's broad shade I steal,\n And o'er its dry turf shed the cooling dews,\n And ev'ry fever'd herb and flow'ret heal,\n And all their fragrance on the air diffuse.\n\n Where'er I move, a tranquil pleasure reigns;\n O'er all the scene the dusky tints I send,\n That forests wild and mountains, stretching plains\n And peopled towns, in soft confusion blend.\n\n Wide o'er the world I waft the fresh'ning wind,\n Low breathing through the woods and twilight vale,\n In whispers soft, that woo the pensive mind\n Of him, who loves my lonely steps to hail.\n\n His tender oaten reed I watch to hear,\n Stealing its sweetness o'er some plaining rill,\n Or soothing ocean's wave, when storms are near,\n Or swelling in the breeze from distant hill!\n\n I wake the fairy elves, who shun the light;\n When, from their blossom'd beds, they slily peep,\n And spy my pale star, leading on the night,--\n Forth to their games and revelry they leap;\n\n Send all the prison'd sweets abroad in air,\n That with them slumber'd in the flow'ret's cell;\n Then to the shores and moon-light brooks repair,\n Till the high larks their matin-carol swell.\n\n The wood-nymphs hail my airs and temper'd shade,\n With ditties soft and lightly sportive dance,\n On river margin of some bow'ry glade,\n And strew their fresh buds as my steps advance:\n\n But, swift I pass, and distant regions trace,\n For moon-beams silver all the eastern cloud,\n And Day's last crimson vestige fades apace;\n Down the steep west I fly from Midnight's shroud.\n\nThe moon was now rising out of the sea. She watched its gradual\nprogress, the extending line of radiance it threw upon the waters, the\nsparkling oars, the sail faintly silvered, and the wood-tops and the\nbattlements of the watch-tower, at whose foot she was sitting, just\ntinted with the rays. Emily's spirits were in harmony with this scene.\nAs she sat meditating, sounds stole by her on the air, which she\nimmediately knew to be the music and the voice she had formerly heard at\nmidnight, and the emotion of awe, which she felt, was not unmixed with\nterror, when she considered her remote and lonely situation. The sounds\ndrew nearer. She would have risen to leave the place, but they seemed\nto come from the way she must have taken towards the chateau, and she\nawaited the event in trembling expectation. The sounds continued to\napproach, for some time, and then ceased. Emily sat listening, gazing\nand unable to move, when she saw a figure emerge from the shade of the\nwoods and pass along the bank, at some little distance before her. It\nwent swiftly, and her spirits were so overcome with awe, that, though\nshe saw, she did not much observe it.\n\nHaving left the spot, with a resolution never again to visit it alone,\nat so late an hour, she began to approach the chateau, when she heard\nvoices calling her from the part of the wood, which was nearest to it.\nThey were the shouts of the Count's servants, who were sent to search\nfor her; and when she entered the supper-room, where he sat with Henri\nand Blanche, he gently reproached her with a look, which she blushed to\nhave deserved.\n\nThis little occurrence deeply impressed her mind, and, when she withdrew\nto her own room, it recalled so forcibly the circumstances she had\nwitnessed, a few nights before, that she had scarcely courage to remain\nalone. She watched to a late hour, when, no sound having renewed\nher fears, she, at length, sunk to repose. But this was of short\ncontinuance, for she was disturbed by a loud and unusual noise, that\nseemed to come from the gallery, into which her chamber opened. Groans\nwere distinctly heard, and, immediately after, a dead weight fell\nagainst the door, with a violence, that threatened to burst it open. She\ncalled loudly to know who was there, but received no answer, though,\nat intervals, she still thought she heard something like a low moaning.\nFear deprived her of the power to move. Soon after, she heard footsteps\nin a remote part of the gallery, and, as they approached, she called\nmore loudly than before, till the steps paused at her door. She then\ndistinguished the voices of several of the servants, who seemed too\nmuch engaged by some circumstance without, to attend to her calls; but,\nAnnette soon after entering the room for water, Emily understood, that\none of the maids had fainted, whom she immediately desired them to bring\ninto her room, where she assisted to restore her. When this girl had\nrecovered her speech, she affirmed, that, as she was passing up the back\nstair-case, in the way to her chamber, she had seen an apparition on the\nsecond landing-place; she held the lamp low, she said, that she might\npick her way, several of the stairs being infirm and even decayed, and\nit was upon raising her eyes, that she saw this appearance. It stood for\na moment in the corner of the landing-place, which she was approaching,\nand then, gliding up the stairs, vanished at the door of the apartment,\nthat had been lately opened. She heard afterwards a hollow sound.\n\n'Then the devil has got a key to that apartment,' said Dorothee, 'for it\ncould be nobody but he; I locked the door myself!'\n\nThe girl, springing down the stairs and passing up the great stair-case,\nhad run, with a faint scream, till she reached the gallery, where she\nfell, groaning, at Emily's door.\n\nGently chiding her for the alarm she had occasioned, Emily tried to make\nher ashamed of her fears; but the girl persisted in saying, that she\nhad seen an apparition, till she went to her own room, whither she\nwas accompanied by all the servants present, except Dorothee, who,\nat Emily's request, remained with her during the night. Emily was\nperplexed, and Dorothee was terrified, and mentioned many occurrences\nof former times, which had long since confirmed her superstitions; among\nthese, according to her belief, she had once witnessed an appearance,\nlike that just described, and on the very same spot, and it was the\nremembrance of it, that had made her pause, when she was going to ascend\nthe stairs with Emily, and which had increased her reluctance to open\nthe north apartments. Whatever might be Emily's opinions, she did\nnot disclose them, but listened attentively to all that Dorothee\ncommunicated, which occasioned her much thought and perplexity.\n\nFrom this night the terror of the servants increased to such an excess,\nthat several of them determined to leave the chateau, and requested\ntheir discharge of the Count, who, if he had any faith in the subject of\ntheir alarm, thought proper to dissemble it, and, anxious to avoid the\ninconvenience that threatened him, employed ridicule and then argument\nto convince them they had nothing to apprehend from supernatural agency.\nBut fear had rendered their minds inaccessible to reason; and it was\nnow, that Ludovico proved at once his courage and his gratitude for the\nkindness he had received from the Count, by offering to watch, during a\nnight, in the suite of rooms, reputed to be haunted. He feared, he said,\nno spirits, and, if any thing of human form appeared--he would prove\nthat he dreaded that as little.\n\nThe Count paused upon the offer, while the servants, who heard it,\nlooked upon one another in doubt and amazement, and Annette, terrified\nfor the safety of Ludovico, employed tears and entreaties to dissuade\nhim from his purpose.\n\n'You are a bold fellow,' said the Count, smiling, 'Think well of what\nyou are going to encounter, before you finally determine upon it.\nHowever, if you persevere in your resolution, I will accept your offer,\nand your intrepidity shall not go unrewarded.'\n\n'I desire no reward, your excellenza,' replied Ludovico, 'but your\napprobation. Your excellenza has been sufficiently good to me already;\nbut I wish to have arms, that I may be equal to my enemy, if he should\nappear.'\n\n'Your sword cannot defend you against a ghost,' replied the Count,\nthrowing a glance of irony upon the other servants, 'neither can bars,\nor bolts; for a spirit, you know, can glide through a keyhole as easily\nas through a door.'\n\n'Give me a sword, my lord Count,' said Ludovico, 'and I will lay all the\nspirits, that shall attack me, in the red sea.'\n\n'Well,' said the Count, 'you shall have a sword, and good cheer, too;\nand your brave comrades here will, perhaps, have courage enough to\nremain another night in the chateau, since your boldness will certainly,\nfor this night, at least, confine all the malice of the spectre to\nyourself.'\n\nCuriosity now struggled with fear in the minds of several of his fellow\nservants, and, at length, they resolved to await the event of Ludovico's\nrashness.\n\nEmily was surprised and concerned, when she heard of his intention, and\nwas frequently inclined to mention what she had witnessed in the north\napartments to the Count, for she could not entirely divest herself of\nfears for Ludovico's safety, though her reason represented these to be\nabsurd. The necessity, however, of concealing the secret, with which\nDorothee had entrusted her, and which must have been mentioned, with the\nlate occurrence, in excuse for her having so privately visited the north\napartments, kept her entirely silent on the subject of her apprehension;\nand she tried only to sooth Annette, who held, that Ludovico was\ncertainly to be destroyed; and who was much less affected by Emily's\nconsolatory efforts, than by the manner of old Dorothee, who often, as\nshe exclaimed Ludovico, sighed, and threw up her eyes to heaven.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI\n\n\n  Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profound!\n Whose soft dominion o'er this castle sways,\n And all the widely-silent places round,\n Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays\n What never yet was sung in mortal lays.\n     THOMSON\n\nThe Count gave orders for the north apartments to be opened and prepared\nfor the reception of Ludovico; but Dorothee, remembering what she\nhad lately witnessed there, feared to obey, and, not one of the other\nservants daring to venture thither, the rooms remained shut up till the\ntime when Ludovico was to retire thither for the night, an hour, for\nwhich the whole household waited with impatience.\n\nAfter supper, Ludovico, by the order of the Count, attended him in his\ncloset, where they remained alone for near half an hour, and, on leaving\nwhich, his Lord delivered to him a sword.\n\n'It has seen service in mortal quarrels,' said the Count, jocosely, 'you\nwill use it honourably, no doubt, in a spiritual one. Tomorrow, let me\nhear that there is not one ghost remaining in the chateau.'\n\nLudovico received it with a respectful bow. 'You shall be obeyed, my\nLord,' said he; 'I will engage, that no spectre shall disturb the peace\nof the chateau after this night.'\n\nThey now returned to the supper-room, where the Count's guests awaited\nto accompany him and Ludovico to the door of the north apartments, and\nDorothee, being summoned for the keys, delivered them to Ludovico, who\nthen led the way, followed by most of the inhabitants of the chateau.\nHaving reached the back stair-case, several of the servants shrunk back,\nand refused to go further, but the rest followed him to the top of the\nstair-case, where a broad landing-place allowed them to flock round him,\nwhile he applied the key to the door, during which they watched him with\nas much eager curiosity as if he had been performing some magical rite.\n\nLudovico, unaccustomed to the lock, could not turn it, and Dorothee, who\nhad lingered far behind, was called forward, under whose hand the door\nopened slowly, and, her eye glancing within the dusky chamber, she\nuttered a sudden shriek, and retreated. At this signal of alarm, the\ngreater part of the crowd hurried down the stairs, and the Count, Henri\nand Ludovico were left alone to pursue the enquiry, who instantly rushed\ninto the apartment, Ludovico with a drawn sword, which he had just time\nto draw from the scabbard, the Count with the lamp in his hand, and\nHenri carrying a basket, containing provisions for the courageous\nadventurer.\n\nHaving looked hastily round the first room, where nothing appeared to\njustify alarm, they passed on to the second; and, here too all being\nquiet, they proceeded to a third with a more tempered step. The Count\nhad now leisure to smile at the discomposure, into which he had been\nsurprised, and to ask Ludovico in which room he designed to pass the\nnight.\n\n'There are several chambers beyond these, your excellenza,' said\nLudovico, pointing to a door, 'and in one of them is a bed, they say.\nI will pass the night there, and when I am weary of watching, I can lie\ndown.'\n\n'Good;' said the Count; 'let us go on. You see these rooms shew nothing,\nbut damp walls and decaying furniture. I have been so much engaged\nsince I came to the chateau, that I have not looked into them till now.\nRemember, Ludovico, to tell the housekeeper, to-morrow, to throw open\nthese windows. The damask hangings are dropping to pieces, I will have\nthem taken down, and this antique furniture removed.'\n\n'Dear sir!' said Henri, 'here is an arm-chair so massy with gilding,\nthat it resembles one of the state chairs at the Louvre, more then any\nthing else.'\n\n'Yes,' said the Count, stopping a moment to survey it, 'there is a\nhistory belonging to that chair, but I have not time to tell it.--Let us\npass on. This suite runs to a greater extent than I had imagined; it is\nmany years since I was in them. But where is the bed-room you speak of,\nLudovico?--these are only anti-chambers to the great drawing-room. I\nremember them in their splendour!'\n\n'The bed, my Lord,' replied Ludovico, 'they told me, was in a room that\nopens beyond the saloon, and terminates the suite.'\n\n'O, here is the saloon,' said the Count, as they entered the spacious\napartment, in which Emily and Dorothee had rested. He here stood for\na moment, surveying the reliques of faded grandeur, which it\nexhibited--the sumptuous tapestry--the long and low sophas of velvet,\nwith frames heavily carved and gilded--the floor inlaid with small\nsquares of fine marble, and covered in the centre with a piece of\nvery rich tapestry-work--the casements of painted glass, and the large\nVenetian mirrors, of a size and quality, such as at that period France\ncould not make, which reflected, on every side, the spacious apartment.\nThese had formerly also reflected a gay and brilliant scene, for this\nhad been the state-room of the chateau, and here the Marchioness had\nheld the assemblies, that made part of the festivities of her nuptials.\nIf the wand of a magician could have recalled the vanished groups, many\nof them vanished even from the earth! that once had passed over these\npolished mirrors, what a varied and contrasted picture would they have\nexhibited with the present! Now, instead of a blaze of lights, and\na splendid and busy crowd, they reflected only the rays of the one\nglimmering lamp, which the Count held up, and which scarcely served to\nshew the three forlorn figures, that stood surveying the room, and the\nspacious and dusky walls around them.\n\n'Ah!' said the Count to Henri, awaking from his deep reverie, 'how the\nscene is changed since last I saw it! I was a young man, then, and the\nMarchioness was alive and in her bloom; many other persons were here,\ntoo, who are now no more! There stood the orchestra; here we tripped in\nmany a sprightly maze--the walls echoing to the dance! Now, they resound\nonly one feeble voice--and even that will, ere long, be heard no more!\nMy son, remember, that I was once as young as yourself, and that you\nmust pass away like those, who have preceded you--like those, who, as\nthey sung and danced in this once gay apartment, forgot, that years are\nmade up of moments, and that every step they took carried them nearer\nto their graves. But such reflections are useless, I had almost\nsaid criminal, unless they teach us to prepare for eternity, since,\notherwise, they cloud our present happiness, without guiding us to a\nfuture one. But enough of this; let us go on.'\n\nLudovico now opened the door of the bed-room, and the Count, as he\nentered, was struck with the funereal appearance, which the dark arras\ngave to it. He approached the bed, with an emotion of solemnity, and,\nperceiving it to be covered with the pall of black velvet, paused; 'What\ncan this mean?' said he, as he gazed upon it.\n\n'I have heard, my Lord,' said Ludovico, as he stood at the feet, looking\nwithin the canopied curtains, 'that the Lady Marchioness de Villeroi\ndied in this chamber, and remained here till she was removed to be\nburied; and this, perhaps, Signor, may account for the pall.'\n\nThe Count made no reply, but stood for a few moments engaged in thought,\nand evidently much affected. Then, turning to Ludovico, he asked him\nwith a serious air, whether he thought his courage would support him\nthrough the night? 'If you doubt this,' added the Count, 'do not be\nashamed to own it; I will release you from your engagement, without\nexposing you to the triumphs of your fellow-servants.'\n\nLudovico paused; pride, and something very like fear, seemed struggling\nin his breast; pride, however, was victorious;--he blushed, and his\nhesitation ceased.\n\n'No, my Lord,' said he, 'I will go through with what I have begun; and\nI am grateful for your consideration. On that hearth I will make a fire,\nand, with the good cheer in this basket, I doubt not I shall do well.'\n\n'Be it so,' said the Count; 'but how will you beguile the tediousness of\nthe night, if you do not sleep?'\n\n'When I am weary, my Lord,' replied Ludovico, 'I shall not fear to\nsleep; in the meanwhile, I have a book, that will entertain me.'\n\n'Well,' said the Count, 'I hope nothing will disturb you; but if you\nshould be seriously alarmed in the night, come to my apartment. I have\ntoo much confidence in your good sense and courage, to believe you will\nbe alarmed on slight grounds; or suffer the gloom of this chamber, or\nits remote situation, to overcome you with ideal terrors. To-morrow, I\nshall have to thank you for an important service; these rooms shall then\nbe thrown open, and my people will be convinced of their error. Good\nnight, Ludovico; let me see you early in the morning, and remember what\nI lately said to you.'\n\n'I will, my Lord; good night to your excellenza; let me attend you with\nthe light.'\n\nHe lighted the Count and Henri through the chambers to the outer door;\non the landing-place stood a lamp, which one of the affrighted servants\nhad left, and Henri, as he took it up, again bade Ludovico good night,\nwho, having respectfully returned the wish, closed the door upon them,\nand fastened it. Then, as he retired to the bed-chamber, he examined the\nrooms, through which he passed, with more minuteness than he had done\nbefore, for he apprehended, that some person might have concealed\nhimself in them, for the purpose of frightening him. No one, however,\nbut himself, was in these chambers, and, leaving open the doors,\nthrough which he passed, he came again to the great drawing-room, whose\nspaciousness and silent gloom somewhat awed him. For a moment he stood,\nlooking back through the long suite of rooms he had quitted, and, as he\nturned, perceiving a light and his own figure, reflected in one of the\nlarge mirrors, he started. Other objects too were seen obscurely on its\ndark surface, but he paused not to examine them, and returned hastily\ninto the bed-room, as he surveyed which, he observed the door of the\noriel, and opened it. All within was still. On looking round, his eye\nwas arrested by the portrait of the deceased Marchioness, upon which he\ngazed, for a considerable time, with great attention and some surprise;\nand then, having examined the closet, he returned into the bed-room,\nwhere he kindled a wood fire, the bright blaze of which revived his\nspirits, which had begun to yield to the gloom and silence of the place,\nfor gusts of wind alone broke at intervals this silence. He now drew a\nsmall table and a chair near the fire, took a bottle of wine, and some\ncold provision out of his basket, and regaled himself. When he had\nfinished his repast, he laid his sword upon the table, and, not feeling\ndisposed to sleep, drew from his pocket the book he had spoken of.--It\nwas a volume of old Provencal tales. Having stirred the fire upon the\nhearth, he began to read, and his attention was soon wholly occupied by\nthe scenes, which the page disclosed.\n\nThe Count, meanwhile, had returned to the supper-room, whither those of\nthe party, who had attended him to the north apartment, had retreated,\nupon hearing Dorothee's scream, and who were now earnest in their\nenquiries concerning those chambers. The Count rallied his guests on\ntheir precipitate retreat, and on the superstitious inclination which\nhad occasioned it, and this led to the question, Whether the spirit,\nafter it has quitted the body, is ever permitted to revisit the earth;\nand if it is, whether it was possible for spirits to become visible to\nthe sense. The Baron was of opinion, that the first was probable, and\nthe last was possible, and he endeavoured to justify this opinion by\nrespectable authorities, both ancient and modern, which he quoted.\nThe Count, however, was decidedly against him, and a long conversation\nensued, in which the usual arguments on these subjects were on both\nsides brought forward with skill, and discussed with candour, but\nwithout converting either party to the opinion of his opponent. The\neffect of their conversation on their auditors was various. Though the\nCount had much the superiority of the Baron in point of argument, he\nhad considerably fewer adherents; for that love, so natural to the\nhuman mind, of whatever is able to distend its faculties with wonder and\nastonishment, attached the majority of the company to the side of the\nBaron; and, though many of the Count's propositions were unanswerable,\nhis opponents were inclined to believe this the consequence of their\nown want of knowledge, on so abstracted a subject, rather than that\narguments did not exist, which were forcible enough to conquer his.\n\nBlanche was pale with attention, till the ridicule in her father's\nglance called a blush upon her countenance, and she then endeavoured\nto forget the superstitious tales she had been told in her convent.\nMeanwhile, Emily had been listening with deep attention to the\ndiscussion of what was to her a very interesting question, and,\nremembering the appearance she had witnessed in the apartment of the\nlate Marchioness, she was frequently chilled with awe. Several times she\nwas on the point of mentioning what she had seen, but the fear of giving\npain to the Count, and the dread of his ridicule, restrained her; and,\nawaiting in anxious expectation the event of Ludovico's intrepidity, she\ndetermined that her future silence should depend upon it.\n\nWhen the party had separated for the night, and the Count retired to\nhis dressing-room, the remembrance of the desolate scenes he had lately\nwitnessed in his own mansion deeply affected him, but at length he\nwas aroused from his reverie and his silence. 'What music is that I\nhear?'--said he suddenly to his valet, 'Who plays at this late hour?'\n\nThe man made no reply, and the Count continued to listen, and then\nadded, 'That is no common musician; he touches the instrument with a\ndelicate hand; who is it, Pierre?'\n\n'My lord!' said the man, hesitatingly.\n\n'Who plays that instrument?' repeated the Count.\n\n'Does not your lordship know, then?' said the valet.\n\n'What mean you?' said the Count, somewhat sternly.\n\n'Nothing, my Lord, I meant nothing,' rejoined the man\nsubmissively--'Only--that music--goes about the house at midnight often,\nand I thought your lordship might have heard it before.'\n\n'Music goes about the house at midnight! Poor fellow!--does nobody dance\nto the music, too?'\n\n'It is not in the chateau, I believe, my Lord; the sounds come from the\nwoods, they say, though they seem so near;--but then a spirit can do any\nthing!'\n\n'Ah, poor fellow!' said the Count, 'I perceive you are as silly as the\nrest of them; to-morrow, you will be convinced of your ridiculous error.\nBut hark!--what voice is that?'\n\n'O my Lord! that is the voice we often hear with the music.'\n\n'Often!' said the Count, 'How often, pray? It is a very fine one.'\n\n'Why, my Lord, I myself have not heard it more than two or three times,\nbut there are those who have lived here longer, that have heard it often\nenough.'\n\n'What a swell was that!' exclaimed the Count, as he still listened, 'And\nnow, what a dying cadence! This is surely something more than mortal!'\n\n'That is what they say, my Lord,' said the valet; 'they say it is\nnothing mortal, that utters it; and if I might say my thoughts'--\n\n'Peace!' said the Count, and he listened till the strain died away.\n\n'This is strange!' said he, as he turned from the window, 'Close the\ncasements, Pierre.'\n\nPierre obeyed, and the Count soon after dismissed him, but did not so\nsoon lose the remembrance of the music, which long vibrated in his fancy\nin tones of melting sweetness, while surprise and perplexity engaged his\nthoughts.\n\nLudovico, meanwhile, in his remote chamber, heard, now and then, the\nfaint echo of a closing door, as the family retired to rest, and then\nthe hall clock, at a great distance, strike twelve. 'It is midnight,'\nsaid he, and he looked suspiciously round the spacious chamber. The fire\non the hearth was now nearly expiring, for his attention having been\nengaged by the book before him, he had forgotten every thing besides;\nbut he soon added fresh wood, not because he was cold, though the night\nwas stormy, but because he was cheerless; and, having again trimmed\nhis lamp, he poured out a glass of wine, drew his chair nearer to the\ncrackling blaze, tried to be deaf to the wind, that howled mournfully\nat the casements, endeavoured to abstract his mind from the melancholy,\nthat was stealing upon him, and again took up his book. It had been lent\nto him by Dorothee, who had formerly picked it up in an obscure corner\nof the Marquis's library, and who, having opened it and perceived\nsome of the marvels it related, had carefully preserved it for her own\nentertainment, its condition giving her some excuse for detaining it\nfrom its proper station. The damp corner into which it had fallen, had\ncaused the cover to be disfigured and mouldy, and the leaves to be so\ndiscoloured with spots, that it was not without difficulty the letters\ncould be traced. The fictions of the Provencal writers, whether drawn\nfrom the Arabian legends, brought by the Saracens into Spain, or\nrecounting the chivalric exploits performed by the crusaders, whom the\nTroubadors accompanied to the east, were generally splendid and always\nmarvellous, both in scenery and incident; and it is not wonderful, that\nDorothee and Ludovico should be fascinated by inventions, which had\ncaptivated the careless imagination in every rank of society, in a\nformer age. Some of the tales, however, in the book now before Ludovico,\nwere of simple structure, and exhibited nothing of the magnificent\nmachinery and heroic manners, which usually characterized the fables of\nthe twelfth century, and of this description was the one he now happened\nto open, which, in its original style, was of great length, but which\nmay be thus shortly related. The reader will perceive, that it is\nstrongly tinctured with the superstition of the times.\n\n\nTHE PROVENCAL TALE\n\n'There lived, in the province of Bretagne, a noble Baron, famous for\nhis magnificence and courtly hospitalities. His castle was graced with\nladies of exquisite beauty, and thronged with illustrious knights; for\nthe honour he paid to feats of chivalry invited the brave of distant\ncountries to enter his lists, and his court was more splendid than those\nof many princes. Eight minstrels were retained in his service, who used\nto sing to their harps romantic fictions, taken from the Arabians, or\nadventures of chivalry, that befel knights during the crusades, or the\nmartial deeds of the Baron, their lord;--while he, surrounded by his\nknights and ladies, banqueted in the great hall of his castle, where the\ncostly tapestry, that adorned the walls with pictured exploits of\nhis ancestors, the casements of painted glass, enriched with armorial\nbearings, the gorgeous banners, that waved along the roof, the sumptuous\ncanopies, the profusion of gold and silver, that glittered on the\nsideboards, the numerous dishes, that covered the tables, the number and\ngay liveries of the attendants, with the chivalric and splendid attire\nof the guests, united to form a scene of magnificence, such as we may\nnot hope to see in these DEGENERATE DAYS.\n\n'Of the Baron, the following adventure is related. One night, having\nretired late from the banquet to his chamber, and dismissed his\nattendants, he was surprised by the appearance of a stranger of a noble\nair, but of a sorrowful and dejected countenance. Believing, that this\nperson had been secreted in the apartment, since it appeared impossible\nhe could have lately passed the anti-room, unobserved by the pages in\nwaiting, who would have prevented this intrusion on their lord, the\nBaron, calling loudly for his people, drew his sword, which he had not\nyet taken from his side, and stood upon his defence. The stranger slowly\nadvancing, told him, that there was nothing to fear; that he came with\nno hostile design, but to communicate to him a terrible secret, which it\nwas necessary for him to know.\n\n'The Baron, appeased by the courteous manners of the stranger, after\nsurveying him, for some time, in silence, returned his sword into the\nscabbard, and desired him to explain the means, by which he had obtained\naccess to the chamber, and the purpose of this extraordinary visit.\n\n'Without answering either of these enquiries, the stranger said, that he\ncould not then explain himself, but that, if the Baron would follow him\nto the edge of the forest, at a short distance from the castle walls,\nhe would there convince him, that he had something of importance to\ndisclose.\n\n'This proposal again alarmed the Baron, who could scarcely believe, that\nthe stranger meant to draw him to so solitary a spot, at this hour of\nthe night, without harbouring a design against his life, and he refused\nto go, observing, at the same time, that, if the stranger's purpose\nwas an honourable one, he would not persist in refusing to reveal the\noccasion of his visit, in the apartment where they were.\n\n'While he spoke this, he viewed the stranger still more attentively than\nbefore, but observed no change in his countenance, or any symptom, that\nmight intimate a consciousness of evil design. He was habited like\na knight, was of a tall and majestic stature, and of dignified and\ncourteous manners. Still, however, he refused to communicate the subject\nof his errand in any place, but that he had mentioned, and, at the same\ntime, gave hints concerning the secret he would disclose, that awakened\na degree of solemn curiosity in the Baron, which, at length, induced him\nto consent to follow the stranger, on certain conditions.\n\n'\"Sir knight,\" said he, \"I will attend you to the forest, and will take\nwith me only four of my people, who shall witness our conference.\"\n\n'To this, however, the Knight objected.\n\n'\"What I would disclose,\" said he, with solemnity, \"is to you alone.\nThere are only three living persons, to whom the circumstance is known;\nit is of more consequence to you and your house, than I shall now\nexplain. In future years, you will look back to this night with\nsatisfaction or repentance, accordingly as you now determine. As you\nwould hereafter prosper--follow me; I pledge you the honour of a\nknight, that no evil shall befall you;--if you are contented to dare\nfuturity--remain in your chamber, and I will depart as I came.\"\n\n'\"Sir knight,\" replied the Baron, \"how is it possible, that my future\npeace can depend upon my present determination?\"\n\n'\"That is not now to be told,\" said the stranger, \"I have explained\nmyself to the utmost. It is late; if you follow me it must be\nquickly;--you will do well to consider the alternative.\"\n\n'The Baron mused, and, as he looked upon the knight, he perceived his\ncountenance assume a singular solemnity.'\n\n[Here Ludovico thought he heard a noise, and he threw a glance round the\nchamber, and then held up the lamp to assist his observation; but, not\nperceiving any thing to confirm his alarm, he took up the book again and\npursued the story.]\n\n'The Baron paced his apartment, for some time, in silence, impressed by\nthe last words of the stranger, whose extraordinary request he feared to\ngrant, and feared, also, to refuse. At length, he said, \"Sir knight, you\nare utterly unknown to me; tell me yourself,--is it reasonable, that I\nshould trust myself alone with a stranger, at this hour, in a solitary\nforest? Tell me, at least, who you are, and who assisted to secrete you\nin this chamber.\"\n\n'The knight frowned at these latter words, and was a moment silent;\nthen, with a countenance somewhat stern, he said,\n\n'\"I am an English knight; I am called Sir Bevys of Lancaster,--and my\ndeeds are not unknown at the Holy City, whence I was returning to my\nnative land, when I was benighted in the neighbouring forest.\"\n\n'\"Your name is not unknown to fame,\" said the Baron, \"I have heard of\nit.\" (The Knight looked haughtily.) \"But why, since my castle is known\nto entertain all true knights, did not your herald announce you? Why\ndid you not appear at the banquet, where your presence would have been\nwelcomed, instead of hiding yourself in my castle, and stealing to my\nchamber, at midnight?\"\n\n'The stranger frowned, and turned away in silence; but the Baron\nrepeated the questions.\n\n'\"I come not,\" said the Knight, \"to answer enquiries, but to reveal\nfacts. If you would know more, follow me, and again I pledge the\nhonour of a Knight, that you shall return in safety.--Be quick in your\ndetermination--I must be gone.\"\n\n'After some further hesitation, the Baron determined to follow the\nstranger, and to see the result of his extraordinary request; he,\ntherefore, again drew forth his sword, and, taking up a lamp, bade the\nKnight lead on. The latter obeyed, and, opening the door of the chamber,\nthey passed into the anti-room, where the Baron, surprised to find\nall his pages asleep, stopped, and, with hasty violence, was going to\nreprimand them for their carelessness, when the Knight waved his hand,\nand looked so expressively upon the Baron, that the latter restrained\nhis resentment, and passed on.\n\n'The Knight, having descended a stair-case, opened a secret door,\nwhich the Baron had believed was known only to himself, and, proceeding\nthrough several narrow and winding passages, came, at length, to a small\ngate, that opened beyond the walls of the castle. Meanwhile, the Baron\nfollowed in silence and amazement, on perceiving that these secret\npassages were so well known to a stranger, and felt inclined to return\nfrom an adventure, that appeared to partake of treachery, as well as\ndanger. Then, considering that he was armed, and observing the courteous\nand noble air of his conductor, his courage returned, he blushed, that\nit had failed him for a moment, and he resolved to trace the mystery to\nits source.\n\n'He now found himself on the heathy platform, before the great gates of\nhis castle, where, on looking up, he perceived lights glimmering in\nthe different casements of the guests, who were retiring to sleep; and,\nwhile he shivered in the blast, and looked on the dark and desolate\nscene around him, he thought of the comforts of his warm chamber,\nrendered cheerful by the blaze of wood, and felt, for a moment, the full\ncontrast of his present situation.'\n\n[Here Ludovico paused a moment, and, looking at his own fire, gave it a\nbrightening stir.]\n\n'The wind was strong, and the Baron watched his lamp with anxiety,\nexpecting every moment to see it extinguished; but, though the flame\nwavered, it did not expire, and he still followed the stranger, who\noften sighed as he went, but did not speak.\n\n'When they reached the borders of the forest, the Knight turned, and\nraised his head, as if he meant to address the Baron, but then, closing\nhis lips in silence, he walked on.\n\n'As they entered, beneath the dark and spreading boughs, the Baron,\naffected by the solemnity of the scene, hesitated whether to proceed,\nand demanded how much further they were to go. The Knight replied only\nby a gesture, and the Baron, with hesitating steps and a suspicious eye,\nfollowed through an obscure and intricate path, till, having proceeded a\nconsiderable way, he again demanded whither they were going, and refused\nto proceed unless he was informed.\n\n'As he said this, he looked at his own sword, and at the Knight\nalternately, who shook his head, and whose dejected countenance disarmed\nthe Baron, for a moment, of suspicion.\n\n'\"A little further is the place, whither I would lead you,\" said the\nstranger; \"no evil shall befall you--I have sworn it on the honour of a\nknight.\"\n\n'The Baron, re-assured, again followed in silence, and they soon arrived\nat a deep recess of the forest, where the dark and lofty chesnuts\nentirely excluded the sky, and which was so overgrown with underwood,\nthat they proceeded with difficulty. The Knight sighed deeply as he\npassed, and sometimes paused; and having, at length, reached a spot,\nwhere the trees crowded into a knot, he turned, and, with a terrific\nlook, pointing to the ground, the Baron saw there the body of a man,\nstretched at its length, and weltering in blood; a ghastly wound was\non the forehead, and death appeared already to have contracted the\nfeatures.\n\n'The Baron, on perceiving the spectacle, started in horror, looked at\nthe Knight for explanation, and was then going to raise the body and\nexamine if there were yet any remains of life; but the stranger, waving\nhis hand, fixed upon him a look so earnest and mournful, as not only\nmuch surprised him, but made him desist.\n\n'But, what were the Baron's emotions, when, on holding the lamp near\nthe features of the corpse, he discovered the exact resemblance of the\nstranger his conductor, to whom he now looked up in astonishment and\nenquiry? As he gazed, he perceived the countenance of the Knight change,\nand begin to fade, till his whole form gradually vanished from his\nastonished sense! While the Baron stood, fixed to the spot, a voice was\nheard to utter these words:--'\n\n[Ludovico started, and laid down the book, for he thought he heard a\nvoice in the chamber, and he looked toward the bed, where, however, he\nsaw only the dark curtains and the pall. He listened, scarcely daring\nto draw his breath, but heard only the distant roaring of the sea in the\nstorm, and the blast, that rushed by the casements; when, concluding,\nthat he had been deceived by its sighings, he took up his book to finish\nthe story.]\n\n'While the Baron stood, fixed to the spot, a voice was heard to utter\nthese words:--*\n\n(* This repetition seems to be intentional. Ludovico is picking up the\nthread.)\n\n\n'The body of Sir Bevys of Lancaster, a noble knight of England, lies\nbefore you. He was, this night, waylaid and murdered, as he journeyed\nfrom the Holy City towards his native land. Respect the honour of\nknighthood and the law of humanity; inter the body in christian ground,\nand cause his murderers to be punished. As ye observe, or neglect this,\nshall peace and happiness, or war and misery, light upon you and your\nhouse for ever!'\n\n'The Baron, when he recovered from the awe and astonishment, into which\nthis adventure had thrown him, returned to his castle, whither he caused\nthe body of Sir Bevys to be removed; and, on the following day, it was\ninterred, with the honours of knighthood, in the chapel of the castle,\nattended by all the noble knights and ladies, who graced the court of\nBaron de Brunne.'\n\nLudovico, having finished this story, laid aside the book, for he felt\ndrowsy, and, after putting more wood on the fire and taking another\nglass of wine, he reposed himself in the arm-chair on the hearth. In\nhis dream he still beheld the chamber where he really was, and, once or\ntwice, started from imperfect slumbers, imagining he saw a man's face,\nlooking over the high back of his armchair. This idea had so strongly\nimpressed him, that, when he raised his eyes, he almost expected to\nmeet other eyes, fixed upon his own, and he quitted his seat and looked\nbehind the chair, before he felt perfectly convinced, that no person was\nthere.\n\nThus closed the hour.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII\n\n\n  Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber;\n Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies,\n Which busy care draws in the brains of men;\n Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.\n     SHAKESPEARE\n\nThe Count, who had slept little during the night, rose early, and,\nanxious to speak with Ludovico, went to the north apartment; but, the\nouter door having been fastened, on the preceding night, he was obliged\nto knock loudly for admittance. Neither the knocking, or his voice was\nheard; but, considering the distance of this door from the bed-room, and\nthat Ludovico, wearied with watching, had probably fallen into a deep\nsleep, the Count was not surprised on receiving no answer, and, leaving\nthe door, he went down to walk in his grounds.\n\nIt was a gray autumnal morning. The sun, rising over Provence, gave only\na feeble light, as his rays struggled through the vapours that ascended\nfrom the sea, and floated heavily over the wood-tops, which were now\nvaried with many a mellow tint of autumn. The storm was passed, but the\nwaves were yet violently agitated, and their course was traced by long\nlines of foam, while not a breeze fluttered in the sails of the vessels,\nnear the shore, that were weighing anchor to depart. The still gloom of\nthe hour was pleasing to the Count, and he pursued his way through the\nwoods, sunk in deep thought.\n\nEmily also rose at an early hour, and took her customary walk along the\nbrow of the promontory, that overhung the Mediterranean. Her mind was\nnow not occupied with the occurrences of the chateau, and Valancourt\nwas the subject of her mournful thoughts; whom she had not yet taught\nherself to consider with indifference, though her judgment constantly\nreproached her for the affection, that lingered in her heart, after her\nesteem for him was departed. Remembrance frequently gave her his parting\nlook and the tones of his voice, when he had bade her a last farewel;\nand, some accidental associations now recalling these circumstances\nto her fancy, with peculiar energy, she shed bitter tears to the\nrecollection.\n\nHaving reached the watch-tower, she seated herself on the broken steps,\nand, in melancholy dejection, watched the waves, half hid in vapour,\nas they came rolling towards the shore, and threw up their light spray\nround the rocks below. Their hollow murmur and the obscuring mists, that\ncame in wreaths up the cliffs, gave a solemnity to the scene, which was\nin harmony with the temper of her mind, and she sat, given up to\nthe remembrance of past times, till this became too painful, and\nshe abruptly quitted the place. On passing the little gate of the\nwatch-tower, she observed letters, engraved on the stone postern, which\nshe paused to examine, and, though they appeared to have been rudely\ncut with a pen-knife, the characters were familiar to her; at length,\nrecognizing the hand-writing of Valancourt, she read, with trembling\nanxiety the following lines, entitled\n\nSHIPWRECK\n\n 'Til solemn midnight!  On this lonely steep,\n Beneath this watch-tow'r's desolated wall,\n Where mystic shapes the wonderer appall,\n I rest; and view below the desert deep,\n As through tempestuous clouds the moon's cold light\n Gleams on the wave.  Viewless, the winds of night\n With loud mysterious force the billows sweep,\n And sullen roar the surges, far below.\n In the still pauses of the gust I hear\n The voice of spirits, rising sweet and slow,\n And oft among the clouds their forms appear.\n But hark! what shriek of death comes in the gale,\n And in the distant ray what glimmering sail\n Bends to the storm?--Now sinks the note of fear!\n Ah! wretched mariners!--no more shall day\n Unclose his cheering eye to light ye on your way!\n\nFrom these lines it appeared, that Valancourt had visited the tower;\nthat he had probably been here on the preceding night, for it was such\nan one as they described, and that he had left the building very lately,\nsince it had not long been light, and without light it was impossible\nthese letters could have been cut. It was thus even probable, that he\nmight be yet in the gardens.\n\nAs these reflections passed rapidly over the mind of Emily, they called\nup a variety of contending emotions, that almost overcame her spirits;\nbut her first impulse was to avoid him, and, immediately leaving the\ntower, she returned, with hasty steps, towards the chateau. As she\npassed along, she remembered the music she had lately heard near the\ntower, with the figure, which had appeared, and, in this moment of\nagitation, she was inclined to believe, that she had then heard and seen\nValancourt; but other recollections soon convinced her of her error.\nOn turning into a thicker part of the woods, she perceived a person,\nwalking slowly in the gloom at some little distance, and, her mind\nengaged by the idea of him, she started and paused, imagining this to\nbe Valancourt. The person advanced with quicker steps, and, before she\ncould recover recollection enough to avoid him, he spoke, and she then\nknew the voice of the Count, who expressed some surprise, on finding her\nwalking at so early an hour, and made a feeble effort to rally her on\nher love of solitude. But he soon perceived this to be more a subject of\nconcern than of light laughter, and, changing his manner, affectionately\nexpostulated with Emily, on thus indulging unavailing regret; who,\nthough she acknowledged the justness of all he said, could not restrain\nher tears, while she did so, and he presently quitted the topic.\nExpressing surprise at not having yet heard from his friend, the\nAdvocate at Avignon, in answer to the questions proposed to him,\nrespecting the estates of the late Madame Montoni, he, with friendly\nzeal, endeavoured to cheer Emily with hopes of establishing her claim\nto them; while she felt, that the estates could now contribute little to\nthe happiness of a life, in which Valancourt had no longer an interest.\n\nWhen they returned to the chateau, Emily retired to her apartment, and\nCount De Villefort to the door of the north chambers. This was still\nfastened, but, being now determined to arouse Ludovico, he renewed his\ncalls more loudly than before, after which a total silence ensued, and\nthe Count, finding all his efforts to be heard ineffectual, at length\nbegan to fear, that some accident had befallen Ludovico, whom terror\nof an imaginary being might have deprived of his senses. He, therefore,\nleft the door with an intention of summoning his servants to force it\nopen, some of whom he now heard moving in the lower part of the chateau.\n\nTo the Count's enquiries, whether they had seen or heard Ludovico, they\nreplied in affright, that not one of them had ventured on the north side\nof the chateau, since the preceding night.\n\n'He sleeps soundly then,' said the Count, 'and is at such a distance\nfrom the outer door, which is fastened, that to gain admittance to the\nchambers it will be necessary to force it. Bring an instrument, and\nfollow me.'\n\nThe servants stood mute and dejected, and it was not till nearly all the\nhousehold were assembled, that the Count's orders were obeyed. In the\nmean time, Dorothee was telling of a door, that opened from a gallery,\nleading from the great stair-case into the last anti-room of the saloon,\nand, this being much nearer to the bed-chamber, it appeared probable,\nthat Ludovico might be easily awakened by an attempt to open it.\nThither, therefore, the Count went, but his voice was as ineffectual\nat this door as it had proved at the remoter one; and now, seriously\ninterested for Ludovico, he was himself going to strike upon the door\nwith the instrument, when he observed its singular beauty, and with-held\nthe blow. It appeared, on the first glance, to be of ebony, so dark and\nclose was its grain and so high its polish; but it proved to be only of\nlarch wood, of the growth of Provence, then famous for its forests\nof larch. The beauty of its polished hue and of its delicate carvings\ndetermined the Count to spare this door, and he returned to that leading\nfrom the back stair-case, which being, at length, forced, he entered the\nfirst anti-room, followed by Henri and a few of the most courageous of\nhis servants, the rest awaiting the event of the enquiry on the stairs\nand landing-place.\n\nAll was silent in the chambers, through which the Count passed, and,\nhaving reached the saloon, he called loudly upon Ludovico; after which,\nstill receiving no answer, he threw open the door of the bed-room, and\nentered.\n\nThe profound stillness within confirmed his apprehensions for Ludovico,\nfor not even the breathings of a person in sleep were heard; and his\nuncertainty was not soon terminated, since the shutters being all\nclosed, the chamber was too dark for any object to be distinguished in\nit.\n\nThe Count bade a servant open them, who, as he crossed the room to\ndo so, stumbled over something, and fell to the floor, when his cry\noccasioned such panic among the few of his fellows, who had ventured\nthus far, that they instantly fled, and the Count and Henri were left to\nfinish the adventure.\n\nHenri then sprung across the room, and, opening a window-shutter, they\nperceived, that the man had fallen over a chair near the hearth, in\nwhich Ludovico had been sitting;--for he sat there no longer, nor could\nany where be seen by the imperfect light, that was admitted into the\napartment. The Count, seriously alarmed, now opened other shutters, that\nhe might be enabled to examine further, and, Ludovico not yet appearing,\nhe stood for a moment, suspended in astonishment and scarcely trusting\nhis senses, till, his eyes glancing on the bed, he advanced to examine\nwhether he was there asleep. No person, however, was in it, and he\nproceeded to the oriel, where every thing remained as on the preceding\nnight, but Ludovico was no where to be found.\n\nThe Count now checked his amazement, considering, that Ludovico might\nhave left the chambers, during the night, overcome by the terrors, which\ntheir lonely desolation and the recollected reports, concerning them,\nhad inspired. Yet, if this had been the fact, the man would naturally\nhave sought society, and his fellow servants had all declared they had\nnot seen him; the door of the outer room also had been found fastened,\nwith the key on the inside; it was impossible, therefore, for him to\nhave passed through that, and all the outer doors of this suite were\nfound, on examination, to be bolted and locked, with the keys also\nwithin them. The Count, being then compelled to believe, that the lad\nhad escaped through the casements, next examined them, but such as\nopened wide enough to admit the body of a man were found to be carefully\nsecured either by iron bars, or by shutters, and no vestige appeared of\nany person having attempted to pass them; neither was it probable, that\nLudovico would have incurred the risque of breaking his neck, by leaping\nfrom a window, when he might have walked safely through a door.\n\nThe Count's amazement did not admit of words; but he returned once more\nto examine the bed-room, where was no appearance of disorder, except\nthat occasioned by the late overthrow of the chair, near which had stood\na small table, and on this Ludovico's sword, his lamp, the book he had\nbeen reading, and the remnant of his flask of wine still remained.\nAt the foot of the table, too, was the basket with some fragments of\nprovision and wood.\n\nHenri and the servant now uttered their astonishment without reserve,\nand, though the Count said little, there was a seriousness in his\nmanner, that expressed much. It appeared, that Ludovico must have\nquitted these rooms by some concealed passage, for the Count could not\nbelieve, that any supernatural means had occasioned this event, yet, if\nthere was any such passage, it seemed inexplicable why he should retreat\nthrough it, and it was equally surprising, that not even the smallest\nvestige should appear, by which his progress could be traced. In the\nrooms every thing remained as much in order as if he had just walked out\nby the common way.\n\nThe Count himself assisted in lifting the arras, with which the\nbed-chamber, saloon and one of the anti-rooms were hung, that he\nmight discover if any door had been concealed behind it; but, after\na laborious search, none was found, and he, at length, quitted the\napartments, having secured the door of the last anti-chamber, the key of\nwhich he took into his own possession. He then gave orders, that strict\nsearch should be made for Ludovico not only in the chateau, but in the\nneighbourhood, and, retiring with Henri to his closet, they remained\nthere in conversation for a considerable time, and whatever was the\nsubject of it, Henri from this hour lost much of his vivacity, and his\nmanners were particularly grave and reserved, whenever the topic, which\nnow agitated the Count's family with wonder and alarm, was introduced.\n\nOn the disappearing of Ludovico, Baron St. Foix seemed strengthened\nin all his former opinions concerning the probability of apparitions,\nthough it was difficult to discover what connection there could possibly\nbe between the two subjects, or to account for this effect otherwise\nthan by supposing, that the mystery attending Ludovico, by exciting\nawe and curiosity, reduced the mind to a state of sensibility, which\nrendered it more liable to the influence of superstition in general. It\nis, however, certain, that from this period the Baron and his adherents\nbecame more bigoted to their own systems than before, while the terrors\nof the Count's servants increased to an excess, that occasioned many of\nthem to quit the mansion immediately, and the rest remained only till\nothers could be procured to supply their places.\n\nThe most strenuous search after Ludovico proved unsuccessful, and, after\nseveral days of indefatigable enquiry, poor Annette gave herself up to\ndespair, and the other inhabitants of the chateau to amazement.\n\nEmily, whose mind had been deeply affected by the disastrous fate of the\nlate Marchioness and with the mysterious connection, which she fancied\nhad existed between her and St. Aubert, was particularly impressed\nby the late extraordinary event, and much concerned for the loss of\nLudovico, whose integrity and faithful services claimed both her\nesteem and gratitude. She was now very desirous to return to the quiet\nretirement of her convent, but every hint of this was received with real\nsorrow by the Lady Blanche, and affectionately set aside by the Count,\nfor whom she felt much of the respectful love and admiration of a\ndaughter, and to whom, by Dorothee's consent, she, at length, mentioned\nthe appearance, which they had witnessed in the chamber of the deceased\nMarchioness. At any other period, he would have smiled at such a\nrelation, and have believed, that its object had existed only in the\ndistempered fancy of the relater; but he now attended to Emily with\nseriousness, and, when she concluded, requested of her a promise, that\nthis occurrence should rest in silence. 'Whatever may be the cause and\nthe import of these extraordinary occurrences,' added the Count, 'time\nonly can explain them. I shall keep a wary eye upon all that passes in\nthe chateau, and shall pursue every possible means of discovering the\nfate of Ludovico. Meanwhile, we must be prudent and be silent. I will\nmyself watch in the north chambers, but of this we will say nothing,\ntill the night arrives, when I purpose doing so.'\n\nThe Count then sent for Dorothee, and required of her also a promise of\nsilence, concerning what she had already, or might in future witness of\nan extraordinary nature; and this ancient servant now related to him the\nparticulars of the Marchioness de Villeroi's death, with some of which\nhe appeared to be already acquainted, while by others he was evidently\nsurprised and agitated. After listening to this narrative, the Count\nretired to his closet, where he remained alone for several hours;\nand, when he again appeared, the solemnity of his manner surprised and\nalarmed Emily, but she gave no utterance to her thoughts.\n\nOn the week following the disappearance of Ludovico, all the Count's\nguests took leave of him, except the Baron, his son Mons. St. Foix, and\nEmily; the latter of whom was soon after embarrassed and distressed by\nthe arrival of another visitor, Mons. Du Pont, which made her determine\nupon withdrawing to her convent immediately. The delight, that appeared\nin his countenance, when he met her, told that he brought back the\nsame ardour of passion, which had formerly banished him from\nChateau-le-Blanc. He was received with reserve by Emily, and with\npleasure by the Count, who presented him to her with a smile, that\nseemed intended to plead his cause, and who did not hope the less for\nhis friend, from the embarrassment she betrayed.\n\nBut M. Du Pont, with truer sympathy, seemed to understand her manner,\nand his countenance quickly lost its vivacity, and sunk into the languor\nof despondency.\n\nOn the following day, however, he sought an opportunity of declaring\nthe purport of his visit, and renewed his suit; a declaration, which was\nreceived with real concern by Emily, who endeavoured to lessen the pain\nshe might inflict by a second rejection, with assurances of esteem\nand friendship; yet she left him in a state of mind, that claimed and\nexcited her tenderest compassion; and, being more sensible than ever\nof the impropriety of remaining longer at the chateau, she immediately\nsought the Count, and communicated to him her intention of returning to\nthe convent.\n\n'My dear Emily,' said he 'I observe, with extreme concern, the illusion\nyou are encouraging--an illusion common to young and sensible minds.\nYour heart has received a severe shock; you believe you can never\nentirely recover it, and you will encourage this belief, till the habit\nof indulging sorrow will subdue the strength of your mind, and discolour\nyour future views with melancholy and regret. Let me dissipate this\nillusion, and awaken you to a sense of your danger.'\n\nEmily smiled mournfully, 'I know what you would say, my dear sir,' said\nshe, 'and am prepared to answer you. I feel, that my heart can never\nknow a second affection; and that I must never hope even to recover its\ntranquillity--if I suffer myself to enter into a second engagement.'\n\n'I know, that you feel all this,' replied the Count; 'and I know, also,\nthat time will overcome these feelings, unless you cherish them in\nsolitude, and, pardon me, with romantic tenderness. Then, indeed, time\nwill only confirm habit. I am particularly empowered to speak on this\nsubject, and to sympathize in your sufferings,' added the Count, with\nan air of solemnity, 'for I have known what it is to love, and to lament\nthe object of my love. Yes,' continued he, while his eyes filled with\ntears, 'I have suffered!--but those times have passed away--long passed!\nand I can now look back upon them without emotion.'\n\n'My dear sir,' said Emily, timidly, 'what mean those tears?--they speak,\nI fear, another language--they plead for me.'\n\n'They are weak tears, for they are useless ones,' replied the Count,\ndrying them, 'I would have you superior to such weakness. These,\nhowever, are only faint traces of a grief, which, if it had not been\nopposed by long continued effort, might have led me to the verge\nof madness! Judge, then, whether I have not cause to warn you of an\nindulgence, which may produce so terrible an effect, and which must\ncertainly, if not opposed, overcloud the years, that otherwise might\nbe happy. M. Du Pont is a sensible and amiable man, who has long\nbeen tenderly attached to you; his family and fortune are\nunexceptionable;--after what I have said, it is unnecessary to add, that\nI should rejoice in your felicity, and that I think M. Du Pont would\npromote it. Do not weep, Emily,' continued the Count, taking her hand,\n'there IS happiness reserved for you.'\n\nHe was silent a moment; and then added, in a firmer voice, 'I do not\nwish, that you should make a violent effort to overcome your feelings;\nall I, at present, ask, is, that you will check the thoughts, that would\nlead you to a remembrance of the past; that you will suffer your mind to\nbe engaged by present objects; that you will allow yourself to believe\nit possible you may yet be happy; and that you will sometimes think\nwith complacency of poor Du Pont, and not condemn him to the state of\ndespondency, from which, my dear Emily, I am endeavouring to withdraw\nyou.'\n\n'Ah! my dear sir,' said Emily, while her tears still fell, 'do not\nsuffer the benevolence of your wishes to mislead Mons. Du Pont with\nan expectation that I can ever accept his hand. If I understand my own\nheart, this never can be; your instruction I can obey in almost every\nother particular, than that of adopting a contrary belief.'\n\n'Leave me to understand your heart,' replied the Count, with a faint\nsmile. 'If you pay me the compliment to be guided by my advice in\nother instances, I will pardon your incredulity, respecting your future\nconduct towards Mons. Du Pont. I will not even press you to remain\nlonger at the chateau than your own satisfaction will permit; but though\nI forbear to oppose your present retirement, I shall urge the claims of\nfriendship for your future visits.'\n\nTears of gratitude mingled with those of tender regret, while Emily\nthanked the Count for the many instances of friendship she had received\nfrom him; promised to be directed by his advice upon every subject but\none, and assured him of the pleasure, with which she should, at some\nfuture period, accept the invitation of the Countess and himself--If\nMons. Du Pont was not at the chateau.\n\nThe Count smiled at this condition. 'Be it so,' said he, 'meanwhile the\nconvent is so near the chateau, that my daughter and I shall often\nvisit you; and if, sometimes, we should dare to bring you another\nvisitor--will you forgive us?'\n\nEmily looked distressed, and remained silent.\n\n'Well,' rejoined the Count, 'I will pursue this subject no further, and\nmust now entreat your forgiveness for having pressed it thus far. You\nwill, however, do me the justice to believe, that I have been urged only\nby a sincere regard for your happiness, and that of my amiable friend\nMons. Du Pont.'\n\nEmily, when she left the Count, went to mention her intended departure\nto the Countess, who opposed it with polite expressions of regret; after\nwhich, she sent a note to acquaint the lady abbess, that she should\nreturn to the convent; and thither she withdrew on the evening of the\nfollowing day. M. Du Pont, in extreme regret, saw her depart, while the\nCount endeavoured to cheer him with a hope, that Emily would sometimes\nregard him with a more favourable eye.\n\nShe was pleased to find herself once more in the tranquil retirement\nof the convent, where she experienced a renewal of all the maternal\nkindness of the abbess, and of the sisterly attentions of the nuns. A\nreport of the late extraordinary occurrence at the chateau had already\nreached them, and, after supper, on the evening of her arrival, it\nwas the subject of conversation in the convent parlour, where she was\nrequested to mention some particulars of that unaccountable event. Emily\nwas guarded in her conversation on this subject, and briefly related a\nfew circumstances concerning Ludovico, whose disappearance, her auditors\nalmost unanimously agreed, had been effected by supernatural means.\n\n'A belief had so long prevailed,' said a nun, who was called sister\nFrances, 'that the chateau was haunted, that I was surprised, when I\nheard the Count had the temerity to inhabit it. Its former possessor,\nI fear, had some deed of conscience to atone for; let us hope, that the\nvirtues of its present owner will preserve him from the punishment due\nto the errors of the last, if, indeed, he was a criminal.'\n\n'Of what crime, then, was he suspected?' said a Mademoiselle Feydeau, a\nboarder at the convent.\n\n'Let us pray for his soul!' said a nun, who had till now sat in silent\nattention. 'If he was criminal, his punishment in this world was\nsufficient.'\n\nThere was a mixture of wildness and solemnity in her manner of\ndelivering this, which struck Emily exceedingly; but Mademoiselle\nrepeated her question, without noticing the solemn eagerness of the nun.\n\n'I dare not presume to say what was his crime,' replied sister Frances;\n'but I have heard many reports of an extraordinary nature, respecting\nthe late Marquis de Villeroi, and among others, that, soon after the\ndeath of his lady, he quitted Chateau-le-Blanc, and never afterwards\nreturned to it. I was not here at the time, so I can only mention it\nfrom report, and so many years have passed since the Marchioness died,\nthat few of our sisterhood, I believe, can do more.'\n\n'But I can,' said the nun, who had before spoke, and whom they called\nsister Agnes.\n\n'You then,' said Mademoiselle Feydeau, 'are possibly acquainted with\ncircumstances, that enable you to judge, whether he was criminal or not,\nand what was the crime imputed to him.'\n\n'I am,' replied the nun; 'but who shall dare to scrutinize my\nthoughts--who shall dare to pluck out my opinion? God only is his judge,\nand to that judge he is gone!'\n\nEmily looked with surprise at sister Frances, who returned her a\nsignificant glance.\n\n'I only requested your opinion,' said Mademoiselle Feydeau, mildly; 'if\nthe subject is displeasing to you, I will drop it.'\n\n'Displeasing!'--said the nun, with emphasis.--'We are idle talkers;\nwe do not weigh the meaning of the words we use; DISPLEASING is a poor\nword. I will go pray.' As she said this she rose from her seat, and with\na profound sigh quitted the room.\n\n'What can be the meaning of this?' said Emily, when she was gone.\n\n'It is nothing extraordinary,' replied sister Frances, 'she is often\nthus; but she had no meaning in what she says. Her intellects are at\ntimes deranged. Did you never see her thus before?'\n\n'Never,' said Emily. 'I have, indeed, sometimes, thought, that there was\nthe melancholy of madness in her look, but never before perceived it in\nher speech. Poor soul, I will pray for her!'\n\n'Your prayers then, my daughter, will unite with ours,' observed the\nlady abbess, 'she has need of them.'\n\n'Dear lady,' said Mademoiselle Feydeau, addressing the abbess, 'what is\nyour opinion of the late Marquis? The strange circumstances, that have\noccurred at the chateau, have so much awakened my curiosity, that I\nshall be pardoned the question. What was his imputed crime, and what the\npunishment, to which sister Agnes alluded?'\n\n'We must be cautious of advancing our opinion,' said the abbess, with\nan air of reserve, mingled with solemnity, 'we must be cautious of\nadvancing our opinion on so delicate a subject. I will not take upon me\nto pronounce, that the late Marquis was criminal, or to say what was\nthe crime of which he was suspected; but, concerning the punishment our\ndaughter Agnes hinted, I know of none he suffered. She probably alluded\nto the severe one, which an exasperated conscience can inflict. Beware,\nmy children, of incurring so terrible a punishment--it is the purgatory\nof this life! The late Marchioness I knew well; she was a pattern to\nsuch as live in the world; nay, our sacred order need not have blushed\nto copy her virtues! Our holy convent received her mortal part; her\nheavenly spirit, I doubt not, ascended to its sanctuary!'\n\nAs the abbess spoke this, the last bell of vespers struck up, and\nshe rose. 'Let us go, my children,' said she, 'and intercede for the\nwretched; let us go and confess our sins, and endeavour to purify our\nsouls for the heaven, to which SHE is gone!'\n\nEmily was affected by the solemnity of this exhortation, and,\nremembering her father, 'The heaven, to which HE, too, is gone!' said\nshe, faintly, as she suppressed her sighs, and followed the abbess and\nthe nuns to the chapel.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII\n\n\n Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd,\n Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell,\n Be thy intents wicked, or charitable,\n\n I will speak to thee.\n     HAMLET\n\nCount de Villefort, at length, received a letter from the advocate at\nAvignon, encouraging Emily to assert her claim to the estates of the\nlate Madame Montoni; and, about the same time, a messenger arrived from\nMonsieur Quesnel with intelligence, that made an appeal to the law on\nthis subject unnecessary, since it appeared, that the only person, who\ncould have opposed her claim, was now no more. A friend of Monsieur\nQuesnel, who resided at Venice, had sent him an account of the death\nof Montoni who had been brought to trial with Orsino, as his supposed\naccomplice in the murder of the Venetian nobleman. Orsino was found\nguilty, condemned and executed upon the wheel, but, nothing being\ndiscovered to criminate Montoni, and his colleagues, on this charge,\nthey were all released, except Montoni, who, being considered by the\nsenate as a very dangerous person, was, for other reasons, ordered again\ninto confinement, where, it was said, he had died in a doubtful and\nmysterious manner, and not without suspicion of having been poisoned.\nThe authority, from which M. Quesnel had received this information,\nwould not allow him to doubt its truth, and he told Emily, that she had\nnow only to lay claim to the estates of her late aunt, to secure them,\nand added, that he would himself assist in the necessary forms of this\nbusiness. The term, for which La Vallee had been let being now also\nnearly expired, he acquainted her with the circumstance, and advised her\nto take the road thither, through Tholouse, where he promised to meet\nher, and where it would be proper for her to take possession of the\nestates of the late Madame Montoni; adding, that he would spare her\nany difficulties, that might occur on that occasion from the want of\nknowledge on the subject, and that he believed it would be necessary for\nher to be at Tholouse, in about three weeks from the present time.\n\nAn increase of fortune seemed to have awakened this sudden kindness in\nM. Quesnel towards his niece, and it appeared, that he entertained more\nrespect for the rich heiress, than he had ever felt compassion for the\npoor and unfriended orphan.\n\nThe pleasure, with which she received this intelligence, was clouded\nwhen she considered, that he, for whose sake she had once regretted\nthe want of fortune, was no longer worthy of sharing it with her; but,\nremembering the friendly admonition of the Count, she checked this\nmelancholy reflection, and endeavoured to feel only gratitude for\nthe unexpected good, that now attended her; while it formed no\ninconsiderable part of her satisfaction to know, that La Vallee, her\nnative home, which was endeared to her by it's having been the residence\nof her parents, would soon be restored to her possession. There she\nmeant to fix her future residence, for, though it could not be compared\nwith the chateau at Tholouse, either for extent, or magnificence, its\npleasant scenes and the tender remembrances, that haunted them, had\nclaims upon her heart, which she was not inclined to sacrifice to\nostentation. She wrote immediately to thank M. Quesnel for the active\ninterest he took in her concerns, and to say, that she would meet him at\nTholouse at the appointed time.\n\nWhen Count de Villefort, with Blanche, came to the convent to give\nEmily the advice of the advocate, he was informed of the contents of\nM. Quesnel's letter, and gave her his sincere congratulations, on\nthe occasion; but she observed, that, when the first expression\nof satisfaction had faded from his countenance, an unusual gravity\nsucceeded, and she scarcely hesitated to enquire its cause.\n\n'It has no new occasion,' replied the Count; 'I am harassed and\nperplexed by the confusion, into which my family is thrown by their\nfoolish superstition. Idle reports are floating round me, which I can\nneither admit to be true, or prove to be false; and I am, also, very\nanxious about the poor fellow, Ludovico, concerning whom I have not been\nable to obtain information. Every part of the chateau and every part of\nthe neighbourhood, too, has, I believe, been searched, and I know not\nwhat further can be done, since I have already offered large rewards\nfor the discovery of him. The keys of the north apartment I have not\nsuffered to be out of my possession, since he disappeared, and I mean to\nwatch in those chambers, myself, this very night.'\n\nEmily, seriously alarmed for the Count, united her entreaties with those\nof the Lady Blanche, to dissuade him from his purpose.\n\n'What should I fear?' said he. 'I have no faith in supernatural combats,\nand for human opposition I shall be prepared; nay, I will even promise\nnot to watch alone.'\n\n'But who, dear sir, will have courage enough to watch with you?' said\nEmily.\n\n'My son,' replied the Count. 'If I am not carried off in the night,'\nadded he, smiling, 'you shall hear the result of my adventure,\ntomorrow.'\n\nThe Count and Lady Blanche, shortly afterwards, took leave of Emily, and\nreturned to the chateau, where he informed Henri of his intention, who,\nnot without some secret reluctance, consented to be the partner of his\nwatch; and, when the design was mentioned after supper, the Countess was\nterrified, and the Baron, and M. Du Pont joined with her in entreating,\nthat he would not tempt his fate, as Ludovico had done. 'We know not,'\nadded the Baron, 'the nature, or the power of an evil spirit; and\nthat such a spirit haunts those chambers can now, I think, scarcely be\ndoubted. Beware, my lord, how you provoke its vengeance, since it has\nalready given us one terrible example of its malice. I allow it may be\nprobable, that the spirits of the dead are permitted to return to the\nearth only on occasions of high import; but the present import may be\nyour destruction.'\n\nThe Count could not forbear smiling; 'Do you think then, Baron,' said\nhe, 'that my destruction is of sufficient importance to draw back\nto earth the soul of the departed? Alas! my good friend, there is no\noccasion for such means to accomplish the destruction of any individual.\nWherever the mystery rests, I trust I shall, this night, be able to\ndetect it. You know I am not superstitious.'\n\n'I know that you are incredulous,' interrupted the Baron.\n\n'Well, call it what you will, I mean to say, that, though you know I am\nfree from superstition--if any thing supernatural has appeared, I doubt\nnot it will appear to me, and if any strange event hangs over my house,\nor if any extraordinary transaction has formerly been connected with it,\nI shall probably be made acquainted with it. At all events I will invite\ndiscovery; and, that I may be equal to a mortal attack, which in good\ntruth, my friend, is what I most expect, I shall take care to be well\narmed.'\n\nThe Count took leave of his family, for the night, with an assumed\ngaiety, which but ill concealed the anxiety, that depressed his spirits,\nand retired to the north apartments, accompanied by his son and followed\nby the Baron, M. Du Pont and some of the domestics, who all bade him\ngood night at the outer door. In these chambers every thing appeared\nas when he had last been here; even in the bed-room no alteration was\nvisible, where he lighted his own fire, for none of the domestics could\nbe prevailed upon to venture thither. After carefully examining the\nchamber and the oriel, the Count and Henri drew their chairs upon the\nhearth, set a bottle of wine and a lamp before them, laid their swords\nupon the table, and, stirring the wood into a blaze, began to converse\non indifferent topics. But Henri was often silent and abstracted, and\nsometimes threw a glance of mingled awe and curiosity round the gloomy\napartment; while the Count gradually ceased to converse, and sat either\nlost in thought, or reading a volume of Tacitus, which he had brought to\nbeguile the tediousness of the night.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX\n\n\n Give thy thoughts no tongue.\n     SHAKESPEARE\n\nThe Baron St. Foix, whom anxiety for his friend had kept awake, rose\nearly to enquire the event of the night, when, as he passed the Count's\ncloset, hearing steps within, he knocked at the door, and it was opened\nby his friend himself. Rejoicing to see him in safety, and curious to\nlearn the occurrences of the night, he had not immediately leisure to\nobserve the unusual gravity, that overspread the features of the Count,\nwhose reserved answers first occasioned him to notice it. The Count,\nthen smiling, endeavoured to treat the subject of his curiosity with\nlevity, but the Baron was serious, and pursued his enquiries so closely,\nthat the Count, at length, resuming his gravity, said, 'Well, my friend,\npress the subject no further, I entreat you; and let me request\nalso, that you will hereafter be silent upon any thing you may think\nextraordinary in my future conduct. I do not scruple to tell you, that I\nam unhappy, and that the watch of the last night has not assisted me to\ndiscover Ludovico; upon every occurrence of the night you must excuse my\nreserve.'\n\n'But where is Henri?' said the Baron, with surprise and disappointment\nat this denial.\n\n'He is well in his own apartment,' replied the Count. 'You will not\nquestion him on this topic, my friend, since you know my wish.'\n\n'Certainly not,' said the Baron, somewhat chagrined, 'since it would\nbe displeasing to you; but methinks, my friend, you might rely on my\ndiscretion, and drop this unusual reserve. However, you must allow me to\nsuspect, that you have seen reason to become a convert to my system, and\nare no longer the incredulous knight you lately appeared to be.'\n\n'Let us talk no more upon this subject,' said the Count; 'you may be\nassured, that no ordinary circumstance has imposed this silence upon me\ntowards a friend, whom I have called so for near thirty years; and\nmy present reserve cannot make you question either my esteem, or the\nsincerity of my friendship.'\n\n'I will not doubt either,' said the Baron, 'though you must allow me to\nexpress my surprise, at this silence.'\n\n'To me I will allow it,' replied the Count, 'but I earnestly entreat\nthat you will forbear to notice it to my family, as well as every thing\nremarkable you may observe in my conduct towards them.'\n\nThe Baron readily promised this, and, after conversing for some time on\ngeneral topics, they descended to the breakfast-room, where the Count\nmet his family with a cheerful countenance, and evaded their enquiries\nby employing light ridicule, and assuming an air of uncommon gaiety,\nwhile he assured them, that they need not apprehend any evil from the\nnorth chambers, since Henri and himself had been permitted to return\nfrom them in safety.\n\nHenri, however, was less successful in disguising his feelings. From his\ncountenance an expression of terror was not entirely faded; he was\noften silent and thoughtful, and when he attempted to laugh at the eager\nenquiries of Mademoiselle Bearn, it was evidently only an attempt.\n\nIn the evening, the Count called, as he had promised, at the convent,\nand Emily was surprised to perceive a mixture of playful ridicule and\nof reserve in his mention of the north apartment. Of what had occurred\nthere, however, he said nothing, and, when she ventured to remind him\nof his promise to tell her the result of his enquiries, and to ask if\nhe had received any proof, that those chambers were haunted, his look\nbecame solemn, for a moment, then, seeming to recollect himself, he\nsmiled, and said, 'My dear Emily, do not suffer my lady abbess to infect\nyour good understanding with these fancies; she will teach you to expect\na ghost in every dark room. But believe me,' added he, with a profound\nsigh, 'the apparition of the dead comes not on light, or sportive\nerrands, to terrify, or to surprise the timid.' He paused, and fell into\na momentary thoughtfulness, and then added, 'We will say no more on this\nsubject.'\n\nSoon after, he took leave, and, when Emily joined some of the nuns, she\nwas surprised to find them acquainted with a circumstance, which she\nhad carefully avoided to mention, and expressing their admiration of\nhis intrepidity in having dared to pass a night in the apartment, whence\nLudovico had disappeared; for she had not considered with what rapidity\na tale of wonder circulates. The nuns had acquired their information\nfrom peasants, who brought fruit to the monastery, and whose whole\nattention had been fixed, since the disappearance of Ludovico, on what\nwas passing in the castle.\n\nEmily listened in silence to the various opinions of the nuns,\nconcerning the conduct of the Count, most of whom condemned it as rash\nand presumptuous, affirming, that it was provoking the vengeance of an\nevil spirit, thus to intrude upon its haunts.\n\nSister Frances contended, that the Count had acted with the bravery of a\nvirtuous mind. He knew himself guiltless of aught, that should provoke a\ngood spirit, and did not fear the spells of an evil one, since he could\nclaim the protection of an higher Power, of Him, who can command the\nwicked, and will protect the innocent.\n\n'The guilty cannot claim that protection!' said sister Agnes, 'let the\nCount look to his conduct, that he do not forfeit his claim! Yet who is\nhe, that shall dare to call himself innocent!--all earthly innocence is\nbut comparative. Yet still how wide asunder are the extremes of guilt,\nand to what an horrible depth may we fall! Oh!'--\n\nThe nun, as she concluded, uttered a shuddering sigh, that startled\nEmily, who, looking up, perceived the eyes of Agnes fixed on hers,\nafter which the sister rose, took her hand, gazed earnestly upon her\ncountenance, for some moments, in silence, and then said,\n\n'You are young--you are innocent! I mean you are yet innocent of any\ngreat crime!--But you have passions in your heart,--scorpions; they\nsleep now--beware how you awaken them!--they will sting you, even unto\ndeath!'\n\nEmily, affected by these words and by the solemnity, with which they\nwere delivered, could not suppress her tears.\n\n'Ah! is it so?' exclaimed Agnes, her countenance softening from its\nsternness--'so young, and so unfortunate! We are sisters, then indeed.\nYet, there is no bond of kindness among the guilty,' she added, while\nher eyes resumed their wild expression, 'no gentleness,--no peace, no\nhope! I knew them all once--my eyes could weep--but now they burn, for\nnow, my soul is fixed, and fearless!--I lament no more!'\n\n'Rather let us repent, and pray,' said another nun. 'We are taught to\nhope, that prayer and penitence will work our salvation. There is hope\nfor all who repent!'\n\n'Who repent and turn to the true faith,' observed sister Frances.\n\n'For all but me!' replied Agnes solemnly, who paused, and then abruptly\nadded, 'My head burns, I believe I am not well. O! could I strike from\nmy memory all former scenes--the figures, that rise up, like furies, to\ntorment me!--I see them, when I sleep, and, when I am awake, they are\nstill before my eyes! I see them now--now!'\n\nShe stood in a fixed attitude of horror, her straining eyes moving\nslowly round the room, as if they followed something. One of the nuns\ngently took her hand, to lead her from the parlour. Agnes became calm,\ndrew her other hand across her eyes, looked again, and, sighing deeply,\nsaid, 'They are gone--they are gone! I am feverish, I know not what I\nsay. I am thus, sometimes, but it will go off again, I shall soon be\nbetter. Was not that the vesper-bell?'\n\n'No,' replied Frances, 'the evening service is passed. Let Margaret lead\nyou to your cell.'\n\n'You are right,' replied sister Agnes, 'I shall be better there. Good\nnight, my sisters, remember me in your orisons.'\n\nWhen they had withdrawn, Frances, observing Emily's emotion, said, 'Do\nnot be alarmed, our sister is often thus deranged, though I have not\nlately seen her so frantic; her usual mood is melancholy. This fit has\nbeen coming on, for several days; seclusion and the customary treatment\nwill restore her.'\n\n'But how rationally she conversed, at first!' observed Emily, 'her ideas\nfollowed each other in perfect order.'\n\n'Yes,' replied the nun, 'this is nothing new; nay, I have sometimes\nknown her argue not only with method, but with acuteness, and then, in a\nmoment, start off into madness.'\n\n'Her conscience seems afflicted,' said Emily, 'did you ever hear what\ncircumstance reduced her to this deplorable condition?'\n\n'I have,' replied the nun, who said no more till Emily repeated the\nquestion, when she added in a low voice, and looking significantly\ntowards the other boarders, 'I cannot tell you now, but, if you think it\nworth your while, come to my cell, to-night, when our sisterhood are at\nrest, and you shall hear more; but remember we rise to midnight prayers,\nand come either before, or after midnight.'\n\nEmily promised to remember, and, the abbess soon after appearing, they\nspoke no more of the unhappy nun.\n\nThe Count meanwhile, on his return home, had found M. Du Pont in one\nof those fits of despondency, which his attachment to Emily frequently\noccasioned him, an attachment, that had subsisted too long to be easily\nsubdued, and which had already outlived the opposition of his friends.\nM. Du Pont had first seen Emily in Gascony, during the lifetime of his\nparent, who, on discovering his son's partiality for Mademoiselle St.\nAubert, his inferior in point of fortune, forbade him to declare it to\nher family, or to think of her more. During the life of his father, he\nhad observed the first command, but had found it impracticable to obey\nthe second, and had, sometimes, soothed his passion by visiting her\nfavourite haunts, among which was the fishing-house, where, once or\ntwice, he addressed her in verse, concealing his name, in obedience to\nthe promise he had given his father. There too he played the pathetic\nair, to which she had listened with such surprise and admiration; and\nthere he found the miniature, that had since cherished a passion fatal\nto his repose. During his expedition into Italy, his father died; but\nhe received his liberty at a moment, when he was the least enabled to\nprofit by it, since the object, that rendered it most valuable, was\nno longer within the reach of his vows. By what accident he discovered\nEmily, and assisted to release her from a terrible imprisonment, has\nalready appeared, and also the unavailing hope, with which he then\nencouraged his love, and the fruitless efforts, that he had since made\nto overcome it.\n\nThe Count still endeavoured, with friendly zeal, to sooth him with a\nbelief, that patience, perseverance and prudence would finally obtain\nfor him happiness and Emily: 'Time,' said he, 'will wear away the\nmelancholy impression, which disappointment has left on her mind, and\nshe will be sensible of your merit. Your services have already awakened\nher gratitude, and your sufferings her pity; and trust me, my friend, in\na heart so sensible as hers, gratitude and pity lead to love. When\nher imagination is rescued from its present delusion, she will readily\naccept the homage of a mind like yours.'\n\nDu Pont sighed, while he listened to these words; and, endeavouring to\nhope what his friend believed, he willingly yielded to an invitation to\nprolong his visit at the chateau, which we now leave for the monastery\nof St. Claire.\n\nWhen the nuns had retired to rest, Emily stole to her appointment with\nsister Frances, whom she found in her cell, engaged in prayer, before a\nlittle table, where appeared the image she was addressing, and, above,\nthe dim lamp that gave light to the place. Turning her eyes, as the door\nopened, she beckoned to Emily to come in, who, having done so, seated\nherself in silence beside the nun's little mattress of straw, till\nher orisons should conclude. The latter soon rose from her knees, and,\ntaking down the lamp and placing it on the table, Emily perceived\nthere a human scull and bones, lying beside an hour-glass; but the nun,\nwithout observing her emotion, sat down on the mattress by her, saying,\n'Your curiosity, sister, has made you punctual, but you have nothing\nremarkable to hear in the history of poor Agnes, of whom I avoided\nto speak in the presence of my lay-sisters, only because I would not\npublish her crime to them.'\n\n'I shall consider your confidence in me as a favour,' said Emily, 'and\nwill not misuse it.'\n\n'Sister Agnes,' resumed the nun, 'is of a noble family, as the dignity\nof her air must already have informed you, but I will not dishonour\ntheir name so much as to reveal it. Love was the occasion of her crime\nand of her madness. She was beloved by a gentleman of inferior fortune,\nand her father, as I have heard, bestowing her on a nobleman, whom\nshe disliked, an ill-governed passion proved her destruction.--Every\nobligation of virtue and of duty was forgotten, and she prophaned her\nmarriage vows; but her guilt was soon detected, and she would have\nfallen a sacrifice to the vengeance of her husband, had not her father\ncontrived to convey her from his power. By what means he did this,\nI never could learn; but he secreted her in this convent, where he\nafterwards prevailed with her to take the veil, while a report was\ncirculated in the world, that she was dead, and the father, to save his\ndaughter, assisted the rumour, and employed such means as induced her\nhusband to believe she had become a victim to his jealousy. You look\nsurprised,' added the nun, observing Emily's countenance; 'I allow the\nstory is uncommon, but not, I believe, without a parallel.'\n\n'Pray proceed,' said Emily, 'I am interested.'\n\n'The story is already told,' resumed the nun, 'I have only to mention,\nthat the long struggle, which Agnes suffered, between love, remorse\nand a sense of the duties she had taken upon herself in becoming of our\norder, at length unsettled her reason. At first, she was frantic and\nmelancholy by quick alternatives; then, she sunk into a deep and settled\nmelancholy, which still, however, has, at times, been interrupted by\nfits of wildness, and, of late, these have again been frequent.'\n\nEmily was affected by the history of the sister, some parts of whose\nstory brought to her remembrance that of the Marchioness de Villeroi,\nwho had also been compelled by her father to forsake the object of her\naffections, for a nobleman of his choice; but, from what Dorothee had\nrelated, there appeared no reason to suppose, that she had escaped the\nvengeance of a jealous husband, or to doubt for a moment the innocence\nof her conduct. But Emily, while she sighed over the misery of the\nnun, could not forbear shedding a few tears to the misfortunes of the\nMarchioness; and, when she returned to the mention of sister Agnes, she\nasked Frances if she remembered her in her youth, and whether she was\nthen beautiful.\n\n'I was not here at the time, when she took the vows,' replied Frances,\n'which is so long ago, that few of the present sisterhood, I believe,\nwere witnesses of the ceremony; nay, ever our lady mother did not then\npreside over the convent: but I can remember, when sister Agnes was a\nvery beautiful woman. She retains that air of high rank, which always\ndistinguished her, but her beauty, you must perceive, is fled; I can\nscarcely discover even a vestige of the loveliness, that once animated\nher features.'\n\n'It is strange,' said Emily, 'but there are moments, when her\ncountenance has appeared familiar to my memory! You will think me\nfanciful, and I think myself so, for I certainly never saw sister Agnes,\nbefore I came to this convent, and I must, therefore, have seen\nsome person, whom she strongly resembles, though of this I have no\nrecollection.'\n\n'You have been interested by the deep melancholy of her countenance,'\nsaid Frances, 'and its impression has probably deluded your imagination;\nfor I might as reasonably think I perceive a likeness between you and\nAgnes, as you, that you have seen her any where but in this convent,\nsince this has been her place of refuge, for nearly as many years as\nmake your age.'\n\n'Indeed!' said Emily.\n\n'Yes,' rejoined Frances, 'and why does that circumstance excite your\nsurprise?'\n\nEmily did not appear to notice this question, but remained thoughtful,\nfor a few moments, and then said, 'It was about that same period that\nthe Marchioness de Villeroi expired.'\n\n'That is an odd remark,' said Frances.\n\nEmily, recalled from her reverie, smiled, and gave the conversation\nanother turn, but it soon came back to the subject of the unhappy nun,\nand Emily remained in the cell of sister Frances, till the mid-night\nbell aroused her; when, apologizing for having interrupted the sister's\nrepose, till this late hour, they quitted the cell together. Emily\nreturned to her chamber, and the nun, bearing a glimmering taper, went\nto her devotion in the chapel.\n\nSeveral days followed, during which Emily saw neither the Count, or any\nof his family; and, when, at length, he appeared, she remarked, with\nconcern, that his air was unusually disturbed.\n\n'My spirits are harassed,' said he, in answer to her anxious enquiries,\n'and I mean to change my residence, for a little while, an experiment,\nwhich, I hope, will restore my mind to its usual tranquillity. My\ndaughter and myself will accompany the Baron St. Foix to his chateau. It\nlies in a valley of the Pyrenees, that opens towards Gascony, and I have\nbeen thinking, Emily, that, when you set out for La Vallee, we may go\npart of the way together; it would be a satisfaction to me to guard you\ntowards your home.'\n\nShe thanked the Count for his friendly consideration, and lamented, that\nthe necessity for her going first to Tholouse would render this plan\nimpracticable. 'But, when you are at the Baron's residence,' she added,\n'you will be only a short journey from La Vallee, and I think, sir, you\nwill not leave the country without visiting me; it is unnecessary to say\nwith what pleasure I should receive you and the Lady Blanche.'\n\n'I do not doubt it,' replied the Count, 'and I will not deny myself and\nBlanche the pleasure of visiting you, if your affairs should allow you\nto be at La Vallee, about the time when we can meet you there.'\n\nWhen Emily said that she should hope to see the Countess also, she was\nnot sorry to learn that this lady was going, accompanied by Mademoiselle\nBearn, to pay a visit, for a few weeks, to a family in lower Languedoc.\n\nThe Count, after some further conversation on his intended journey and\non the arrangement of Emily's, took leave; and many days did not succeed\nthis visit, before a second letter from M. Quesnel informed her, that he\nwas then at Tholouse, that La Vallee was at liberty, and that he wished\nher to set off for the former place, where he awaited her arrival, with\nall possible dispatch, since his own affairs pressed him to return\nto Gascony. Emily did not hesitate to obey him, and, having taken an\naffecting leave of the Count's family, in which M. Du Pont was still\nincluded, and of her friends at the convent, she set out for Tholouse,\nattended by the unhappy Annette, and guarded by a steady servant of the\nCount.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X\n\n\n Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain,\n Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain:\n Awake but one, and lo! what myriads rise!\n Each stamps its image as the other flies!\n     PLEASURES OF MEMORY\n\nEmily pursued her journey, without any accident, along the plains of\nLanguedoc towards the north-west; and, on this her return to Tholouse,\nwhich she had last left with Madame Montoni, she thought much on the\nmelancholy fate of her aunt, who, but for her own imprudence, might now\nhave been living in happiness there! Montoni, too, often rose to her\nfancy, such as she had seen him in his days of triumph, bold, spirited\nand commanding; such also as she had since beheld him in his days of\nvengeance; and now, only a few short months had passed--and he had\nno longer the power, or the will to afflict;--he had become a clod of\nearth, and his life was vanished like a shadow! Emily could have wept at\nhis fate, had she not remembered his crimes; for that of her unfortunate\naunt she did weep, and all sense of her errors was overcome by the\nrecollection of her misfortunes.\n\nOther thoughts and other emotions succeeded, as Emily drew near the\nwell-known scenes of her early love, and considered, that Valancourt was\nlost to her and to himself, for ever. At length, she came to the brow of\nthe hill, whence, on her departure for Italy, she had given a farewell\nlook to this beloved landscape, amongst whose woods and fields she had\nso often walked with Valancourt, and where he was then to inhabit,\nwhen she would be far, far away! She saw, once more, that chain of the\nPyrenees, which overlooked La Vallee, rising, like faint clouds, on the\nhorizon. 'There, too, is Gascony, extended at their feet!' said she,\n'O my father,--my mother! And there, too, is the Garonne!' she added,\ndrying the tears, that obscured her sight,--'and Tholouse, and my aunt's\nmansion--and the groves in her garden!--O my friends! are ye all lost\nto me--must I never, never see ye more!' Tears rushed again to her eyes,\nand she continued to weep, till an abrupt turn in the road had nearly\noccasioned the carriage to overset, when, looking up, she perceived\nanother part of the well-known scene around Tholouse, and all the\nreflections and anticipations, which she had suffered, at the moment,\nwhen she bade it last adieu, came with recollected force to her heart.\nShe remembered how anxiously she had looked forward to the futurity,\nwhich was to decide her happiness concerning Valancourt, and what\ndepressing fears had assailed her; the very words she had uttered, as\nshe withdrew her last look from the prospect, came to her memory. 'Could\nI but be certain,' she had then said, 'that I should ever return, and\nthat Valancourt would still live for me--I should go in peace!'\n\nNow, that futurity, so anxiously anticipated, was arrived, she was\nreturned--but what a dreary blank appeared!--Valancourt no longer\nlived for her! She had no longer even the melancholy satisfaction of\ncontemplating his image in her heart, for he was no longer the same\nValancourt she had cherished there--the solace of many a mournful\nhour, the animating friend, that had enabled her to bear up against the\noppression of Montoni--the distant hope, that had beamed over her gloomy\nprospect! On perceiving this beloved idea to be an illusion of her own\ncreation, Valancourt seemed to be annihilated, and her soul sickened at\nthe blank, that remained. His marriage with a rival, even his death, she\nthought she could have endured with more fortitude, than this discovery;\nfor then, amidst all her grief, she could have looked in secret upon the\nimage of goodness, which her fancy had drawn of him, and comfort would\nhave mingled with her suffering!\n\nDrying her tears, she looked, once more, upon the landscape, which had\nexcited them, and perceived, that she was passing the very bank, where\nshe had taken leave of Valancourt, on the morning of her departure from\nTholouse, and she now saw him, through her returning tears, such as\nhe had appeared, when she looked from the carriage to give him a last\nadieu--saw him leaning mournfully against the high trees, and remembered\nthe fixed look of mingled tenderness and anguish, with which he had then\nregarded her. This recollection was too much for her heart, and she sunk\nback in the carriage, nor once looked up, till it stopped at the gates\nof what was now her own mansion.\n\nThese being opened, and by the servant, to whose care the chateau had\nbeen entrusted, the carriage drove into the court, where, alighting,\nshe hastily passed through the great hall, now silent and solitary, to\na large oak parlour, the common sitting room of the late Madame Montoni,\nwhere, instead of being received by M. Quesnel, she found a letter from\nhim, informing her that business of consequence had obliged him to leave\nTholouse two days before. Emily was, upon the whole, not sorry to be\nspared his presence, since his abrupt departure appeared to indicate the\nsame indifference, with which he had formerly regarded her. This letter\ninformed her, also, of the progress he had made in the settlement of\nher affairs, and concluded with directions, concerning the forms of\nsome business, which remained for her to transact. But M. Quesnel's\nunkindness did not long occupy her thoughts, which returned the\nremembrance of the persons she had been accustomed to see in this\nmansion, and chiefly of the ill-guided and unfortunate Madame Montoni.\nIn the room, where she now sat, she had breakfasted with her on the\nmorning of their departure for Italy; and the view of it brought most\nforcibly to her recollection all she had herself suffered, at that time,\nand the many gay expectations, which her aunt had formed, respecting\nthe journey before her. While Emily's mind was thus engaged, her eyes\nwandered unconsciously to a large window, that looked upon the garden,\nand here new memorials of the past spoke to her heart, for she saw\nextended before her the very avenue, in which she had parted with\nValancourt, on the eve of her journey; and all the anxiety, the tender\ninterest he had shewn, concerning her future happiness, his earnest\nremonstrances against her committing herself to the power of Montoni,\nand the truth of his affection, came afresh to her memory. At this\nmoment, it appeared almost impossible, that Valancourt could have become\nunworthy of her regard, and she doubted all that she had lately heard to\nhis disadvantage, and even his own words, which had confirmed Count De\nVillefort's report of him. Overcome by the recollections, which the view\nof this avenue occasioned, she turned abruptly from the window, and\nsunk into a chair beside it, where she sat, given up to grief, till the\nentrance of Annette, with coffee, aroused her.\n\n'Dear madam, how melancholy this place looks now,' said Annette, 'to\nwhat it used to do! It is dismal coming home, when there is nobody to\nwelcome one!'\n\nThis was not the moment, in which Emily could bear the remark; her tears\nfell again, and, as soon as she had taken the coffee, she retired to\nher apartment, where she endeavoured to repose her fatigued spirits. But\nbusy memory would still supply her with the visions of former times: she\nsaw Valancourt interesting and benevolent, as he had been wont to appear\nin the days of their early love, and, amidst the scenes, where she had\nbelieved that they should sometimes pass their years together!--but, at\nlength, sleep closed these afflicting scenes from her view.\n\nOn the following morning, serious occupation recovered her from such\nmelancholy reflections; for, being desirous of quitting Tholouse, and of\nhastening on to La Vallee, she made some enquiries into the condition of\nthe estate, and immediately dispatched a part of the necessary business\nconcerning it, according to the directions of Mons. Quesnel. It\nrequired a strong effort to abstract her thoughts from other interests\nsufficiently to attend to this, but she was rewarded for her exertions\nby again experiencing, that employment is the surest antidote to sorrow.\n\nThis day was devoted entirely to business; and, among other concerns,\nshe employed means to learn the situation of all her poor tenants, that\nshe might relieve their wants, or confirm their comforts.\n\nIn the evening, her spirits were so much strengthened, that she thought\nshe could bear to visit the gardens, where she had so often walked with\nValancourt; and, knowing, that, if she delayed to do so, their scenes\nwould only affect her the more, whenever they should be viewed, she took\nadvantage of the present state of her mind, and entered them.\n\nPassing hastily the gate leading from the court into the gardens, she\nhurried up the great avenue, scarcely permitting her memory to dwell for\na moment on the circumstance of her having here parted with Valancourt,\nand soon quitted this for other walks less interesting to her heart.\nThese brought her, at length, to the flight of steps, that led from the\nlower garden to the terrace, on seeing which, she became agitated,\nand hesitated whether to ascend, but, her resolution returning, she\nproceeded.\n\n'Ah!' said Emily, as she ascended, 'these are the same high trees, that\nused to wave over the terrace, and these the same flowery thickets--the\nliburnum, the wild rose, and the cerinthe--which were wont to grow\nbeneath them! Ah! and there, too, on that bank, are the very plants,\nwhich Valancourt so carefully reared!--O, when last I saw them!'--she\nchecked the thought, but could not restrain her tears, and, after\nwalking slowly on for a few moments, her agitation, upon the view of\nthis well-known scene, increased so much, that she was obliged to stop,\nand lean upon the wall of the terrace. It was a mild, and beautiful\nevening. The sun was setting over the extensive landscape, to which his\nbeams, sloping from beneath a dark cloud, that overhung the west,\ngave rich and partial colouring, and touched the tufted summits of the\ngroves, that rose from the garden below, with a yellow gleam. Emily and\nValancourt had often admired together this scene, at the same hour; and\nit was exactly on this spot, that, on the night preceding her departure\nfor Italy, she had listened to his remonstrances against the journey,\nand to the pleadings of passionate affection. Some observations, which\nshe made on the landscape, brought this to her remembrance, and with it\nall the minute particulars of that conversation;--the alarming doubts he\nhad expressed concerning Montoni, doubts, which had since been fatally\nconfirmed; the reasons and entreaties he had employed to prevail with\nher to consent to an immediate marriage; the tenderness of his love,\nthe paroxysms of this grief, and the conviction that he had repeatedly\nexpressed, that they should never meet again in happiness! All these\ncircumstances rose afresh to her mind, and awakened the various emotions\nshe had then suffered. Her tenderness for Valancourt became as powerful\nas in the moments, when she thought, that she was parting with him and\nhappiness together, and when the strength of her mind had enabled her to\ntriumph over present suffering, rather than to deserve the reproach\nof her conscience by engaging in a clandestine marriage.--'Alas!' said\nEmily, as these recollections came to her mind, 'and what have I gained\nby the fortitude I then practised?--am I happy now?--He said, we should\nmeet no more in happiness; but, O! he little thought his own misconduct\nwould separate us, and lead to the very evil he then dreaded!'\n\nHer reflections increased her anguish, while she was compelled to\nacknowledge, that the fortitude she had formerly exerted, if it had\nnot conducted her to happiness, had saved her from irretrievable\nmisfortune--from Valancourt himself! But in these moments she could not\ncongratulate herself on the prudence, that had saved her; she could only\nlament, with bitterest anguish, the circumstances, which had conspired\nto betray Valancourt into a course of life so different from that,\nwhich the virtues, the tastes, and the pursuits of his early years had\npromised; but she still loved him too well to believe, that his\nheart was even now depraved, though his conduct had been criminal. An\nobservation, which had fallen from M. St. Aubert more than once, now\noccurred to her. 'This young man,' said he, speaking of Valancourt, 'has\nnever been at Paris;' a remark, that had surprised her at the time\nit was uttered, but which she now understood, and she exclaimed\nsorrowfully, 'O Valancourt! if such a friend as my father had been with\nyou at Paris--your noble, ingenuous nature would not have fallen!'\n\nThe sun was now set, and, recalling her thoughts from their melancholy\nsubject, she continued her walk; for the pensive shade of twilight was\npleasing to her, and the nightingales from the surrounding groves began\nto answer each other in the long-drawn, plaintive note, which always\ntouched her heart; while all the fragrance of the flowery thickets, that\nbounded the terrace, was awakened by the cool evening air, which floated\nso lightly among their leaves, that they scarcely trembled as it passed.\n\nEmily came, at length, to the steps of the pavilion, that terminated\nthe terrace, and where her last interview with Valancourt, before her\ndeparture from Tholouse, had so unexpectedly taken place. The door was\nnow shut, and she trembled, while she hesitated whether to open it; but\nher wish to see again a place, which had been the chief scene of her\nformer happiness, at length overcoming her reluctance to encounter the\npainful regret it would renew, she entered. The room was obscured by a\nmelancholy shade; but through the open lattices, darkened by the\nhanging foliage of the vines, appeared the dusky landscape, the Garonne\nreflecting the evening light, and the west still glowing. A chair was\nplaced near one of the balconies, as if some person had been sitting\nthere, but the other furniture of the pavilion remained exactly as\nusual, and Emily thought it looked as if it had not once been moved\nsince she set out for Italy. The silent and deserted air of the place\nadded solemnity to her emotions, for she heard only the low whisper\nof the breeze, as it shook the leaves of the vines, and the very faint\nmurmur of the Garonne.\n\nShe seated herself in a chair, near the lattice, and yielded to the\nsadness of her heart, while she recollected the circumstances of her\nparting interview with Valancourt, on this spot. It was here too, that\nshe had passed some of the happiest hours of her life with him, when\nher aunt favoured the connection, for here she had often sat and worked,\nwhile he conversed, or read; and she now well remembered with what\ndiscriminating judgment, with what tempered energy, he used to repeat\nsome of the sublimest passages of their favourite authors; how often he\nwould pause to admire with her their excellence, and with what tender\ndelight he would listen to her remarks, and correct her taste.\n\n'And is it possible,' said Emily, as these recollections returned--'is\nit possible, that a mind, so susceptible of whatever is grand and\nbeautiful, could stoop to low pursuits, and be subdued by frivolous\ntemptations?'\n\nShe remembered how often she had seen the sudden tear start in his eye,\nand had heard his voice tremble with emotion, while he related any great\nor benevolent action, or repeated a sentiment of the same character.\n'And such a mind,' said she, 'such a heart, were to be sacrificed to the\nhabits of a great city!'\n\nThese recollections becoming too painful to be endured, she abruptly\nleft the pavilion, and, anxious to escape from the memorials of her\ndeparted happiness, returned towards the chateau. As she passed along\nthe terrace, she perceived a person, walking, with a slow step, and a\ndejected air, under the trees, at some distance. The twilight, which\nwas now deep, would not allow her to distinguish who it was, and she\nimagined it to be one of the servants, till, the sound of her steps\nseeming to reach him, he turned half round, and she thought she saw\nValancourt!\n\nWhoever it was, he instantly struck among the thickets on the left, and\ndisappeared, while Emily, her eyes fixed on the place, whence he\nhad vanished, and her frame trembling so excessively, that she could\nscarcely support herself, remained, for some moments, unable to quit the\nspot, and scarcely conscious of existence. With her recollection, her\nstrength returned, and she hurried toward the house, where she did not\nventure to enquire who had been in the gardens, lest she should betray\nher emotion; and she sat down alone, endeavouring to recollect the\nfigure, air and features of the person she had just seen. Her view of\nhim, however, had been so transient, and the gloom had rendered it\nso imperfect, that she could remember nothing with exactness; yet the\ngeneral appearance of his figure, and his abrupt departure, made her\nstill believe, that this person was Valancourt. Sometimes, indeed, she\nthought, that her fancy, which had been occupied by the idea of him,\nhad suggested his image to her uncertain sight: but this conjecture was\nfleeting. If it was himself whom she had seen, she wondered much, that\nhe should be at Tholouse, and more, how he had gained admittance into\nthe garden; but as often as her impatience prompted her to enquire\nwhether any stranger had been admitted, she was restrained by an\nunwillingness to betray her doubts; and the evening was passed in\nanxious conjecture, and in efforts to dismiss the subject from her\nthoughts. But, these endeavours were ineffectual, and a thousand\ninconsistent emotions assailed her, whenever she fancied that Valancourt\nmight be near her; now, she dreaded it to be true, and now she feared it\nto be false; and, while she constantly tried to persuade herself, that\nshe wished the person, whom she had seen, might not be Valancourt, her\nheart as constantly contradicted her reason.\n\nThe following day was occupied by the visits of several neighbouring\nfamilies, formerly intimate with Madame Montoni, who came to condole\nwith Emily on her death, to congratulate her upon the acquisition of\nthese estates, and to enquire about Montoni, and concerning the strange\nreports they had heard of her own situation; all which was done with the\nutmost decorum, and the visitors departed with as much composure as they\nhad arrived.\n\nEmily was wearied by these formalities, and disgusted by the subservient\nmanners of many persons, who had thought her scarcely worthy of common\nattention, while she was believed to be a dependant on Madame Montoni.\n\n'Surely,' said she, 'there is some magic in wealth, which can thus make\npersons pay their court to it, when it does not even benefit themselves.\nHow strange it is, that a fool or a knave, with riches, should be\ntreated with more respect by the world, than a good man, or a wise man\nin poverty!'\n\nIt was evening, before she was left alone, and she then wished to have\nrefreshed her spirits in the free air of her garden; but she feared to\ngo thither, lest she should meet again the person, whom she had seen on\nthe preceding night, and he should prove to be Valancourt. The suspense\nand anxiety she suffered, on this subject, she found all her efforts\nunable to controul, and her secret wish to see Valancourt once more,\nthough unseen by him, powerfully prompted her to go, but prudence and\na delicate pride restrained her, and she determined to avoid the\npossibility of throwing herself in his way, by forbearing to visit the\ngardens, for several days.\n\nWhen, after near a week, she again ventured thither, she made Annette\nher companion, and confined her walk to the lower grounds, but often\nstarted as the leaves rustled in the breeze, imagining, that some person\nwas among the thickets; and, at the turn of every alley, she looked\nforward with apprehensive expectation. She pursued her walk thoughtfully\nand silently, for her agitation would not suffer her to converse with\nAnnette, to whom, however, thought and silence were so intolerable, that\nshe did not scruple at length to talk to her mistress.\n\n'Dear madam,' said she, 'why do you start so? one would think you knew\nwhat has happened.'\n\n'What has happened?' said Emily, in a faltering voice, and trying to\ncommand her emotion.\n\n'The night before last, you know, madam'--\n\n'I know nothing, Annette,' replied her lady in a more hurried voice.\n\n'The night before last, madam, there was a robber in the garden.'\n\n'A robber!' said Emily, in an eager, yet doubting tone.\n\n'I suppose he was a robber, madam. What else could he be?'\n\n'Where did you see him, Annette?' rejoined Emily, looking round her, and\nturning back towards the chateau.\n\n'It was not I that saw him, madam, it was Jean the gardener. It was\ntwelve o'clock at night, and, as he was coming across the court to go\nthe back way into the house, what should he see--but somebody walking in\nthe avenue, that fronts the garden gate! So, with that, Jean guessed how\nit was, and he went into the house for his gun.'\n\n'His gun!' exclaimed Emily.\n\n'Yes, madam, his gun; and then he came out into the court to watch him.\nPresently, he sees him come slowly down the avenue, and lean over the\ngarden gate, and look up at the house for a long time; and I warrant he\nexamined it well, and settled what window he should break in at.'\n\n'But the gun,' said Emily--'the gun!'\n\n'Yes, madam, all in good time. Presently, Jean says, the robber opened\nthe gate, and was coming into the court, and then he thought proper to\nask him his business: so he called out again, and bade him say who he\nwas, and what he wanted. But the man would do neither; but turned upon\nhis heel, and passed into the garden again. Jean knew then well enough\nhow it was, and so he fired after him.'\n\n'Fired!' exclaimed Emily.\n\n'Yes, madam, fired off his gun; but, Holy Virgin! what makes you look\nso pale, madam? The man was not killed,--I dare say; but if he was, his\ncomrades carried him off: for, when Jean went in the morning, to look\nfor the body, it was gone, and nothing to be seen but a track of blood\non the ground. Jean followed it, that he might find out where the man\ngot into the garden, but it was lost in the grass, and'--\n\nAnnette was interrupted: for Emily's spirits died away, and she would\nhave fallen to the ground, if the girl had not caught her, and supported\nher to a bench, close to them.\n\nWhen, after a long absence, her senses returned, Emily desired to be\nled to her apartment; and, though she trembled with anxiety to enquire\nfurther on the subject of her alarm, she found herself too ill at\npresent, to dare the intelligence which it was possible she might\nreceive of Valancourt. Having dismissed Annette, that she might weep\nand think at liberty, she endeavoured to recollect the exact air of the\nperson, whom she had seen on the terrace, and still her fancy gave her\nthe figure of Valancourt. She had, indeed, scarcely a doubt, that it was\nhe whom she had seen, and at whom the gardener had fired: for the manner\nof the latter person, as described by Annette, was not that of a robber;\nnor did it appear probable, that a robber would have come alone, to\nbreak into a house so spacious as this.\n\nWhen Emily thought herself sufficiently recovered, to listen to what\nJean might have to relate, she sent for him; but he could inform her of\nno circumstance, that might lead to a knowledge of the person, who\nhad been shot, or of the consequence of the wound; and, after severely\nreprimanding him, for having fired with bullets, and ordering diligent\nenquiry to be made in the neighbourhood for the discovery of the wounded\nperson, she dismissed him, and herself remained in the same state of\nterrible suspense. All the tenderness she had ever felt for Valancourt,\nwas recalled by the sense of his danger; and the more she considered the\nsubject, the more her conviction strengthened, that it was he, who\nhad visited the gardens, for the purpose of soothing the misery of\ndisappointed affection, amidst the scenes of his former happiness.\n\n'Dear madam,' said Annette, when she returned, 'I never saw you so\naffected before! I dare say the man is not killed.'\n\nEmily shuddered, and lamented bitterly the rashness of the gardener in\nhaving fired.\n\n'I knew you would be angry enough about that, madam, or I should have\ntold you before; and he knew so too; for, says he, \"Annette, say nothing\nabout this to my lady. She lies on the other side of the house, so did\nnot hear the gun, perhaps; but she would be angry with me, if she knew,\nseeing there is blood. But then,\" says he, \"how is one to keep the\ngarden clear, if one is afraid to fire at a robber, when one sees him?\"'\n\n'No more of this,' said Emily, 'pray leave me.'\n\nAnnette obeyed, and Emily returned to the agonizing considerations, that\nhad assailed her before, but which she, at length, endeavoured to sooth\nby a new remark. If the stranger was Valancourt, it was certain he had\ncome alone, and it appeared, therefore, that he had been able to quit\nthe gardens, without assistance; a circumstance which did not seem\nprobable, had his wound been dangerous. With this consideration, she\nendeavoured to support herself, during the enquiries, that were making\nby her servants in the neighbourhood; but day after day came, and still\nclosed in uncertainty, concerning this affair: and Emily, suffering in\nsilence, at length, drooped, and sunk under the pressure of her anxiety.\nShe was attacked by a slow fever, and when she yielded to the persuasion\nof Annette to send for medical advice, the physicians prescribed little\nbeside air, gentle exercise and amusement: but how was this last to be\nobtained? She, however, endeavoured to abstract her thoughts from the\nsubject of her anxiety, by employing them in promoting that happiness in\nothers, which she had lost herself; and, when the evening was fine, she\nusually took an airing, including in her ride the cottages of some of\nher tenants, on whose condition she made such observations, as often\nenabled her, unasked, to fulfil their wishes.\n\nHer indisposition and the business she engaged in, relative to this\nestate, had already protracted her stay at Tholouse, beyond the period\nshe had formerly fixed for her departure to La Vallee; and now she\nwas unwilling to leave the only place, where it seemed possible, that\ncertainty could be obtained on the subject of her distress. But the time\nwas come, when her presence was necessary at La Vallee, a letter from\nthe Lady Blanche now informing her, that the Count and herself, being\nthen at the chateau of the Baron St. Foix, purposed to visit her at La\nVallee, on their way home, as soon as they should be informed of her\narrival there. Blanche added, that they made this visit, with the hope\nof inducing her to return with them to Chateau-le-Blanc.\n\nEmily, having replied to the letter of her friend, and said that she\nshould be at La Vallee in a few days, made hasty preparations for the\njourney; and, in thus leaving Tholouse, endeavoured to support herself\nwith a belief, that, if any fatal accident had happened to Valancourt,\nshe must in this interval have heard of it.\n\nOn the evening before her departure, she went to take leave of the\nterrace and the pavilion. The day had been sultry, but a light shower,\nthat fell just before sun-set, had cooled the air, and given that soft\nverdure to the woods and pastures, which is so refreshing to the eye;\nwhile the rain drops, still trembling on the shrubs, glittered in the\nlast yellow gleam, that lighted up the scene, and the air was filled\nwith fragrance, exhaled by the late shower, from herbs and flowers and\nfrom the earth itself. But the lovely prospect, which Emily beheld from\nthe terrace, was no longer viewed by her with delight; she sighed deeply\nas her eye wandered over it, and her spirits were in a state of such\ndejection, that she could not think of her approaching return to La\nVallee, without tears, and seemed to mourn again the death of her\nfather, as if it had been an event of yesterday. Having reached the\npavilion, she seated herself at the open lattice, and, while her\neyes settled on the distant mountains, that overlooked Gascony, still\ngleaming on the horizon, though the sun had now left the plains below,\n'Alas!' said she, 'I return to your long-lost scenes, but shall meet\nno more the parents, that were wont to render them delightful!--no\nmore shall see the smile of welcome, or hear the well-known voice of\nfondness:--all will now be cold and silent in what was once my happy\nhome.'\n\nTears stole down her cheek, as the remembrance of what that home had\nbeen, returned to her; but, after indulging her sorrow for some time,\nshe checked it, accusing herself of ingratitude in forgetting the\nfriends, that she possessed, while she lamented those that were\ndeparted; and she, at length, left the pavilion and the terrace, without\nhaving observed a shadow of Valancourt or of any other person.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI\n\n\n  Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!\n Ah fields belov'd in vain!\n Where once my careless childhood stray'd,\n A stranger yet to pain!\n I feel the gales, that from ye blow,\n A momentary bliss bestow,\n As waving fresh their gladsome wing,\n My weary soul they seem to sooth.\n     GRAY\n\nOn the following morning, Emily left Tholouse at an early hour, and\nreached La Vallee about sun-set. With the melancholy she experienced on\nthe review of a place which had been the residence of her parents, and\nthe scene of her earliest delight, was mingled, after the first shock\nhad subsided, a tender and undescribable pleasure. For time had so far\nblunted the acuteness of her grief, that she now courted every scene,\nthat awakened the memory of her friends; in every room, where she had\nbeen accustomed to see them, they almost seemed to live again; and\nshe felt that La Vallee was still her happiest home. One of the first\napartments she visited, was that, which had been her father's\nlibrary, and here she seated herself in his arm-chair, and, while she\ncontemplated, with tempered resignation, the picture of past times,\nwhich her memory gave, the tears she shed could scarcely be called those\nof grief.\n\nSoon after her arrival, she was surprised by a visit from the venerable\nM. Barreaux, who came impatiently to welcome the daughter of his late\nrespected neighbour, to her long-deserted home. Emily was comforted by\nthe presence of an old friend, and they passed an interesting hour in\nconversing of former times, and in relating some of the circumstances,\nthat had occurred to each, since they parted.\n\nThe evening was so far advanced, when M. Barreaux left Emily, that she\ncould not visit the garden that night; but, on the following morning,\nshe traced its long-regretted scenes with fond impatience; and, as she\nwalked beneath the groves, which her father had planted, and where\nshe had so often sauntered in affectionate conversation with him, his\ncountenance, his smile, even the accents of his voice, returned\nwith exactness to her fancy, and her heart melted to the tender\nrecollections.\n\nThis, too, was his favourite season of the year, at which they had often\ntogether admired the rich and variegated tints of these woods and the\nmagical effect of autumnal lights upon the mountains; and now, the view\nof these circumstances made memory eloquent. As she wandered pensively\non, she fancied the following address\n\n TO AUTUMN\n\n Sweet Autumn! how thy melancholy grace\n Steals on my heart, as through these shades I wind!\n Sooth'd by thy breathing sigh, I fondly trace\n Each lonely image of the pensive mind!\n Lov'd scenes, lov'd friends--long lost! around me rise,\n And wake the melting thought, the tender tear!\n That tear, that thought, which more than mirth I prize--\n Sweet as the gradual tint, that paints thy year!\n Thy farewel smile, with fond regret, I view,\n Thy beaming lights, soft gliding o'er the woods;\n Thy distant landscape, touch'd with yellow hue\n While falls the lengthen'd gleam; thy winding floods,\n Now veil'd in shade, save where the skiff's white sails\n Swell to the breeze, and catch thy streaming ray.\n But now, e'en now!--the partial vision fails,\n And the wave smiles, as sweeps the cloud away!\n Emblem of life!--Thus checquer'd is its plan,\n Thus joy succeeds to grief--thus smiles the varied man!\n\nOne of Emily's earliest enquiries, after her arrival at La Vallee, was\nconcerning Theresa, her father's old servant, whom it may be remembered\nthat M. Quesnel had turned from the house when it was let, without\nany provision. Understanding that she lived in a cottage at no great\ndistance, Emily walked thither, and, on approaching, was pleased to see,\nthat her habitation was pleasantly situated on a green slope, sheltered\nby a tuft of oaks, and had an appearance of comfort and extreme\nneatness. She found the old woman within, picking vine-stalks, who, on\nperceiving her young mistress, was nearly overcome with joy.\n\n'Ah! my dear young lady!' said she, 'I thought I should never see\nyou again in this world, when I heard you was gone to that outlandish\ncountry. I have been hardly used, since you went; I little thought they\nwould have turned me out of my old master's family in my old age!'\n\nEmily lamented the circumstance, and then assured her, that she would\nmake her latter days comfortable, and expressed satisfaction, on seeing\nher in so pleasant an habitation.\n\nTheresa thanked her with tears, adding, 'Yes, mademoiselle, it is a\nvery comfortable home, thanks to the kind friend, who took me out of\nmy distress, when you was too far off to help me, and placed me here! I\nlittle thought!--but no more of that--'\n\n'And who was this kind friend?' said Emily: 'whoever it was, I shall\nconsider him as mine also.'\n\n'Ah, mademoiselle! that friend forbad me to blazon the good deed--I must\nnot say, who it was. But how you are altered since I saw you last! You\nlook so pale now, and so thin, too; but then, there is my old master's\nsmile! Yes, that will never leave you, any more than the goodness, that\nused to make him smile. Alas-a-day! the poor lost a friend indeed, when\nhe died!'\n\nEmily was affected by this mention of her father, which Theresa\nobserving, changed the subject. 'I heard, mademoiselle,' said she,\n'that Madame Cheron married a foreign gentleman, after all, and took you\nabroad; how does she do?'\n\nEmily now mentioned her death. 'Alas!' said Theresa, 'if she had not\nbeen my master's sister, I should never have loved her; she was always\nso cross. But how does that dear young gentleman do, M. Valancourt? he\nwas an handsome youth, and a good one; is he well, mademoiselle?'\n\nEmily was much agitated.\n\n'A blessing on him!' continued Theresa. 'Ah, my dear young lady, you\nneed not look so shy; I know all about it. Do you think I do not know,\nthat he loves you? Why, when you was away, mademoiselle, he used to\ncome to the chateau and walk about it, so disconsolate! He would go into\nevery room in the lower part of the house, and, sometimes, he would\nsit himself down in a chair, with his arms across, and his eyes on\nthe floor, and there he would sit, and think, and think, for the hour\ntogether. He used to be very fond of the south parlour, because I\ntold him it used to be yours; and there he would stay, looking at the\npictures, which I said you drew, and playing upon your lute, that hung\nup by the window, and reading in your books, till sunset, and then he\nmust go back to his brother's chateau. And then--'\n\n'It is enough, Theresa,' said Emily.--'How long have you lived in this\ncottage--and how can I serve you? Will you remain here, or return and\nlive with me?'\n\n'Nay, mademoiselle,' said Theresa, 'do not be so shy to your poor\nold servant. I am sure it is no disgrace to like such a good young\ngentleman.'\n\nA deep sigh escaped from Emily.\n\n'Ah! how he did love to talk of you! I loved him for that. Nay, for that\nmatter, he liked to hear me talk, for he did not say much himself. But I\nsoon found out what he came to the chateau about. Then, he would go\ninto the garden, and down to the terrace, and sit under that great tree\nthere, for the day together, with one of your books in his hand; but he\ndid not read much, I fancy; for one day I happened to go that way, and I\nheard somebody talking. Who can be here? says I: I am sure I let nobody\ninto the garden, but the Chevalier. So I walked softly, to see who it\ncould be; and behold! it was the Chevalier himself, talking to himself\nabout you. And he repeated your name, and sighed so! and said he had\nlost you for ever, for that you would never return for him. I thought he\nwas out in his reckoning there, but I said nothing, and stole away.'\n\n'No more of this trifling,' said Emily, awakening from her reverie: 'it\ndispleases me.'\n\n'But, when M. Quesnel let the chateau, I thought it would have broke the\nChevalier's heart.'\n\n'Theresa,' said Emily seriously, 'you must name the Chevalier no more!'\n\n'Not name him, mademoiselle!' cried Theresa: 'what times are come\nup now? Why, I love the Chevalier next to my old master and you,\nmademoiselle.'\n\n'Perhaps your love was not well bestowed, then,' replied Emily, trying\nto conceal her tears; 'but, however that might be, we shall meet no\nmore.'\n\n'Meet no more!--not well bestowed!' exclaimed Theresa. 'What do I hear?\nNo, mademoiselle, my love was well bestowed, for it was the Chevalier\nValancourt, who gave me this cottage, and has supported me in my old\nage, ever since M. Quesnel turned me from my master's house.'\n\n'The Chevalier Valancourt!' said Emily, trembling extremely.\n\n'Yes, mademoiselle, he himself, though he made me promise not to tell;\nbut how could one help, when one heard him ill spoken of? Ah! dear young\nlady, you may well weep, if you have behaved unkindly to him, for a more\ntender heart than his never young gentleman had. He found me out in my\ndistress, when you was too far off to help me; and M. Quesnel refused\nto do so, and bade me go to service again--Alas! I was too old for\nthat!--The Chevalier found me, and bought me this cottage, and gave me\nmoney to furnish it, and bade me seek out another poor woman to live\nwith me; and he ordered his brother's steward to pay me, every quarter,\nthat which has supported me in comfort. Think then, mademoiselle,\nwhether I have not reason to speak well of the Chevalier. And there are\nothers, who could have afforded it better than he: and I am afraid he\nhas hurt himself by his generosity, for quarter day is gone by long\nsince, and no money for me! But do not weep so, mademoiselle: you are\nnot sorry surely to hear of the poor Chevalier's goodness?'\n\n'Sorry!' said Emily, and wept the more. 'But how long is it since you\nhave seen him?'\n\n'Not this many a day, mademoiselle.'\n\n'When did you hear of him?' enquired Emily, with increased emotion.\n\n'Alas! never since he went away so suddenly into Languedoc; and he was\nbut just come from Paris then, or I should have seen him, I am sure.\nQuarter day is gone by long since, and, as I said, no money for me; and\nI begin to fear some harm has happened to him: and if I was not so far\nfrom Estuviere and so lame, I should have gone to enquire before this\ntime; and I have nobody to send so far.'\n\nEmily's anxiety, as to the fate of Valancourt, was now scarcely\nendurable, and, since propriety would not suffer her to send to the\nchateau of his brother, she requested that Theresa would immediately\nhire some person to go to his steward from herself, and, when he asked\nfor the quarterage due to her, to make enquiries concerning Valancourt.\nBut she first made Theresa promise never to mention her name in this\naffair, or ever with that of the Chevalier Valancourt; and her\nformer faithfulness to M. St. Aubert induced Emily to confide in her\nassurances. Theresa now joyfully undertook to procure a person for this\nerrand, and then Emily, after giving her a sum of money to supply her\nwith present comforts, returned, with spirits heavily oppressed, to her\nhome, lamenting, more than ever, that an heart, possessed of so much\nbenevolence as Valancourt's, should have been contaminated by the vices\nof the world, but affected by the delicate affection, which his kindness\nto her old servant expressed for herself.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XII\n\n\n  Light thickens, and the crow\n Makes wing to the rooky wood:\n Good things of day begin to droop, and drowze;\n While night's black agents to their preys do rouze.\n     MACBETH\n\nMeanwhile Count De Villefort and Lady Blanche had passed a pleasant\nfortnight at the chateau de St. Foix, with the Baron and Baroness,\nduring which they made frequent excursions among the mountains, and were\ndelighted with the romantic wildness of Pyrenean scenery. It was with\nregret, that the Count bade adieu to his old friends, although with the\nhope of being soon united with them in one family; for it was settled\nthat M. St. Foix, who now attended them into Gascony, should receive the\nhand of the Lady Blanche, upon their arrival at Chateau-le-Blanc. As\nthe road, from the Baron's residence to La Vallee, was over some of\nthe wildest tract of the Pyrenees, and where a carriage-wheel had never\npassed, the Count hired mules for himself and his family, as well as a\ncouple of stout guides, who were well armed, informed of all the passes\nof the mountains, and who boasted, too, that they were acquainted with\nevery brake and dingle in the way, could tell the names of all the\nhighest points of this chain of Alps, knew every forest, that spread\nalong their narrow vallies, the shallowest part of every torrent they\nmust cross, and the exact distance of every goat-herd's and hunter's\ncabin they should have occasion to pass,--which last article of learning\nrequired no very capacious memory, for even such simple inhabitants were\nbut thinly scattered over these wilds.\n\nThe Count left the chateau de St. Foix, early in the morning, with an\nintention of passing the night at a little inn upon the mountains, about\nhalf way to La Vallee, of which his guides had informed him; and, though\nthis was frequented chiefly by Spanish muleteers, on their route into\nFrance, and, of course, would afford only sorry accommodation, the Count\nhad no alternative, for it was the only place like an inn, on the road.\n\nAfter a day of admiration and fatigue, the travellers found themselves,\nabout sun-set, in a woody valley, overlooked, on every side, by abrupt\nheights. They had proceeded for many leagues, without seeing a human\nhabitation, and had only heard, now and then, at a distance, the\nmelancholy tinkling of a sheep-bell; but now they caught the notes of\nmerry music, and presently saw, within a little green recess among the\nrocks, a group of mountaineers, tripping through a dance. The Count,\nwho could not look upon the happiness, any more than on the misery\nof others, with indifference, halted to enjoy this scene of simple\npleasure. The group before him consisted of French and Spanish peasants,\nthe inhabitants of a neighbouring hamlet, some of whom were performing a\nsprightly dance, the women with castanets in their hands, to the sounds\nof a lute and a tamborine, till, from the brisk melody of France, the\nmusic softened into a slow movement, to which two female peasants danced\na Spanish Pavan.\n\nThe Count, comparing this with the scenes of such gaiety as he had\nwitnessed at Paris, where false taste painted the features, and, while\nit vainly tried to supply the glow of nature, concealed the charms\nof animation--where affectation so often distorted the air, and vice\nperverted the manners--sighed to think, that natural graces and innocent\npleasures flourished in the wilds of solitude, while they drooped amidst\nthe concourse of polished society. But the lengthening shadows reminded\nthe travellers, that they had no time to lose; and, leaving this joyous\ngroup, they pursued their way towards the little inn, which was to\nshelter them from the night.\n\nThe rays of the setting sun now threw a yellow gleam upon the forests of\npine and chesnut, that swept down the lower region of the mountains, and\ngave resplendent tints to the snowy points above. But soon, even this\nlight faded fast, and the scenery assumed a more tremendous appearance,\ninvested with the obscurity of twilight. Where the torrent had been\nseen, it was now only heard; where the wild cliffs had displayed\nevery variety of form and attitude, a dark mass of mountains now alone\nappeared; and the vale, which far, far below had opened its dreadful\nchasm, the eye could no longer fathom. A melancholy gleam still lingered\non the summits of the highest Alps, overlooking the deep repose of\nevening, and seeming to make the stillness of the hour more awful.\n\nBlanche viewed the scene in silence, and listened with enthusiasm to the\nmurmur of the pines, that extended in dark lines along the mountains,\nand to the faint voice of the izard, among the rocks, that came at\nintervals on the air. But her enthusiasm sunk into apprehension, when,\nas the shadows deepened, she looked upon the doubtful precipice, that\nbordered the road, as well as on the various fantastic forms of danger,\nthat glimmered through the obscurity beyond it; and she asked her\nfather, how far they were from the inn, and whether he did not consider\nthe road to be dangerous at this late hour. The Count repeated the first\nquestion to the guides, who returned a doubtful answer, adding, that,\nwhen it was darker, it would be safest to rest, till the moon rose.\n'It is scarcely safe to proceed now,' said the Count; but the guides,\nassuring him that there was no danger, went on. Blanche, revived by\nthis assurance, again indulged a pensive pleasure, as she watched the\nprogress of twilight gradually spreading its tints over the woods and\nmountains, and stealing from the eye every minuter feature of the scene,\ntill the grand outlines of nature alone remained. Then fell the silent\ndews, and every wild flower, and aromatic plant, that bloomed among the\ncliffs, breathed forth its sweetness; then, too, when the mountain-bee\nhad crept into its blossomed bed, and the hum of every little insect,\nthat had floated gaily in the sun-beam, was hushed, the sound of many\nstreams, not heard till now, murmured at a distance.--The bats alone,\nof all the animals inhabiting this region, seemed awake; and, while\nthey flitted across the silent path, which Blanche was pursuing, she\nremembered the following lines, which Emily had given her:\n\n TO THE BAT\n\n From haunt of man, from day's obtrusive glare,\n Thou shroud'st thee in the ruin's ivy'd tow'r.\n Or in some shadowy glen's romantic bow'r,\n Where wizard forms their mystic charms prepare,\n Where Horror lurks, and ever-boding Care!\n But, at the sweet and silent ev'ning hour,\n When clos'd in sleep is ev'ry languid flow'r,\n Thou lov'st to sport upon the twilight air,\n Mocking the eye, that would thy course pursue,\n In many a wanton-round, elastic, gay,\n Thou flit'st athwart the pensive wand'rer's way,\n As his lone footsteps print the mountain-dew.\n From Indian isles thou com'st, with Summer's car,\n Twilight thy love--thy guide her beaming star!\n\nTo a warm imagination, the dubious forms, that float, half veiled in\ndarkness, afford a higher delight, than the most distinct scenery, that\nthe sun can shew. While the fancy thus wanders over landscapes partly of\nits own creation, a sweet complacency steals upon the mind, and\n\n Refines it all to subtlest feeling,\n Bids the tear of rapture roll.\n\nThe distant note of a torrent, the weak trembling of the breeze among\nthe woods, or the far-off sound of a human voice, now lost and heard\nagain, are circumstances, which wonderfully heighten the enthusiastic\ntone of the mind. The young St. Foix, who saw the presentations of a\nfervid fancy, and felt whatever enthusiasm could suggest, sometimes\ninterrupted the silence, which the rest of the party seemed by mutual\nconsent to preserve, remarking and pointing out to Blanche the most\nstriking effect of the hour upon the scenery; while Blanche, whose\napprehensions were beguiled by the conversation of her lover, yielded\nto the taste so congenial to his, and they conversed in a low restrained\nvoice, the effect of the pensive tranquillity, which twilight and the\nscene inspired, rather than of any fear, that they should be heard.\nBut, while the heart was thus soothed to tenderness, St. Foix gradually\nmingled, with his admiration of the country, a mention of his affection;\nand he continued to speak, and Blanche to listen, till the mountains,\nthe woods, and the magical illusions of twilight, were remembered no\nmore.\n\nThe shadows of evening soon shifted to the gloom of night, which was\nsomewhat anticipated by the vapours, that, gathering fast round the\nmountains, rolled in dark wreaths along their sides; and the guides\nproposed to rest, till the moon should rise, adding, that they thought a\nstorm was coming on. As they looked round for a spot, that might afford\nsome kind of shelter, an object was perceived obscurely through the\ndusk, on a point of rock, a little way down the mountain, which they\nimagined to be a hunter's or a shepherd's cabin, and the party, with\ncautious steps, proceeded towards it. Their labour, however, was not\nrewarded, or their apprehensions soothed; for, on reaching the object of\ntheir search, they discovered a monumental cross, which marked the spot\nto have been polluted by murder.\n\nThe darkness would not permit them to read the inscription; but the\nguides knew this to be a cross, raised to the memory of a Count de\nBeliard, who had been murdered here by a horde of banditti, that had\ninfested this part of the Pyrenees, a few years before; and the uncommon\nsize of the monument seemed to justify the supposition, that it was\nerected for a person of some distinction. Blanche shuddered, as she\nlistened to some horrid particulars of the Count's fate, which one of\nthe guides related in a low, restrained tone, as if the sound of his own\nvoice frightened him; but, while they lingered at the cross, attending\nto his narrative, a flash of lightning glanced upon the rocks, thunder\nmuttered at a distance, and the travellers, now alarmed, quitted this\nscene of solitary horror, in search of shelter.\n\nHaving regained their former track, the guides, as they passed on,\nendeavoured to interest the Count by various stories of robbery, and\neven of murder, which had been perpetrated in the very places they\nmust unavoidably pass, with accounts of their own dauntless courage\nand wonderful escapes. The chief guide, or rather he, who was the most\ncompletely armed, drawing forth one of the four pistols, that were\ntucked into his belt, swore, that it had shot three robbers within the\nyear. He then brandished a clasp-knife of enormous length, and was\ngoing to recount the wonderful execution it had done, when St. Foix,\nperceiving, that Blanche was terrified, interrupted him. The Count,\nmeanwhile, secretly laughing at the terrible histories and extravagant\nboastings of the man, resolved to humour him, and, telling Blanche in\na whisper, his design, began to recount some exploits of his own, which\ninfinitely exceeded any related by the guide.\n\nTo these surprising circumstances he so artfully gave the colouring of\ntruth, that the courage of the guides was visibly affected by them,\nwho continued silent, long after the Count had ceased to speak. The\nloquacity of the chief hero thus laid asleep, the vigilance of his eyes\nand ears seemed more thoroughly awakened, for he listened, with much\nappearance of anxiety, to the deep thunder, which murmured at intervals,\nand often paused, as the breeze, that was now rising, rushed among the\npines. But, when he made a sudden halt before a tuft of cork trees,\nthat projected over the road, and drew forth a pistol, before he would\nventure to brave the banditti which might lurk behind it, the Count\ncould no longer refrain from laughter.\n\nHaving now, however, arrived at a level spot, somewhat sheltered from\nthe air, by overhanging cliffs and by a wood of larch, that rose over\nthe precipice on the left, and the guides being yet ignorant how far\nthey were from the inn, the travellers determined to rest, till the moon\nshould rise, or the storm disperse. Blanche, recalled to a sense of the\npresent moment, looked on the surrounding gloom, with terror; but giving\nher hand to St. Foix, she alighted, and the whole party entered a kind\nof cave, if such it could be called, which was only a shallow cavity,\nformed by the curve of impending rocks. A light being struck, a fire was\nkindled, whose blaze afforded some degree of cheerfulness, and no\nsmall comfort, for, though the day had been hot, the night air of this\nmountainous region was chilling; a fire was partly necessary also to\nkeep off the wolves, with which those wilds were infested.\n\nProvisions being spread upon a projection of the rock, the Count and his\nfamily partook of a supper, which, in a scene less rude, would certainly\nhave been thought less excellent. When the repast was finished, St.\nFoix, impatient for the moon, sauntered along the precipice, to a point,\nthat fronted the east; but all was yet wrapt in gloom, and the silence\nof night was broken only by the murmuring of woods, that waved far\nbelow, or by distant thunder, and, now and then, by the faint voices of\nthe party he had quitted. He viewed, with emotions of awful sublimity,\nthe long volumes of sulphureous clouds, that floated along the upper and\nmiddle regions of the air, and the lightnings that flashed from them,\nsometimes silently, and, at others, followed by sullen peals of thunder,\nwhich the mountains feebly prolonged, while the whole horizon, and the\nabyss, on which he stood, were discovered in the momentary light. Upon\nthe succeeding darkness, the fire, which had been kindled in the cave,\nthrew a partial gleam, illumining some points of the opposite rocks, and\nthe summits of pine-woods, that hung beetling on the cliffs below, while\ntheir recesses seemed to frown in deeper shade.\n\nSt. Foix stopped to observe the picture, which the party in the cave\npresented, where the elegant form of Blanche was finely contrasted by\nthe majestic figure of the Count, who was seated by her on a rude stone,\nand each was rendered more impressive by the grotesque habits and strong\nfeatures of the guides and other attendants, who were in the back ground\nof the piece. The effect of the light, too, was interesting; on the\nsurrounding figures it threw a strong, though pale gleam, and glittered\non their bright arms; while upon the foliage of a gigantic larch, that\nimpended its shade over the cliff above, appeared a red, dusky tint,\ndeepening almost imperceptibly into the blackness of night.\n\nWhile St. Foix contemplated the scene, the moon, broad and yellow, rose\nover the eastern summits, from among embattled clouds, and shewed dimly\nthe grandeur of the heavens, the mass of vapours, that rolled half way\ndown the precipice beneath, and the doubtful mountains.\n\n What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime,\n Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast,\n And view th'enormous waste of vapour, tost\n In billows length'ning to th'horizon round!\n     THE MINSTREL\n\nFrom this romantic reverie he was awakened by the voices of the guides,\nrepeating his name, which was reverbed from cliff to cliff, till an\nhundred tongues seemed to call him; when he soon quieted the fears of\nthe Count and the Lady Blanche, by returning to the cave. As the storm,\nhowever, seemed approaching, they did not quit their place of shelter;\nand the Count, seated between his daughter and St. Foix, endeavoured to\ndivert the fears of the former, and conversed on subjects, relating to\nthe natural history of the scene, among which they wandered. He spoke\nof the mineral and fossile substances, found in the depths of these\nmountains,--the veins of marble and granite, with which they abounded,\nthe strata of shells, discovered near their summits, many thousand\nfathom above the level of the sea, and at a vast distance from its\npresent shore;--of the tremendous chasms and caverns of the rocks, the\ngrotesque form of the mountains, and the various phaenomena, that seem\nto stamp upon the world the history of the deluge. From the natural\nhistory he descended to the mention of events and circumstances,\nconnected with the civil story of the Pyrenees; named some of the most\nremarkable fortresses, which France and Spain had erected in the passes\nof these mountains; and gave a brief account of some celebrated sieges\nand encounters in early times, when Ambition first frightened Solitude\nfrom these her deep recesses, made her mountains, which before had\nechoed only to the torrent's roar, tremble with the clang of arms, and,\nwhen man's first footsteps in her sacred haunts had left the print of\nblood!\n\nAs Blanche sat, attentive to the narrative, that rendered the\nscenes doubly interesting, and resigned to solemn emotion, while she\nconsidered, that she was on the very ground, once polluted by these\nevents, her reverie was suddenly interrupted by a sound, that came\nin the wind.--It was the distant bark of a watch-dog. The travellers\nlistened with eager hope, and, as the wind blew stronger, fancied, that\nthe sound came from no great distance; and, the guides having little\ndoubt, that it proceeded from the inn they were in search of, the Count\ndetermined to pursue his way. The moon now afforded a stronger, though\nstill an uncertain light, as she moved among broken clouds; and the\ntravellers, led by the sound, recommenced their journey along the brow\nof the precipice, preceded by a single torch, that now contended with\nthe moon-light; for the guides, believing they should reach the inn soon\nafter sun-set, had neglected to provide more. In silent caution they\nfollowed the sound, which was heard but at intervals, and which, after\nsome time entirely ceased. The guides endeavoured, however, to point\ntheir course to the quarter, whence it had issued, but the deep roaring\nof a torrent soon seized their attention, and presently they came to\na tremendous chasm of the mountain, which seemed to forbid all further\nprogress. Blanche alighted from her mule, as did the Count and St.\nFoix, while the guides traversed the edge in search of a bridge, which,\nhowever rude, might convey them to the opposite side, and they, at\nlength, confessed, what the Count had begun to suspect, that they had\nbeen, for some time, doubtful of their way, and were now certain only,\nthat they had lost it.\n\nAt a little distance, was discovered a rude and dangerous passage,\nformed by an enormous pine, which, thrown across the chasm, united the\nopposite precipices, and which had been felled probably by the hunter,\nto facilitate his chace of the izard, or the wolf. The whole party,\nthe guides excepted, shuddered at the prospect of crossing this alpine\nbridge, whose sides afforded no kind of defence, and from which to fall\nwas to die. The guides, however, prepared to lead over the mules, while\nBlanche stood trembling on the brink, and listening to the roar of the\nwaters, which were seen descending from rocks above, overhung with lofty\npines, and thence precipitating themselves into the deep abyss, where\ntheir white surges gleamed faintly in the moon-light. The poor animals\nproceeded over this perilous bridge with instinctive caution, neither\nfrightened by the noise of the cataract, or deceived by the gloom, which\nthe impending foliage threw athwart their way. It was now, that the\nsolitary torch, which had been hitherto of little service, was found\nto be an inestimable treasure; and Blanche, terrified, shrinking,\nbut endeavouring to re-collect all her firmness and presence of mind,\npreceded by her lover and supported by her father, followed the red\ngleam of the torch, in safety, to the opposite cliff.\n\nAs they went on, the heights contracted, and formed a narrow pass, at\nthe bottom of which, the torrent they had just crossed, was heard to\nthunder. But they were again cheered by the bark of a dog, keeping\nwatch, perhaps, over the flocks of the mountains, to protect them\nfrom the nightly descent of the wolves. The sound was much nearer than\nbefore, and, while they rejoiced in the hope of soon reaching a place\nof repose, a light was seen to glimmer at a distance. It appeared at a\nheight considerably above the level of their path, and was lost and seen\nagain, as if the waving branches of trees sometimes excluded and then\nadmitted its rays. The guides hallooed with all their strength, but the\nsound of no human voice was heard in return, and, at length, as a more\neffectual means of making themselves known, they fired a pistol. But,\nwhile they listened in anxious expectation, the noise of the explosion\nwas alone heard, echoing among the rocks, and it gradually sunk into\nsilence, which no friendly hint of man disturbed. The light, however,\nthat had been seen before, now became plainer, and, soon after, voices\nwere heard indistinctly on the wind; but, upon the guides repeating the\ncall, the voices suddenly ceased, and the light disappeared.\n\nThe Lady Blanche was now almost sinking beneath the pressure of anxiety,\nfatigue and apprehension, and the united efforts of the Count and St.\nFoix could scarcely support her spirits. As they continued to advance,\nan object was perceived on a point of rock above, which, the strong rays\nof the moon then falling on it, appeared to be a watch-tower. The Count,\nfrom its situation and some other circumstances, had little doubt, that\nit was such, and believing, that the light had proceeded from thence, he\nendeavoured to re-animate his daughter's spirits by the near prospect\nof shelter and repose, which, however rude the accommodation, a ruined\nwatch-tower might afford.\n\n'Numerous watch-towers have been erected among the Pyrenees,' said the\nCount, anxious only to call Blanche's attention from the subject of her\nfears; 'and the method, by which they give intelligence of the approach\nof the enemy, is, you know, by fires, kindled on the summits of these\nedifices. Signals have thus, sometimes, been communicated from post to\npost, along a frontier line of several hundred miles in length. Then,\nas occasion may require, the lurking armies emerge from their fortresses\nand the forests, and march forth, to defend, perhaps, the entrance of\nsome grand pass, where, planting themselves on the heights, they assail\ntheir astonished enemies, who wind along the glen below, with fragments\nof the shattered cliff, and pour death and defeat upon them. The ancient\nforts, and watch-towers, overlooking the grand passes of the Pyrenees,\nare carefully preserved; but some of those in inferior stations have\nbeen suffered to fall into decay, and are now frequently converted into\nthe more peaceful habitation of the hunter, or the shepherd, who, after\na day of toil, retires hither, and, with his faithful dogs, forgets,\nnear a cheerful blaze, the labour of the chace, or the anxiety of\ncollecting his wandering flocks, while he is sheltered from the nightly\nstorm.'\n\n'But are they always thus peacefully inhabited?' said the Lady Blanche.\n\n'No,' replied the Count, 'they are sometimes the asylum of French and\nSpanish smugglers, who cross the mountains with contraband goods from\ntheir respective countries, and the latter are particularly numerous,\nagainst whom strong parties of the king's troops are sometimes sent. But\nthe desperate resolution of these adventurers, who, knowing, that, if\nthey are taken, they must expiate the breach of the law by the most\ncruel death, travel in large parties, well armed, often daunts the\ncourage of the soldiers. The smugglers, who seek only safety, never\nengage, when they can possibly avoid it; the military, also, who\nknow, that in these encounters, danger is certain, and glory almost\nunattainable, are equally reluctant to fight; an engagement, therefore,\nvery seldom happens, but, when it does, it never concludes till after\nthe most desperate and bloody conflict. You are inattentive, Blanche,'\nadded the Count: 'I have wearied you with a dull subject; but see,\nyonder, in the moon-light, is the edifice we have been in search of, and\nwe are fortunate to be so near it, before the storm bursts.'\n\nBlanche, looking up, perceived, that they were at the foot of the cliff,\non whose summit the building stood, but no light now issued from it; the\nbarking of the dog too had, for some time, ceased, and the guides began\nto doubt, whether this was really the object of their search. From the\ndistance, at which they surveyed it, shewn imperfectly by a cloudy moon,\nit appeared to be of more extent than a single watch-tower; but the\ndifficulty was how to ascend the height, whose abrupt declivities seemed\nto afford no kind of pathway.\n\nWhile the guides carried forward the torch to examine the cliff, the\nCount, remaining with Blanche and St. Foix at its foot, under the shadow\nof the woods, endeavoured again to beguile the time by conversation,\nbut again anxiety abstracted the mind of Blanche; and he then consulted,\napart with St. Foix, whether it would be advisable, should a path be\nfound, to venture to an edifice, which might possibly harbour banditti.\nThey considered, that their own party was not small, and that several of\nthem were well armed; and, after enumerating the dangers, to be incurred\nby passing the night in the open wild, exposed, perhaps, to the effects\nof a thunder-storm, there remained not a doubt, that they ought to\nendeavour to obtain admittance to the edifice above, at any hazard\nrespecting the inhabitants it might harbour; but the darkness, and the\ndead silence, that surrounded it, appeared to contradict the probability\nof its being inhabited at all.\n\nA shout from the guides aroused their attention, after which, in a few\nminutes, one of the Count's servants returned with intelligence, that a\npath was found, and they immediately hastened to join the guides, when\nthey all ascended a little winding way cut in the rock among thickets\nof dwarf wood, and, after much toil and some danger, reached the summit,\nwhere several ruined towers, surrounded by a massy wall, rose to their\nview, partially illumined by the moon-light. The space around the\nbuilding was silent, and apparently forsaken, but the Count was\ncautious; 'Step softly,' said he, in a low voice, 'while we reconnoitre\nthe edifice.'\n\nHaving proceeded silently along for some paces, they stopped at a\ngate, whose portals were terrible even in ruins, and, after a moment's\nhesitation, passed on to the court of entrance, but paused again at the\nhead of a terrace, which, branching from it, ran along the brow of a\nprecipice. Over this, rose the main body of the edifice, which was now\nseen to be, not a watch-tower, but one of those ancient fortresses,\nthat, from age and neglect, had fallen to decay. Many parts of it,\nhowever, appeared to be still entire; it was built of grey stone, in\nthe heavy Saxon-gothic style, with enormous round towers, buttresses of\nproportionable strength, and the arch of the large gate, which seemed\nto open into the hall of the fabric, was round, as was that of a window\nabove. The air of solemnity, which must so strongly have characterized\nthe pile even in the days of its early strength, was now considerably\nheightened by its shattered battlements and half-demolished walls, and\nby the huge masses of ruin, scattered in its wide area, now silent and\ngrass grown. In this court of entrance stood the gigantic remains of an\noak, that seemed to have flourished and decayed with the building, which\nit still appeared frowningly to protect by the few remaining branches,\nleafless and moss-grown, that crowned its trunk, and whose wide extent\ntold how enormous the tree had been in a former age. This fortress was\nevidently once of great strength, and, from its situation on a point of\nrock, impending over a deep glen, had been of great power to annoy, as\nwell as to resist; the Count, therefore, as he stood surveying it, was\nsomewhat surprised, that it had been suffered, ancient as it was, to\nsink into ruins, and its present lonely and deserted air excited in\nhis breast emotions of melancholy awe. While he indulged, for a moment,\nthese emotions, he thought he heard a sound of remote voices steal upon\nthe stillness, from within the building, the front of which he again\nsurveyed with scrutinizing eyes, but yet no light was visible. He now\ndetermined to walk round the fort, to that remote part of it, whence he\nthought the voices had arisen, that he might examine whether any light\ncould be discerned there, before he ventured to knock at the gate; for\nthis purpose, he entered upon the terrace, where the remains of cannon\nwere yet apparent in the thick walls, but he had not proceeded many\npaces, when his steps were suddenly arrested by the loud barking of a\ndog within, and which he fancied to be the same, whose voice had been\nthe means of bringing the travellers thither. It now appeared certain,\nthat the place was inhabited, and the Count returned to consult again\nwith St. Foix, whether he should try to obtain admittance, for its wild\naspect had somewhat shaken his former resolution; but, after a\nsecond consultation, he submitted to the considerations, which before\ndetermined him, and which were strengthened by the discovery of the dog,\nthat guarded the fort, as well as by the stillness that pervaded it.\nHe, therefore, ordered one of his servants to knock at the gate, who was\nadvancing to obey him, when a light appeared through the loop-hole\nof one of the towers, and the Count called loudly, but, receiving no\nanswer, he went up to the gate himself, and struck upon it with an\niron-pointed pole, which had assisted him to climb the steep. When\nthe echoes had ceased, that this blow had awakened, the renewed\nbarking,--and there were now more than one dog,--was the only sound,\nthat was heard. The Count stepped back, a few paces, to observe whether\nthe light was in the tower, and, perceiving, that it was gone, he\nreturned to the portal, and had lifted the pole to strike again, when\nagain he fancied he heard the murmur of voices within, and paused to\nlisten. He was confirmed in the supposition, but they were too remote,\nto be heard otherwise than in a murmur, and the Count now let the pole\nfall heavily upon the gate; when almost immediately a profound silence\nfollowed. It was apparent, that the people within had heard the sound,\nand their caution in admitting strangers gave him a favourable opinion\nof them. 'They are either hunters or shepherds,' said he, 'who, like\nourselves, have probably sought shelter from the night within these\nwalls, and are fearful of admitting strangers, lest they should prove\nrobbers. I will endeavour to remove their fears.' So saying, he called\naloud, 'We are friends, who ask shelter from the night.' In a few\nmoments, steps were heard within, which approached, and a voice then\nenquired--'Who calls?' 'Friends,' repeated the Count; 'open the gates,\nand you shall know more.'--Strong bolts were now heard to be undrawn,\nand a man, armed with a hunting spear, appeared. 'What is it you want\nat this hour?' said he. The Count beckoned his attendants, and then\nanswered, that he wished to enquire the way to the nearest cabin. 'Are\nyou so little acquainted with these mountains,' said the man, 'as not to\nknow, that there is none, within several leagues? I cannot shew you the\nway; you must seek it--there's a moon.' Saying this, he was closing the\ngate, and the Count was turning away, half disappointed and half afraid,\nwhen another voice was heard from above, and, on looking up, he saw a\nlight, and a man's face, at the grate of the portal. 'Stay, friend, you\nhave lost your way?' said the voice. 'You are hunters, I suppose, like\nourselves: I will be with you presently.' The voice ceased, and the\nlight disappeared. Blanche had been alarmed by the appearance of the\nman, who had opened the gate, and she now entreated her father to quit\nthe place; but the Count had observed the hunter's spear, which he\ncarried; and the words from the tower encouraged him to await the event.\nThe gate was soon opened, and several men in hunters' habits, who had\nheard above what had passed below, appeared, and, having listened some\ntime to the Count, told him he was welcome to rest there for the night.\nThey then pressed him, with much courtesy, to enter, and to partake of\nsuch fare as they were about to sit down to. The Count, who had\nobserved them attentively while they spoke, was cautious, and somewhat\nsuspicious; but he was also weary, fearful of the approaching storm, and\nof encountering alpine heights in the obscurity of night; being likewise\nsomewhat confident in the strength and number of his attendants, he,\nafter some further consideration, determined to accept the invitation.\nWith this resolution he called his servants, who, advancing round\nthe tower, behind which some of them had silently listened to this\nconference, followed their Lord, the Lady Blanche, and St. Foix into the\nfortress. The strangers led them on to a large and rude hall, partially\nseen by a fire that blazed at its extremity, round which four men, in\nthe hunter's dress, were seated, and on the hearth were several dogs\nstretched in sleep. In the middle of the hall stood a large table,\nand over the fire some part of an animal was boiling. As the Count\napproached, the men arose, and the dogs, half raising themselves, looked\nfiercely at the strangers, but, on hearing their masters' voices, kept\ntheir postures on the hearth.\n\nBlanche looked round this gloomy and spacious hall; then at the men, and\nto her father, who, smiling cheerfully at her, addressed himself to the\nhunters. 'This is an hospitable hearth,' said he, 'the blaze of a fire\nis reviving after having wandered so long in these dreary wilds. Your\ndogs are tired; what success have you had?' 'Such as we usually have,'\nreplied one of the men, who had been seated in the hall, 'we kill our\ngame with tolerable certainty.' 'These are fellow hunters,' said one of\nthe men who had brought the Count hither, 'that have lost their way,\nand I have told them there is room enough in the fort for us all.' 'Very\ntrue, very true,' replied his companion, 'What luck have you had in the\nchace, brothers? We have killed two izards, and that, you will say,\nis pretty well.' 'You mistake, friend,' said the Count, 'we are not\nhunters, but travellers; but, if you will admit us to hunters' fare, we\nshall be well contented, and will repay your kindness.' 'Sit down then,\nbrother,' said one of the men: 'Jacques, lay more fuel on the fire, the\nkid will soon be ready; bring a seat for the lady too. Ma'amselle, will\nyou taste our brandy? it is true Barcelona, and as bright as ever flowed\nfrom a keg.' Blanche timidly smiled, and was going to refuse, when her\nfather prevented her, by taking, with a good humoured air, the glass\noffered to his daughter; and Mons. St. Foix, who was seated next her,\npressed her hand, and gave her an encouraging look, but her attention\nwas engaged by a man, who sat silently by the fire, observing St. Foix,\nwith a steady and earnest eye.\n\n'You lead a jolly life here,' said the Count. 'The life of a hunter is\na pleasant and a healthy one; and the repose is sweet, which succeeds to\nyour labour.'\n\n'Yes,' replied one of his hosts, 'our life is pleasant enough. We live\nhere only during the summer, and autumnal months; in winter, the place\nis dreary, and the swoln torrents, that descend from the heights, put a\nstop to the chace.'\n\n''Tis a life of liberty and enjoyment,' said the Count: 'I should like\nto pass a month in your way very well.'\n\n'We find employment for our guns too,' said a man who stood behind the\nCount: 'here are plenty of birds, of delicious flavour, that feed upon\nthe wild thyme and herbs, that grow in the vallies. Now I think of it,\nthere is a brace of birds hung up in the stone gallery; go fetch them,\nJacques, we will have them dressed.'\n\nThe Count now made enquiry, concerning the method of pursuing the\nchace among the rocks and precipices of these romantic regions, and\nwas listening to a curious detail, when a horn was sounded at the gate.\nBlanche looked timidly at her father, who continued to converse on the\nsubject of the chace, but whose countenance was somewhat expressive of\nanxiety, and who often turned his eyes towards that part of the hall\nnearest the gate. The horn sounded again, and a loud halloo succeeded.\n'These are some of our companions, returned from their day's labour,'\nsaid a man, going lazily from his seat towards the gate; and in a\nfew minutes, two men appeared, each with a gun over his shoulder, and\npistols in his belt. 'What cheer, my lads? what cheer?' said they,\nas they approached. 'What luck?' returned their companions: 'have you\nbrought home your supper? You shall have none else.'\n\n'Hah! who the devil have you brought home?' said they in bad Spanish,\non perceiving the Count's party, 'are they from France, or Spain?--where\ndid you meet with them?'\n\n'They met with us, and a merry meeting too,' replied his companion aloud\nin good French. 'This chevalier, and his party, had lost their way,\nand asked a night's lodging in the fort.' The others made no reply, but\nthrew down a kind of knapsack, and drew forth several brace of birds.\nThe bag sounded heavily as it fell to the ground, and the glitter\nof some bright metal within glanced on the eye of the Count, who now\nsurveyed, with a more enquiring look, the man, that held the knapsack.\nHe was a tall robust figure, of a hard countenance, and had short black\nhair, curling in his neck. Instead of the hunter's dress, he wore a\nfaded military uniform; sandals were laced on his broad legs, and a kind\nof short trowsers hung from his waist. On his head he wore a leathern\ncap, somewhat resembling in shape an ancient Roman helmet; but the\nbrows that scowled beneath it, would have characterized those of the\nbarbarians, who conquered Rome, rather than those of a Roman soldier.\nThe Count, at length, turned away his eyes, and remained silent and\nthoughtful, till, again raising them, he perceived a figure standing in\nan obscure part of the hall, fixed in attentive gaze on St. Foix, who\nwas conversing with Blanche, and did not observe this; but the Count,\nsoon after, saw the same man looking over the shoulder of the soldier as\nattentively at himself. He withdrew his eye, when that of the Count met\nit, who felt mistrust gathering fast upon his mind, but feared to betray\nit in his countenance, and, forcing his features to assume a smile,\naddressed Blanche on some indifferent subject. When he again looked\nround, he perceived, that the soldier and his companion were gone.\n\nThe man, who was called Jacques, now returned from the stone gallery. 'A\nfire is lighted there,' said he, 'and the birds are dressing; the table\ntoo is spread there, for that place is warmer than this.'\n\nHis companions approved of the removal, and invited their guests to\nfollow to the gallery, of whom Blanche appeared distressed, and remained\nseated, and St. Foix looked at the Count, who said, he preferred the\ncomfortable blaze of the fire he was then near. The hunters, however,\ncommended the warmth of the other apartment, and pressed his removal\nwith such seeming courtesy, that the Count, half doubting, and half\nfearful of betraying his doubts, consented to go. The long and ruinous\npassages, through which they went, somewhat daunted him, but the\nthunder, which now burst in loud peals above, made it dangerous to\nquit this place of shelter, and he forbore to provoke his conductors by\nshewing that he distrusted them. The hunters led the way, with a\nlamp; the Count and St. Foix, who wished to please their hosts by some\ninstances of familiarity, carried each a seat, and Blanche followed,\nwith faltering steps. As she passed on, part of her dress caught on a\nnail in the wall, and, while she stopped, somewhat too scrupulously,\nto disengage it, the Count, who was talking to St. Foix, and neither of\nwhom observed the circumstance, followed their conductor round an abrupt\nangle of the passage, and Blanche was left behind in darkness. The\nthunder prevented them from hearing her call but, having disengaged her\ndress, she quickly followed, as she thought, the way they had taken.\nA light, that glimmered at a distance, confirmed this belief, and she\nproceeded towards an open door, whence it issued, conjecturing the room\nbeyond to be the stone gallery the men had spoken of. Hearing voices\nas she advanced, she paused within a few paces of the chamber, that she\nmight be certain whether she was right, and from thence, by the light\nof a lamp, that hung from the ceiling, observed four men, seated round\na table, over which they leaned in apparent consultation. In one of them\nshe distinguished the features of him, whom she had observed, gazing\nat St. Foix, with such deep attention; and who was now speaking in an\nearnest, though restrained voice, till, one of his companions seeming\nto oppose him, they spoke together in a loud and harsher tone. Blanche,\nalarmed by perceiving that neither her father, or St. Foix were there,\nand terrified at the fierce countenances and manners of these men, was\nturning hastily from the chamber, to pursue her search of the gallery,\nwhen she heard one of the men say:\n\n'Let all dispute end here. Who talks of danger? Follow my advice,\nand there will be none--secure THEM, and the rest are an easy prey.'\nBlanche, struck with these words, paused a moment, to hear more. 'There\nis nothing to be got by the rest,' said one of his companions, 'I am\nnever for blood when I can help it--dispatch the two others, and our\nbusiness is done; the rest may go.'\n\n'May they so?' exclaimed the first ruffian, with a tremendous\noath--'What! to tell how we have disposed of their masters, and to\nsend the king's troops to drag us to the wheel! You was always a choice\nadviser--I warrant we have not yet forgot St. Thomas's eve last year.'\n\nBlanche's heart now sunk with horror. Her first impulse was to retreat\nfrom the door, but, when she would have gone, her trembling frame\nrefused to support her, and, having tottered a few paces, to a more\nobscure part of the passage, she was compelled to listen to the dreadful\ncouncils of those, who, she was no longer suffered to doubt, were\nbanditti. In the next moment, she heard the following words, 'Why you\nwould not murder the whole GANG?'\n\n'I warrant our lives are as good as theirs,' replied his comrade. 'If\nwe don't kill them, they will hang us: better they should die than we be\nhanged.'\n\n'Better, better,' cried his comrades.\n\n'To commit murder, is a hopeful way of escaping the gallows!' said the\nfirst ruffian--'many an honest fellow has run his head into the noose\nthat way, though.' There was a pause of some moments, during which they\nappeared to be considering.\n\n'Confound those fellows,' exclaimed one of the robbers impatiently,\n'they ought to have been here by this time; they will come back\npresently with the old story, and no booty: if they were here, our\nbusiness would be plain and easy. I see we shall not be able to do the\nbusiness to-night, for our numbers are not equal to the enemy, and in\nthe morning they will be for marching off, and how can we detain them\nwithout force?'\n\n'I have been thinking of a scheme, that will do,' said one of his\ncomrades: 'if we can dispatch the two chevaliers silently, it will be\neasy to master the rest.'\n\n'That's a plausible scheme, in good faith,' said another with a smile\nof scorn--'If I can eat my way through the prison wall, I shall be at\nliberty!--How can we dispatch them SILENTLY?'\n\n'By poison,' replied his companions.\n\n'Well said! that will do,' said the second ruffian, 'that will give a\nlingering death too, and satisfy my revenge. These barons shall take\ncare how they again tempt our vengeance.'\n\n'I knew the son, the moment I saw him,' said the man, whom Blanche had\nobserved gazing on St. Foix, 'though he does not know me; the father I\nhad almost forgotten.'\n\n'Well, you may say what you will,' said the third ruffian, 'but I don't\nbelieve he is the Baron, and I am as likely to know as any of you, for I\nwas one of them, that attacked him, with our brave lads, that suffered.'\n\n'And was not I another?' said the first ruffian, 'I tell you he is the\nBaron; but what does it signify whether he is or not?--shall we let all\nthis booty go out of our hands? It is not often we have such luck at\nthis. While we run the chance of the wheel for smuggling a few pounds of\ntobacco, to cheat the king's manufactory, and of breaking our necks\ndown the precipices in the chace of our food; and, now and then, rob a\nbrother smuggler, or a straggling pilgrim, of what scarcely repays us\nthe powder we fire at them, shall we let such a prize as this go? Why\nthey have enough about them to keep us for--'\n\n'I am not for that, I am not for that,' replied the third robber, 'let\nus make the most of them: only, if this is the Baron, I should like to\nhave a flash the more at him, for the sake of our brave comrades, that\nhe brought to the gallows.'\n\n'Aye, aye, flash as much as you will,' rejoined the first man, 'but I\ntell you the Baron is a taller man.'\n\n'Confound your quibbling,' said the second ruffian, 'shall we let them\ngo or not? If we stay here much longer, they will take the hint, and\nmarch off without our leave. Let them be who they will, they are rich,\nor why all those servants? Did you see the ring, he, you call the Baron,\nhad on his finger?--it was a diamond; but he has not got it on now: he\nsaw me looking at it, I warrant, and took it off.'\n\n'Aye, and then there is the picture; did you see that? She has not taken\nthat off,' observed the first ruffian, 'it hangs at her neck; if it had\nnot sparkled so, I should not have found it out, for it was almost hid\nby her dress; those are diamonds too, and a rare many of them there must\nbe, to go round such a large picture.'\n\n'But how are we to manage this business?' said the second ruffian: 'let\nus talk of that, there is no fear of there being booty enough, but how\nare we to secure it?'\n\n'Aye, aye,' said his comrades, 'let us talk of that, and remember no\ntime is to be lost.'\n\n\n'I am still for poison,' observed the third, 'but consider their number;\nwhy there are nine or ten of them, and armed too; when I saw so many at\nthe gate, I was not for letting them in, you know, nor you either.'\n\n'I thought they might be some of our enemies,' replied the second, 'I\ndid not so much mind numbers.'\n\n'But you must mind them now,' rejoined his comrade, 'or it will be worse\nfor you. We are not more than six, and how can we master ten by open\nforce? I tell you we must give some of them a dose, and the rest may\nthen be managed.'\n\n'I'll tell you a better way,' rejoined the other impatiently, 'draw\ncloser.'\n\nBlanche, who had listened to this conversation, in an agony, which it\nwould be impossible to describe, could no longer distinguish what was\nsaid, for the ruffians now spoke in lowered voices; but the hope, that\nshe might save her friends from the plot, if she could find her way\nquickly to them, suddenly re-animated her spirits, and lent her strength\nenough to turn her steps in search of the gallery. Terror, however,\nand darkness conspired against her, and, having moved a few yards, the\nfeeble light, that issued from the chamber, no longer even contended\nwith the gloom, and, her foot stumbling over a step that crossed the\npassage, she fell to the ground.\n\nThe noise startled the banditti, who became suddenly silent, and then\nall rushed to the passage, to examine whether any person was there, who\nmight have overheard their councils. Blanche saw them approaching, and\nperceived their fierce and eager looks: but, before she could raise\nherself, they discovered and seized her, and, as they dragged her\ntowards the chamber they had quitted, her screams drew from them\nhorrible threatenings.\n\nHaving reached the room, they began to consult what they should do with\nher. 'Let us first know what she had heard,' said the chief robber. 'How\nlong have you been in the passage, lady, and what brought you there?'\n\n'Let us first secure that picture,' said one of his comrades,\napproaching the trembling Blanche. 'Fair lady, by your leave that\npicture is mine; come, surrender it, or I shall seize it.'\n\nBlanche, entreating their mercy, immediately gave up the miniature,\nwhile another of the ruffians fiercely interrogated her, concerning what\nshe had overheard of their conversation, when, her confusion and terror\ntoo plainly telling what her tongue feared to confess, the ruffians\nlooked expressively upon one another, and two of them withdrew to a\nremote part of the room, as if to consult further.\n\n'These are diamonds, by St. Peter!' exclaimed the fellow, who had been\nexamining the miniature, 'and here is a very pretty picture too, 'faith;\nas handsome a young chevalier, as you would wish to see by a summer's\nsun. Lady, this is your spouse, I warrant, for it is the spark, that was\nin your company just now.'\n\nBlanche, sinking with terror, conjured him to have pity on her, and,\ndelivering him her purse, promised to say nothing of what had passed, if\nhe would suffer her to return to her friends.\n\nHe smiled ironically, and was going to reply, when his attention was\ncalled off by a distant noise; and, while he listened, he grasped the\narm of Blanche more firmly, as if he feared she would escape from him,\nand she again shrieked for help.\n\nThe approaching sounds called the ruffians from the other part of the\nchamber. 'We are betrayed,' said they; 'but let us listen a moment,\nperhaps it is only our comrades come in from the mountains, and if so,\nour work is sure; listen!'\n\nA distant discharge of shot confirmed this supposition for a moment,\nbut, in the next, the former sounds drawing nearer, the clashing of\nswords, mingled with the voices of loud contention and with heavy\ngroans, were distinguished in the avenue leading to the chamber. While\nthe ruffians prepared their arms, they heard themselves called by some\nof their comrades afar off, and then a shrill horn was sounded without\nthe fortress, a signal, it appeared, they too well understood; for three\nof them, leaving the Lady Blanche to the care of the fourth, instantly\nrushed from the chamber.\n\nWhile Blanche, trembling, and nearly fainting, was supplicating for\nrelease, she heard amid the tumult, that approached, the voice of St.\nFoix, and she had scarcely renewed her shriek, when the door of the\nroom was thrown open, and he appeared, much disfigured with blood, and\npursued by several ruffians. Blanche neither saw, or heard any more; her\nhead swam, her sight failed, and she became senseless in the arms of the\nrobber, who had detained her.\n\nWhen she recovered, she perceived, by the gloomy light, that trembled\nround her, that she was in the same chamber, but neither the Count, St.\nFoix, or any other person appeared, and she continued, for some time,\nentirely still, and nearly in a state of stupefaction. But, the dreadful\nimages of the past returning, she endeavoured to raise herself, that\nshe might seek her friends, when a sullen groan, at a little distance,\nreminded her of St. Foix, and of the condition, in which she had seen\nhim enter this room; then, starting from the floor, by a sudden effort\nof horror, she advanced to the place whence the sound had proceeded,\nwhere a body was lying stretched upon the pavement, and where, by the\nglimmering light of a lamp, she discovered the pale and disfigured\ncountenance of St. Foix. Her horrors, at that moment, may be easily\nimagined. He was speechless; his eyes were half closed, and, on the\nhand, which she grasped in the agony of despair, cold damps had settled.\nWhile she vainly repeated his name, and called for assistance, steps\napproached, and a person entered the chamber, who, she soon perceived,\nwas not the Count, her father; but, what was her astonishment, when,\nsupplicating him to give his assistance to St. Foix, she discovered\nLudovico! He scarcely paused to recognise her, but immediately bound\nup the wounds of the Chevalier, and, perceiving, that he had fainted\nprobably from loss of blood, ran for water; but he had been absent only\na few moments, when Blanche heard other steps approaching, and, while\nshe was almost frantic with apprehension of the ruffians, the light of a\ntorch flashed upon the walls, and then Count De Villefort appeared, with\nan affrighted countenance, and breathless with impatience, calling upon\nhis daughter. At the sound of his voice, she rose, and ran to his arms,\nwhile he, letting fall the bloody sword he held, pressed her to his\nbosom in a transport of gratitude and joy, and then hastily enquired for\nSt. Foix, who now gave some signs of life. Ludovico soon after returning\nwith water and brandy, the former was applied to his lips, and the\nlatter to his temples and hands, and Blanche, at length, saw him unclose\nhis eyes, and then heard him enquire for her; but the joy she felt,\non this occasion, was interrupted by new alarms, when Ludovico said it\nwould be necessary to remove Mons. St. Foix immediately, and added, 'The\nbanditti, that are out, my Lord, were expected home, an hour ago, and\nthey will certainly find us, if we delay. That shrill horn, they know,\nis never sounded by their comrades but on most desperate occasions, and\nit echoes among the mountains for many leagues round. I have known them\nbrought home by its sound even from the Pied de Melicant. Is any body\nstanding watch at the great gate, my Lord?'\n\n'Nobody,' replied the Count; 'the rest of my people are now scattered\nabout, I scarcely know where. Go, Ludovico, collect them together, and\nlook out yourself, and listen if you hear the feet of mules.'\n\nLudovico then hurried away, and the Count consulted as to the means of\nremoving St. Foix, who could not have borne the motion of a mule, even\nif his strength would have supported him in the saddle.\n\nWhile the Count was telling, that the banditti, whom they had found\nin the fort, were secured in the dungeon, Blanche observed that he was\nhimself wounded, and that his left arm was entirely useless; but he\nsmiled at her anxiety, assuring her the wound was trifling.\n\nThe Count's servants, except two who kept watch at the gate, now\nappeared, and, soon after, Ludovico. 'I think I hear mules coming along\nthe glen, my Lord,' said he, 'but the roaring of the torrent below\nwill not let me be certain; however, I have brought what will serve the\nChevalier,' he added, shewing a bear's skin, fastened to a couple of\nlong poles, which had been adapted for the purpose of bringing home such\nof the banditti as happened to be wounded in their encounters. Ludovico\nspread it on the ground, and, placing the skins of several goats upon\nit, made a kind of bed, into which the Chevalier, who was however now\nmuch revived, was gently lifted; and, the poles being raised upon the\nshoulders of the guides, whose footing among these steeps could best\nbe depended upon, he was borne along with an easy motion. Some of the\nCount's servants were also wounded--but not materially, and, their\nwounds being bound up, they now followed to the great gate. As they\npassed along the hall, a loud tumult was heard at some distance, and\nBlanche was terrified. 'It is only those villains in the dungeon, my\nLady,' said Ludovico. 'They seem to be bursting it open,' said the\nCount. 'No, my Lord,' replied Ludovico, 'it has an iron door; we have\nnothing to fear from them; but let me go first, and look out from the\nrampart.'\n\nThey quickly followed him, and found their mules browsing before the\ngates, where the party listened anxiously, but heard no sound, except\nthat of the torrent below and of the early breeze, sighing among the\nbranches of the old oak, that grew in the court; and they were now glad\nto perceive the first tints of dawn over the mountain-tops. When they\nhad mounted their mules, Ludovico, undertaking to be their guide, led\nthem by an easier path, than that by which they had formerly ascended,\ninto the glen. 'We must avoid that valley to the east, my Lord,'\nsaid he, 'or we may meet the banditti; they went out that way in the\nmorning.'\n\nThe travellers, soon after, quitted this glen, and found themselves in\na narrow valley that stretched towards the north-west. The morning light\nupon the mountains now strengthened fast, and gradually discovered the\ngreen hillocks, that skirted the winding feet of the cliffs, tufted with\ncork tree, and ever-green oak. The thunder-clouds being dispersed, had\nleft the sky perfectly serene, and Blanche was revived by the fresh\nbreeze, and by the view of verdure, which the late rain had brightened.\nSoon after, the sun arose, when the dripping rocks, with the shrubs that\nfringed their summits, and many a turfy slope below, sparkled in his\nrays. A wreath of mist was seen, floating along the extremity of the\nvalley, but the gale bore it before the travellers, and the sun-beams\ngradually drew it up towards the summit of the mountains. They had\nproceeded about a league, when, St. Foix having complained of extreme\nfaintness, they stopped to give him refreshment, and, that the men, who\nbore him, might rest. Ludovico had brought from the fort some flasks of\nrich Spanish wine, which now proved a reviving cordial not only to\nSt. Foix but to the whole party, though to him it gave only temporary\nrelief, for it fed the fever, that burned in his veins, and he could\nneither disguise in his countenance the anguish he suffered, or suppress\nthe wish, that he was arrived at the inn, where they had designed to\npass the preceding night.\n\nWhile they thus reposed themselves under the shade of the dark green\npines, the Count desired Ludovico to explain shortly, by what means he\nhad disappeared from the north apartment, how he came into the hands of\nthe banditti, and how he had contributed so essentially to serve him and\nhis family, for to him he justly attributed their present deliverance.\nLudovico was going to obey him, when suddenly they heard the echo of\na pistol-shot, from the way they had passed, and they rose in alarm,\nhastily to pursue their route.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIII\n\n\n  Ah why did Fate his steps decoy\n In stormy paths to roam,\n Remote from all congenial joy!\n     BEATTIE\n\nEmily, mean while, was still suffering anxiety as to the fate of\nValancourt; but Theresa, having, at length, found a person, whom she\ncould entrust on her errand to the steward, informed her, that the\nmessenger would return on the following day; and Emily promised to be at\nthe cottage, Theresa being too lame to attend her.\n\nIn the evening, therefore, Emily set out alone for the cottage, with a\nmelancholy foreboding, concerning Valancourt, while, perhaps, the gloom\nof the hour might contribute to depress her spirits. It was a grey\nautumnal evening towards the close of the season; heavy mists partially\nobscured the mountains, and a chilling breeze, that sighed among the\nbeech woods, strewed her path with some of their last yellow leaves.\nThese, circling in the blast and foretelling the death of the year,\ngave an image of desolation to her mind, and, in her fancy, seemed to\nannounce the death of Valancourt. Of this she had, indeed, more than\nonce so strong a presentiment, that she was on the point of returning\nhome, feeling herself unequal to an encounter with the certainty she\nanticipated, but, contending with her emotions, she so far commanded\nthem, as to be able to proceed.\n\nWhile she walked mournfully on, gazing on the long volumes of vapour,\nthat poured upon the sky, and watching the swallows, tossed along the\nwind, now disappearing among tempestuous clouds, and then emerging,\nfor a moment, in circles upon the calmer air, the afflictions and\nvicissitudes of her late life seemed pourtrayed in these fleeting\nimages;--thus had she been tossed upon the stormy sea of misfortune for\nthe last year, with but short intervals of peace, if peace that could be\ncalled, which was only the delay of evils. And now, when she had escaped\nfrom so many dangers, was become independent of the will of those, who\nhad oppressed her, and found herself mistress of a large fortune, now,\nwhen she might reasonably have expected happiness, she perceived that\nshe was as distant from it as ever. She would have accused herself\nof weakness and ingratitude in thus suffering a sense of the various\nblessings she possessed to be overcome by that of a single misfortune,\nhad this misfortune affected herself alone; but, when she had wept for\nValancourt even as living, tears of compassion had mingled with those\nof regret, and while she lamented a human being degraded to vice, and\nconsequently to misery, reason and humanity claimed these tears, and\nfortitude had not yet taught her to separate them from those of love; in\nthe present moments, however, it was not the certainty of his guilt, but\nthe apprehension of his death (of a death also, to which she herself,\nhowever innocently, appeared to have been in some degree instrumental)\nthat oppressed her. This fear increased, as the means of certainty\nconcerning it approached; and, when she came within view of Theresa's\ncottage, she was so much disordered, and her resolution failed her so\nentirely, that, unable to proceed, she rested on a bank, beside her\npath; where, as she sat, the wind that groaned sullenly among the lofty\nbranches above, seemed to her melancholy imagination to bear the sounds\nof distant lamentation, and, in the pauses of the gust, she still\nfancied she heard the feeble and far-off notes of distress. Attention\nconvinced her, that this was no more than fancy; but the increasing\ngloom, which seemed the sudden close of day, soon warned her to depart,\nand, with faltering steps, she again moved toward the cottage. Through\nthe casement appeared the cheerful blaze of a wood fire, and Theresa,\nwho had observed Emily approaching, was already at the door to receive\nher.\n\n'It is a cold evening, madam,' said she, 'storms are coming on, and I\nthought you would like a fire. Do take this chair by the hearth.'\n\nEmily, thanking her for this consideration, sat down, and then, looking\nin her face, on which the wood fire threw a gleam, she was struck with\nits expression, and, unable to speak, sunk back in her chair with a\ncountenance so full of woe, that Theresa instantly comprehended the\noccasion of it, but she remained silent. 'Ah!' said Emily, at length,\n'it is unnecessary for me to ask the result of your enquiry, your\nsilence, and that look, sufficiently explain it;--he is dead!'\n\n'Alas! my dear young lady,' replied Theresa, while tears filled her\neyes, 'this world is made up of trouble! the rich have their share\nas well as the poor! But we must all endeavour to bear what Heaven\npleases.'\n\n'He is dead, then!'--interrupted Emily--'Valancourt is dead!'\n\n'A-well-a-day! I fear he is,' replied Theresa.\n\n'You fear!' said Emily, 'do you only fear?'\n\n'Alas! yes, madam, I fear he is! neither the steward, or any of the\nEpourville family, have heard of him since he left Languedoc, and\nthe Count is in great affliction about him, for he says he was always\npunctual in writing, but that now he has not received a line from him,\nsince he left Languedoc; he appointed to be at home, three weeks ago,\nbut he has neither come, or written, and they fear some accident has\nbefallen him. Alas! that ever I should live to cry for his death! I am\nold, and might have died without being missed, but he'--Emily was faint,\nand asked for some water, and Theresa, alarmed by the voice, in which\nshe spoke, hastened to her assistance, and, while she held the water to\nEmily's lips, continued, 'My dear young mistress, do not take it so to\nheart; the Chevalier may be alive and well, for all this; let us hope\nthe best!'\n\n'O no! I cannot hope,' said Emily, 'I am acquainted with circumstances,\nthat will not suffer me to hope. I am somewhat better now, and can hear\nwhat you have to say. Tell me, I entreat, the particulars of what you\nknow.'\n\n'Stay, till you are a little better, mademoiselle, you look sadly!'\n\n'O no, Theresa, tell me all, while I have the power to hear it,' said\nEmily, 'tell me all, I conjure you!'\n\n'Well, madam, I will then; but the steward did not say much, for Richard\nsays he seemed shy of talking about Mons. Valancourt, and what he\ngathered was from Gabriel, one of the servants, who said he had heard it\nfrom my lord's gentleman.'\n\n'What did he hear?' said Emily.\n\n'Why, madam, Richard has but a bad memory, and could not remember half\nof it, and, if I had not asked him a great many questions, I should have\nheard little indeed. But he says that Gabriel said, that he and all the\nother servants were in great trouble about M. Valancourt, for that he\nwas such a kind young gentleman, they all loved him, as well as if he\nhad been their own brother--and now, to think what was become of him!\nFor he used to be so courteous to them all, and, if any of them had been\nin fault, M. Valancourt was the first to persuade my lord to forgive\nthem. And then, if any poor family was in distress, M. Valancourt was\nthe first, too, to relieve them, though some folks, not a great way off,\ncould have afforded that much better than he. And then, said Gabriel, he\nwas so gentle to every body, and, for all he had such a noble look with\nhim, he never would command, and call about him, as some of your quality\npeople do, and we never minded him the less for that. Nay, says Gabriel,\nfor that matter, we minded him the more, and would all have run to obey\nhim at a word, sooner than if some folks had told us what to do at full\nlength; aye, and were more afraid of displeasing him, too, than of them,\nthat used rough words to us.'\n\nEmily, who no longer considered it to be dangerous to listen to praise,\nbestowed on Valancourt, did not attempt to interrupt Theresa, but sat,\nattentive to her words, though almost overwhelmed with grief. 'My Lord,'\ncontinued Theresa, 'frets about M. Valancourt sadly, and the more,\nbecause, they say, he had been rather harsh against him lately. Gabriel\nsays he had it from my Lord's valet, that M. Valancourt had COMPORTED\nhimself wildly at Paris, and had spent a great deal of money, more\na great deal than my Lord liked, for he loves money better than M.\nValancourt, who had been led astray sadly. Nay, for that matter, M.\nValancourt had been put into prison at Paris, and my Lord, says Gabriel,\nrefused to take him out, and said he deserved to suffer; and, when old\nGregoire, the butler, heard of this, he actually bought a walking-stick\nto take with him to Paris, to visit his young master; but the next thing\nwe hear is, that M. Valancourt is coming home. O, it was a joyful day\nwhen he came; but he was sadly altered, and my Lord looked very cool\nupon him, and he was very sad, indeed. And, soon after, he went away\nagain into Languedoc, and, since that time, we have never seen him.'\n\nTheresa paused, and Emily, sighing deeply, remained with her eyes fixed\nupon the floor, without speaking. After a long pause, she enquired what\nfurther Theresa had heard. 'Yet why should I ask?' she added; 'what\nyou have already told is too much. O Valancourt! thou art gone--forever\ngone! and I--I have murdered thee!' These words, and the countenance of\ndespair which accompanied them, alarmed Theresa, who began to fear, that\nthe shock of the intelligence Emily had just received, had affected her\nsenses. 'My dear young lady, be composed,' said she, 'and do not say\nsuch frightful words. You murder M. Valancourt,--dear heart!' Emily\nreplied only by a heavy sigh.\n\n'Dear lady, it breaks my heart to see you look so,' said Theresa, 'do\nnot sit with your eyes upon the ground, and all so pale and melancholy;\nit frightens me to see you.' Emily was still silent, and did not\nappear to hear any thing that was said to her. 'Besides, mademoiselle,'\ncontinued Theresa, 'M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet, for what\nwe know.'\n\nAt the mention of his name, Emily raised her eyes, and fixed them, in a\nwild gaze, upon Theresa, as if she was endeavouring to understand what\nhad been said. 'Aye, my dear lady,' said Theresa, mistaking the meaning\nof this considerate air, 'M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet.'\n\nOn the repetition of these words, Emily comprehended their import, but,\ninstead of producing the effect intended, they seemed only to heighten\nher distress. She rose hastily from her chair, paced the little room,\nwith quick steps, and, often sighing deeply, clasped her hands, and\nshuddered.\n\nMeanwhile, Theresa, with simple, but honest affection, endeavoured to\ncomfort her; put more wood on the fire, stirred it up into a brighter\nblaze, swept the hearth, set the chair, which Emily had left, in a\nwarmer situation, and then drew forth from a cupboard a flask of wine.\n'It is a stormy night, madam,' said she, 'and blows cold--do come nearer\nthe fire, and take a glass of this wine; it will comfort you, as it has\ndone me, often and often, for it is not such wine as one gets every day;\nit is rich Languedoc, and the last of six flasks that M. Valancourt sent\nme, the night before he left Gascony for Paris. They have served me,\never since, as cordials, and I never drink it, but I think of him, and\nwhat kind words he said to me when he gave them. Theresa, says he, you\nare not young now, and should have a glass of good wine, now and then. I\nwill send you a few flasks, and, when you taste them, you will sometimes\nremember me your friend. Yes--those were his very words--me your\nfriend!' Emily still paced the room, without seeming to hear what\nTheresa said, who continued speaking. 'And I have remembered him, often\nenough, poor young gentleman!--for he gave me this roof for a shelter,\nand that, which has supported me. Ah! he is in heaven, with my blessed\nmaster, if ever saint was!'\n\nTheresa's voice faltered; she wept, and set down the flask, unable to\npour out the wine. Her grief seemed to recall Emily from her own, who\nwent towards her, but then stopped, and, having gazed on her, for a\nmoment, turned suddenly away, as if overwhelmed by the reflection, that\nit was Valancourt, whom Theresa lamented.\n\nWhile she yet paced the room, the still, soft note of an oboe, or flute,\nwas heard mingling with the blast, the sweetness of which affected\nEmily's spirits; she paused a moment in attention; the tender tones,\nas they swelled along the wind, till they were lost again in the ruder\ngust, came with a plaintiveness, that touched her heart, and she melted\ninto tears.\n\n'Aye,' said Theresa, drying her eyes, 'there is Richard, our neighbour's\nson, playing on the oboe; it is sad enough, to hear such sweet music\nnow.' Emily continued to weep, without replying. 'He often plays of an\nevening,' added Theresa, 'and, sometimes, the young folks dance to the\nsound of his oboe. But, dear young lady! do not cry so; and pray take\na glass of this wine,' continued she, pouring some into a glass, and\nhanding it to Emily, who reluctantly took it.\n\n'Taste it for M. Valancourt's sake,' said Theresa, as Emily lifted the\nglass to her lips, 'for he gave it me, you know, madam.' Emily's hand\ntrembled, and she spilt the wine as she withdrew it from her lips. 'For\nwhose sake!--who gave the wine?' said she in a faltering voice. 'M.\nValancourt, dear lady. I knew you would be pleased with it. It is the\nlast flask I have left.'\n\nEmily set the wine upon the table, and burst into tears, while Theresa,\ndisappointed and alarmed, tried to comfort her; but she only waved her\nhand, entreated she might be left alone, and wept the more.\n\nA knock at the cottage door prevented Theresa from immediately obeying\nher mistress, and she was going to open it, when Emily, checking her,\nrequested she would not admit any person; but, afterwards, recollecting,\nthat she had ordered her servant to attend her home, she said it was\nonly Philippe, and endeavoured to restrain her tears, while Theresa\nopened the door.\n\nA voice, that spoke without, drew Emily's attention. She listened,\nturned her eyes to the door, when a person now appeared, and immediately\na bright gleam, that flashed from the fire, discovered--Valancourt!\n\nEmily, on perceiving him, started from her chair, trembled, and, sinking\ninto it again, became insensible to all around her.\n\nA scream from Theresa now told, that she knew Valancourt, whom her\nimperfect sight, and the duskiness of the place had prevented her from\nimmediately recollecting; but his attention was immediately called from\nher to the person, whom he saw, falling from a chair near the fire;\nand, hastening to her assistance,--he perceived, that he was supporting\nEmily! The various emotions, that seized him upon thus unexpectedly\nmeeting with her, from whom he had believed he had parted for ever,\nand on beholding her pale and lifeless in his arms--may, perhaps, be\nimagined, though they could neither be then expressed, or now described,\nany more than Emily's sensations, when, at length, she unclosed her\neyes, and, looking up, again saw Valancourt. The intense anxiety, with\nwhich he regarded her, was instantly changed to an expression of mingled\njoy and tenderness, as his eye met hers, and he perceived, that she was\nreviving. But he could only exclaim, 'Emily!' as he silently watched her\nrecovery, while she averted her eye, and feebly attempted to withdraw\nher hand; but, in these the first moments, which succeeded to the pangs\nhis supposed death had occasioned her, she forgot every fault, which had\nformerly claimed indignation, and beholding Valancourt such as he had\nappeared, when he won her early affection, she experienced emotions of\nonly tenderness and joy. This, alas! was but the sunshine of a few short\nmoments; recollections rose, like clouds, upon her mind, and, darkening\nthe illusive image, that possessed it, she again beheld Valancourt,\ndegraded--Valancourt unworthy of the esteem and tenderness she had once\nbestowed upon him; her spirits faltered, and, withdrawing her hand, she\nturned from him to conceal her grief, while he, yet more embarrassed and\nagitated, remained silent.\n\nA sense of what she owed to herself restrained her tears, and taught\nher soon to overcome, in some degree, the emotions of mingled joy and\nsorrow, that contended at her heart, as she rose, and, having thanked\nhim for the assistance he had given her, bade Theresa good evening. As\nshe was leaving the cottage, Valancourt, who seemed suddenly awakened\nas from a dream, entreated, in a voice, that pleaded powerfully for\ncompassion, a few moments attention. Emily's heart, perhaps, pleaded as\npowerfully, but she had resolution enough to resist both, together with\nthe clamorous entreaties of Theresa, that she would not venture home\nalone in the dark, and had already opened the cottage door, when the\npelting storm compelled her to obey their requests.\n\nSilent and embarrassed, she returned to the fire, while Valancourt, with\nincreasing agitation, paced the room, as if he wished, yet feared, to\nspeak, and Theresa expressed without restraint her joy and wonder upon\nseeing him.\n\n'Dear heart! sir,' said she, 'I never was so surprised and overjoyed in\nmy life. We were in great tribulation before you came, for we thought\nyou was dead, and were talking, and lamenting about you, just when you\nknocked at the door. My young mistress there was crying, fit to break\nher heart--'\n\nEmily looked with much displeasure at Theresa, but, before she could\nspeak, Valancourt, unable to repress the emotion, which Theresa's\nimprudent discovery occasioned, exclaimed, 'O my Emily! am I then\nstill dear to you! Did you, indeed, honour me with a thought--a tear? O\nheavens! you weep--you weep now!'\n\n'Theresa, sir,' said Emily, with a reserved air, and trying to conquer\nher tears, 'has reason to remember you with gratitude, and she was\nconcerned, because she had not lately heard of you. Allow me to thank\nyou for the kindness you have shewn her, and to say, that, since I am\nnow upon the spot, she must not be further indebted to you.''\n\n'Emily,' said Valancourt, no longer master of his emotions, 'is it thus\nyou meet him, whom once you meant to honour with your hand--thus you\nmeet him, who has loved you--suffered for you?--Yet what do I say?\nPardon me, pardon me, mademoiselle St. Aubert, I know not what I utter.\nI have no longer any claim upon your remembrance--I have forfeited every\npretension to your esteem, your love. Yes! let me not forget, that I\nonce possessed your affections, though to know that I have lost them,\nis my severest affliction. Affliction--do I call it!--that is a term of\nmildness.'\n\n'Dear heart!' said Theresa, preventing Emily from replying, 'talk of\nonce having her affections! Why, my dear young lady loves you now,\nbetter than she does any body in the whole world, though she pretends to\ndeny it.'\n\n'This is insupportable!' said Emily; 'Theresa, you know not what you\nsay. Sir, if you respect my tranquillity, you will spare me from the\ncontinuance of this distress.'\n\n'I do respect your tranquillity too much, voluntarily to interrupt it,'\nreplied Valancourt, in whose bosom pride now contended with tenderness;\n'and will not be a voluntary intruder. I would have entreated a few\nmoments attention--yet I know not for what purpose. You have ceased to\nesteem me, and to recount to you my sufferings will degrade me more,\nwithout exciting even your pity. Yet I have been, O Emily! I am indeed\nvery wretched!' added Valancourt, in a voice, that softened from\nsolemnity into grief.\n\n'What! is my dear young master going out in all this rain!' said\nTheresa. 'No, he shall not stir a step. Dear! dear! to see how\ngentlefolks can afford to throw away their happiness! Now, if you were\npoor people, there would be none of this. To talk of unworthiness,\nand not caring about one another, when I know there are not such a\nkind-hearted lady and gentleman in the whole province, nor any that love\none another half so well, if the truth was spoken!'\n\nEmily, in extreme vexation, now rose from her chair, 'I must be gone,'\nsaid she, 'the storm is over.'\n\n'Stay, Emily, stay, mademoiselle St. Aubert!' said Valancourt, summoning\nall his resolution, 'I will no longer distress you by my presence.\nForgive me, that I did not sooner obey you, and, if you can, sometimes,\npity one, who, in losing you--has lost all hope of peace! May you be\nhappy, Emily, however wretched I remain, happy as my fondest wish would\nhave you!'\n\nHis voice faltered with the last words, and his countenance changed,\nwhile, with a look of ineffable tenderness and grief, he gazed upon her\nfor an instant, and then quitted the cottage.\n\n'Dear heart! dear heart!' cried Theresa, following him to the door,\n'why, Monsieur Valancourt! how it rains! what a night is this to turn\nhim out in! Why it will give him his death; and it was but now you was\ncrying, mademoiselle, because he was dead. Well! young ladies do change\ntheir mind in a minute, as one may say!'\n\nEmily made no reply, for she heard not what was said, while, lost in\nsorrow and thought, she remained in her chair by the fire, with her eyes\nfixed, and the image of Valancourt still before them.\n\n'M. Valancourt is sadly altered! madam,' said Theresa; 'he looks so thin\nto what he used to do, and so melancholy, and then he wears his arm in a\nsling.'\n\nEmily raised her eyes at these words, for she had not observed this last\ncircumstance, and she now did not doubt, that Valancourt had received\nthe shot of her gardener at Tholouse; with this conviction her pity for\nhim returning, she blamed herself for having occasioned him to leave the\ncottage, during the storm.\n\nSoon after her servants arrived with the carriage, and Emily, having\ncensured Theresa for her thoughtless conversation to Valancourt, and\nstrictly charging her never to repeat any hints of the same kind to him,\nwithdrew to her home, thoughtful and disconsolate.\n\nMeanwhile, Valancourt had returned to a little inn of the village,\nwhither he had arrived only a few moments before his visit to Theresa's\ncottage, on the way from Tholouse to the chateau of the Count de\nDuvarney, where he had not been since he bade adieu to Emily at\nChateau-le-Blanc, in the neighbourhood of which he had lingered for a\nconsiderable time, unable to summon resolution enough to quit a place,\nthat contained the object most dear to his heart. There were times,\nindeed, when grief and despair urged him to appear again before Emily,\nand, regardless of his ruined circumstances, to renew his suit. Pride,\nhowever, and the tenderness of his affection, which could not long\nendure the thought of involving her in his misfortunes, at length, so\nfar triumphed over passion, that he relinquished this desperate design,\nand quitted Chateau-le-Blanc. But still his fancy wandered among the\nscenes, which had witnessed his early love, and, on his way to\nGascony, he stopped at Tholouse, where he remained when Emily arrived,\nconcealing, yet indulging his melancholy in the gardens, where he had\nformerly passed with her so many happy hours; often recurring, with vain\nregret, to the evening before her departure for Italy, when she had so\nunexpectedly met him on the terrace, and endeavouring to recall to his\nmemory every word and look, which had then charmed him, the arguments\nhe had employed to dissuade her from the journey, and the tenderness\nof their last farewel. In such melancholy recollections he had been\nindulging, when Emily unexpectedly arrived to him on this very terrace,\nthe evening after her arrival at Tholouse. His emotions, on thus\nseeing her, can scarcely be imagined; but he so far overcame the first\npromptings of love, that he forbore to discover himself, and abruptly\nquitted the gardens. Still, however, the vision he had seen haunted his\nmind; he became more wretched than before, and the only solace of his\nsorrow was to return in the silence of the night; to follow the paths\nwhich he believed her steps had pressed, during the day; and, to watch\nround the habitation where she reposed. It was in one of these mournful\nwanderings, that he had received by the fire of the gardener, who\nmistook him for a robber, a wound in his arm, which had detained him\nat Tholouse till very lately, under the hands of a surgeon. There,\nregardless of himself and careless of his friends, whose late unkindness\nhad urged him to believe, that they were indifferent as to his fate,\nhe remained, without informing them of his situation; and now, being\nsufficiently recovered to bear travelling, he had taken La Vallee in\nhis way to Estuviere, the Count's residence, partly for the purpose of\nhearing of Emily, and of being again near her, and partly for that of\nenquiring into the situation of poor old Theresa, who, he had reason to\nsuppose, had been deprived of her stipend, small as it was, and which\nenquiry had brought him to her cottage, when Emily happened to be there.\n\nThis unexpected interview, which had at once shewn him the tenderness of\nher love and the strength of her resolution, renewed all the acuteness\nof the despair, that had attended their former separation, and which\nno effort of reason could teach him, in these moments, to subdue. Her\nimage, her look, the tones of her voice, all dwelt on his fancy, as\npowerfully as they had late appeared to his senses, and banished from\nhis heart every emotion, except those of love and despair.\n\nBefore the evening concluded, he returned to Theresa's cottage, that\nhe might hear her talk of Emily, and be in the place, where she had so\nlately been. The joy, felt and expressed by that faithful servant, was\nquickly changed to sorrow, when she observed, at one moment, his wild\nand phrensied look, and, at another, the dark melancholy, that overhung\nhim.\n\nAfter he had listened, and for a considerable time, to all she had to\nrelate, concerning Emily, he gave Theresa nearly all the money he\nhad about him, though she repeatedly refused it, declaring, that her\nmistress had amply supplied her wants; and then, drawing a ring of value\nfrom his finger, he delivered it her with a solemn charge to present\nit to Emily, of whom he entreated, as a last favour, that she would\npreserve it for his sake, and sometimes, when she looked upon it,\nremember the unhappy giver.\n\nTheresa wept, as she received the ring, but it was more from sympathy,\nthan from any presentiment of evil; and before she could reply,\nValancourt abruptly left the cottage. She followed him to the door,\ncalling upon his name and entreating him to return; but she received no\nanswer, and saw him no more.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIV\n\n\n  Call up him, that left half told\n The story of Cambuscan bold.\n     MILTON\n\nOn the following morning, as Emily sat in the parlour adjoining the\nlibrary, reflecting on the scene of the preceding night, Annette rushed\nwildly into the room, and, without speaking, sunk breathless into a\nchair. It was some time before she could answer the anxious enquiries of\nEmily, as to the occasion of her emotion, but, at length, she exclaimed,\n'I have seen his ghost, madam, I have seen his ghost!'\n\n'Who do you mean?' said Emily, with extreme impatience.\n\n'It came in from the hall, madam,' continued Annette, 'as I was crossing\nto the parlour.'\n\n'Who are you speaking of?' repeated Emily, 'Who came in from the hall?\n\n'It was dressed just as I have seen him, often and often,' added\nAnnette. 'Ah! who could have thought--'\n\nEmily's patience was now exhausted, and she was reprimanding her for\nsuch idle fancies, when a servant entered the room, and informed her,\nthat a stranger without begged leave to speak with her.\n\nIt immediately occurred to Emily, that this stranger was Valancourt, and\nshe told the servant to inform him, that she was engaged, and could not\nsee any person.\n\nThe servant, having delivered his message, returned with one from the\nstranger, urging the first request, and saying, that he had something of\nconsequence to communicate; while Annette, who had hitherto sat\nsilent and amazed, now started up, and crying, 'It is Ludovico!--it is\nLudovico!' ran out of the room. Emily bade the servant follow her, and,\nif it really was Ludovico, to shew him into the parlour.\n\nIn a few minutes, Ludovico appeared, accompanied by Annette, who, as\njoy rendered her forgetful of all rules of decorum towards her mistress,\nwould not suffer any person to be heard, for some time, but herself.\nEmily expressed surprise and satisfaction, on seeing Ludovico in safety,\nand the first emotions increased, when he delivered letters from\nCount De Villefort and the Lady Blanche, informing her of their late\nadventure, and of their present situation at an inn among the Pyrenees,\nwhere they had been detained by the illness of Mons. St. Foix, and the\nindisposition of Blanche, who added, that the Baron St. Foix was just\narrived to attend his son to his chateau, where he would remain till the\nperfect recovery of his wounds, and then return to Languedoc, but that\nher father and herself purposed to be at La Vallee, on the following\nday. She added, that Emily's presence would be expected at the\napproaching nuptials, and begged she would be prepared to proceed, in\na few days to Chateau-le-Blanc. For an account of Ludovico's adventure,\nshe referred her to himself; and Emily, though much interested,\nconcerning the means, by which he had disappeared from the north\napartments, had the forbearance to suspend the gratification of her\ncuriosity, till he had taken some refreshment, and had conversed with\nAnnette, whose joy, on seeing him in safety, could not have been more\nextravagant, had he arisen from the grave.\n\nMeanwhile, Emily perused again the letters of her friends, whose\nexpressions of esteem and kindness were very necessary consolations\nto her heart, awakened as it was by the late interview to emotions of\nkeener sorrow and regret.\n\nThe invitation to Chateau-le-Blanc was pressed with so much kindness by\nthe Count and his daughter, who strengthened it by a message from the\nCountess, and the occasion of it was so important to her friend, that\nEmily could not refuse to accept it, nor, though she wished to remain\nin the quiet shades of her native home, could she avoid perceiving the\nimpropriety of remaining there alone, since Valancourt was again in the\nneighbourhood. Sometimes, too, she thought, that change of scenery and\nthe society of her friends might contribute, more than retirement, to\nrestore her to tranquillity.\n\nWhen Ludovico again appeared, she desired him to give a detail of his\nadventure in the north apartments, and to tell by what means he became a\ncompanion of the banditti, with whom the Count had found him.\n\nHe immediately obeyed, while Annette, who had not yet had leisure to\nask him many questions, on the subject, prepared to listen, with a\ncountenance of extreme curiosity, venturing to remind her lady of her\nincredulity, concerning spirits, in the castle of Udolpho, and of\nher own sagacity in believing in them; while Emily, blushing at the\nconsciousness of her late credulity, observed, that, if Ludovico's\nadventure could justify Annette's superstition, he had probably not been\nhere to relate it.\n\nLudovico smiled at Annette, and bowed to Emily, and then began as\nfollows:\n\n'You may remember, madam, that, on the night, when I sat up in the north\nchamber, my lord, the Count, and Mons. Henri accompanied me thither, and\nthat, while they remained there, nothing happened to excite any alarm.\nWhen they were gone I made a fire in the bed-room, and, not being\ninclined to sleep, I sat down on the hearth with a book I had brought\nwith me to divert my mind. I confess I did sometimes look round the\nchamber, with something like apprehension--'\n\n'O very like it, I dare say,' interrupted Annette, 'and I dare say too,\nif the truth was known, you shook from head to foot.'\n\n'Not quite so bad as that,' replied Ludovico, smiling, 'but several\ntimes, as the wind whistled round the castle, and shook the old\ncasements, I did fancy I heard odd noises, and, once or twice, I got up\nand looked about me; but nothing was to be seen, except the grim figures\nin the tapestry, which seemed to frown upon me, as I looked at them.\nI had sat thus for above an hour,' continued Ludovico, 'when again I\nthought I heard a noise, and glanced my eyes round the room, to discover\nwhat it came from, but, not perceiving any thing, I began to read\nagain, and, when I had finished the story I was upon, I felt drowsy, and\ndropped asleep. But presently I was awakened by the noise I had heard\nbefore, and it seemed to come from that part of the chamber, where the\nbed stood; and then, whether it was the story I had been reading that\naffected my spirits, or the strange reports, that had been spread of\nthese apartments, I don't know, but, when I looked towards the bed\nagain, I fancied I saw a man's face within the dusky curtains.'\n\nAt the mention of this, Emily trembled, and looked anxiously,\nremembering the spectacle she had herself witnessed there with Dorothee.\n\n'I confess, madam, my heart did fail me, at that instant,' continued\nLudovico, 'but a return of the noise drew my attention from the bed, and\nI then distinctly heard a sound, like that of a key, turning in a lock,\nbut what surprised me more was, that I saw no door where the sound\nseemed to come from. In the next moment, however, the arras near the\nbed was slowly lifted, and a person appeared behind it, entering from\na small door in the wall. He stood for a moment as if half retreating,\nwith his head bending under the arras which concealed the upper part of\nhis face except his eyes scowling beneath the tapestry as he held it;\nand then, while he raised it higher, I saw the face of another man\nbehind, looking over his shoulder. I know not how it was, but, though\nmy sword was upon the table before me, I had not the power just then to\nseize it, but sat quite still, watching them, with my eyes half shut as\nif I was asleep. I suppose they thought me so, and were debating what\nthey should do, for I heard them whisper, and they stood in the same\nposture for the value of a minute, and then, I thought I perceived other\nfaces in the duskiness beyond the door, and heard louder whispers.'\n\n'This door surprises me,' said Emily, 'because I understood, that\nthe Count had caused the arras to be lifted, and the walls examined,\nsuspecting, that they might have concealed a passage through which you\nhad departed.'\n\n'It does not appear so extraordinary to me, madam,' replied Ludovico,\n'that this door should escape notice, because it was formed in a narrow\ncompartment, which appeared to be part of the outward wall, and, if the\nCount had not passed over it, he might have thought it was useless to\nsearch for a door where it seemed as if no passage could communicate\nwith one; but the truth was, that the passage was formed within the\nwall itself.--But, to return to the men, whom I saw obscurely beyond the\ndoor, and who did not suffer me to remain long in suspense, concerning\ntheir design. They all rushed into the room, and surrounded me, though\nnot before I had snatched up my sword to defend myself. But what could\none man do against four? They soon disarmed me, and, having fastened my\narms, and gagged my mouth, forced me through the private door, leaving\nmy sword upon the table, to assist, as they said, those who should come\nin the morning to look for me, in fighting against the ghosts. They then\nled me through many narrow passages, cut, as I fancied, in the walls,\nfor I had never seen them before, and down several flights of steps,\ntill we came to the vaults underneath the castle; and then opening\na stone door, which I should have taken for the wall itself, we went\nthrough a long passage, and down other steps cut in the solid rock, when\nanother door delivered us into a cave. After turning and twining about,\nfor some time, we reached the mouth of it, and I found myself on the\nsea-beach at the foot of the cliffs, with the chateau above. A boat was\nin waiting, into which the ruffians got, forcing me along with them,\nand we soon reached a small vessel, that was at anchor, where other men\nappeared, when setting me aboard, two of the fellows who had seized me,\nfollowed, and the other two rowed back to the shore, while we set sail.\nI soon found out what all this meant, and what was the business of these\nmen at the chateau. We landed in Rousillon, and, after lingering\nseveral days about the shore, some of their comrades came down from the\nmountains, and carried me with them to the fort, where I remained till\nmy Lord so unexpectedly arrived, for they had taken good care to prevent\nmy running away, having blindfolded me, during the journey, and, if they\nhad not done this, I think I never could have found my road to any town,\nthrough the wild country we traversed. After I reached the fort I was\nwatched like a prisoner, and never suffered to go out, without two or\nthree companions, and I became so weary of life, that I often wished to\nget rid of it.'\n\n'Well, but they let you talk,' said Annette, 'they did not gagg you\nafter they got you away from the chateau, so I don't see what reason\nthere was to be so very weary of living; to say nothing about the chance\nyou had of seeing me again.'\n\nLudovico smiled, and Emily also, who enquired what was the motive of\nthese men for carrying him off.\n\n'I soon found out, madam,' resumed Ludovico, 'that they were pirates,\nwho had, during many years, secreted their spoil in the vaults of the\ncastle, which, being so near the sea, suited their purpose well. To\nprevent detection they had tried to have it believed, that the chateau\nwas haunted, and, having discovered the private way to the north\napartments, which had been shut up ever since the death of the lady\nmarchioness, they easily succeeded. The housekeeper and her husband, who\nwere the only persons, that had inhabited the castle, for some years,\nwere so terrified by the strange noises they heard in the nights, that\nthey would live there no longer; a report soon went abroad, that it\nwas haunted, and the whole country believed this the more readily, I\nsuppose, because it had been said, that the lady marchioness had died\nin a strange way, and because my lord never would return to the place\nafterwards.'\n\n'But why,' said Emily, 'were not these pirates contented with the\ncave--why did they think it necessary to deposit their spoil in the\ncastle?'\n\n'The cave, madam,' replied Ludovico, 'was open to any body, and their\ntreasures would not long have remained undiscovered there, but in the\nvaults they were secure so long as the report prevailed of their being\nhaunted. Thus then, it appears, that they brought at midnight, the\nspoil they took on the seas, and kept it till they had opportunities of\ndisposing of it to advantage. The pirates were connected with Spanish\nsmugglers and banditti, who live among the wilds of the Pyrenees, and\ncarry on various kinds of traffic, such as nobody would think of; and\nwith this desperate horde of banditti I remained, till my lord arrived.\nI shall never forget what I felt, when I first discovered him--I almost\ngave him up for lost! but I knew, that, if I shewed myself, the banditti\nwould discover who he was, and probably murder us all, to prevent their\nsecret in the chateau being detected. I, therefore, kept out of my\nlord's sight, but had a strict watch upon the ruffians, and determined,\nif they offered him or his family violence, to discover myself, and\nfight for our lives. Soon after, I overheard some of them laying a most\ndiabolical plan for the murder and plunder of the whole party, when I\ncontrived to speak to some of my lord's attendants, telling them what\nwas going forward, and we consulted what was best to be done; meanwhile\nmy lord, alarmed at the absence of the Lady Blanche, demanded her, and\nthe ruffians having given some unsatisfactory answer, my lord and Mons.\nSt. Foix became furious, so then we thought it a good time to discover\nthe plot, and rushing into the chamber, I called out, \"Treachery! my\nlord count, defend yourself!\" His lordship and the chevalier drew their\nswords directly, and a hard battle we had, but we conquered at last, as,\nmadam, you are already informed of by my Lord Count.'\n\n'This is an extraordinary adventure,' said Emily, 'and much praise\nis due, Ludovico, to your prudence and intrepidity. There are some\ncircumstances, however, concerning the north apartments, which still\nperplex me; but, perhaps, you may be able to explain them. Did you ever\nhear the banditti relate any thing extraordinary of these rooms?'\n\n'No, madam,' replied Ludovico, 'I never heard them speak about the\nrooms, except to laugh at the credulity of the old housekeeper, who\nonce was very near catching one of the pirates; it was since the Count\narrived at the chateau, he said, and he laughed heartily as he related\nthe trick he had played off.'\n\nA blush overspread Emily's cheek, and she impatiently desired Ludovico\nto explain himself.\n\n'Why, my lady,' said he, 'as this fellow was, one night in the bed-room,\nhe heard somebody approaching through the next apartment, and not having\ntime to lift up the arras, and unfasten the door, he hid himself in\nthe bed just by. There he lay for some time in as great a fright, I\nsuppose--'\n\n'As you was in,' interrupted Annette, 'when you sat up so boldly to\nwatch by yourself.'\n\n'Aye,' said Ludovico, 'in as great a fright as he ever made any body\nelse suffer; and presently the housekeeper and some other person came up\nto the bed, when he, thinking they were going to examine it, bethought\nhim, that his only chance of escaping detection, was by terrifying them;\nso he lifted up the counterpane, but that did not do, till he raised his\nface above it, and then they both set off, he said, as if they had seen\nthe devil, and he got out of the rooms undiscovered.'\n\nEmily could not forbear smiling at this explanation of the deception,\nwhich had given her so much superstitious terror, and was surprised,\nthat she could have suffered herself to be thus alarmed, till she\nconsidered, that, when the mind has once begun to yield to the weakness\nof superstition, trifles impress it with the force of conviction. Still,\nhowever, she remembered with awe the mysterious music, which had been\nheard, at midnight, near Chateau-le-Blanc, and she asked Ludovico if he\ncould give any explanation of it; but he could not.\n\n'I only know, madam,' he added, 'that it did not belong to the pirates,\nfor I have heard them laugh about it, and say, they believed the devil\nwas in league with them there.'\n\n'Yes, I will answer for it he was,' said Annette, her countenance\nbrightening, 'I was sure all along, that he or his spirits had something\nto do with the north apartments, and now you see, madam, I am right at\nlast.'\n\n'It cannot be denied, that his spirits were very busy in that part of\nthe chateau,' replied Emily, smiling. 'But I am surprised, Ludovico,\nthat these pirates should persevere in their schemes, after the arrival\nof the Count; what could they expect but certain detection?'\n\n'I have reason to believe, madam,' replied Ludovico, 'that it was their\nintention to persevere no longer than was necessary for the removal of\nthe stores, which were deposited in the vaults; and it appeared, that\nthey had been employed in doing so from within a short period after the\nCount's arrival; but, as they had only a few hours in the night for\nthis business, and were carrying on other schemes at the same time, the\nvaults were not above half emptied, when they took me away. They gloried\nexceedingly in this opportunity of confirming the superstitious reports,\nthat had been spread of the north chambers, were careful to leave every\nthing there as they had found it, the better to promote the deception,\nand frequently, in their jocose moods, would laugh at the consternation,\nwhich they believed the inhabitants of the castle had suffered upon\nmy disappearing, and it was to prevent the possibility of my betraying\ntheir secret, that they had removed me to such a distance. From that\nperiod they considered the chateau as nearly their own; but I found from\nthe discourse of their comrades, that, though they were cautious, at\nfirst, in shewing their power there, they had once very nearly betrayed\nthemselves. Going, one night, as was their custom, to the north chambers\nto repeat the noises, that had occasioned such alarm among the servants,\nthey heard, as they were about to unfasten the secret door, voices in\nthe bed-room. My lord has since told me, that himself and M. Henri\nwere then in the apartment, and they heard very extraordinary sounds of\nlamentation, which it seems were made by these fellows, with their usual\ndesign of spreading terror; and my lord has owned, he then felt somewhat\nmore, than surprise; but, as it was necessary to the peace of his\nfamily, that no notice should be taken, he was silent on the subject,\nand enjoined silence to his son.'\n\nEmily, recollecting the change, that had appeared in the spirits of\nthe Count, after the night, when he had watched in the north room, now\nperceived the cause of it; and, having made some further enquiries upon\nthis strange affair, she dismissed Ludovico, and went to give orders for\nthe accommodation of her friends, on the following day.\n\nIn the evening, Theresa, lame as she was, came to deliver the ring, with\nwhich Valancourt had entrusted her, and, when she presented it, Emily\nwas much affected, for she remembered to have seen him wear it often\nin happier days. She was, however, much displeased, that Theresa had\nreceived it, and positively refused to accept it herself, though to\nhave done so would have afforded her a melancholy pleasure. Theresa\nentreated, expostulated, and then described the distress of Valancourt,\nwhen he had given the ring, and repeated the message, with which he had\ncommissioned her to deliver it; and Emily could not conceal the extreme\nsorrow this recital occasioned her, but wept, and remained lost in\nthought.\n\n'Alas! my dear young lady!' said Theresa, 'why should all this be? I\nhave known you from your infancy, and it may well be supposed I love\nyou, as if you was my own, and wish as much to see you happy. M.\nValancourt, to be sure, I have not known so long, but then I have reason\nto love him, as though he was my own son. I know how well you love one\nanother, or why all this weeping and wailing?' Emily waved her hand for\nTheresa to be silent, who, disregarding the signal, continued, 'And\nhow much you are alike in your tempers and ways, and, that, if you were\nmarried, you would be the happiest couple in the whole province--then\nwhat is there to prevent your marrying? Dear dear! to see how some\npeople fling away their happiness, and then cry and lament about it,\njust as if it was not their own doing, and as if there was more pleasure\nin wailing and weeping, than in being at peace. Learning, to be sure,\nis a fine thing, but, if it teaches folks no better than that, why I had\nrather be without it; if it would teach them to be happier, I would say\nsomething to it, then it would be learning and wisdom too.'\n\nAge and long services had given Theresa a privilege to talk, but\nEmily now endeavoured to check her loquacity, and, though she felt\nthe justness of some of her remarks, did not choose to explain the\ncircumstances, that had determined her conduct towards Valancourt. She,\ntherefore, only told Theresa, that it would much displease her to hear\nthe subject renewed; that she had reasons for her conduct, which she did\nnot think it proper to mention, and that the ring must be returned, with\nan assurance, that she could not accept it with propriety; and, at\nthe same time, she forbade Theresa to repeat any future message\nfrom Valancourt, as she valued her esteem and kindness. Theresa was\nafflicted, and made another attempt, though feeble, to interest her\nfor Valancourt, but the unusual displeasure, expressed in Emily's\ncountenance, soon obliged her to desist, and she departed in wonder and\nlamentation.\n\nTo relieve her mind, in some degree, from the painful recollections,\nthat intruded upon it, Emily busied herself in preparations for the\njourney into Languedoc, and, while Annette, who assisted her, spoke with\njoy and affection of the safe return of Ludovico, she was considering\nhow she might best promote their happiness, and determined, if it\nappeared, that his affection was as unchanged as that of the simple and\nhonest Annette, to give her a marriage portion, and settle them on some\npart of her estate. These considerations led her to the remembrance of\nher father's paternal domain, which his affairs had formerly compelled\nhim to dispose of to M. Quesnel, and which she frequently wished to\nregain, because St. Aubert had lamented, that the chief lands of his\nancestors had passed into another family, and because they had been his\nbirth-place and the haunt of his early years. To the estate at Tholouse\nshe had no peculiar attachment, and it was her wish to dispose of this,\nthat she might purchase her paternal domains, if M. Quesnel could be\nprevailed on to part with them, which, as he talked much of living in\nItaly, did not appear very improbable.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XV\n\n\n  Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,\n The bees' collected treasures sweet,\n Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet\n The still, small voice of gratitude.\n     GRAY\n\nOn the following day, the arrival of her friend revived the drooping\nEmily, and La Vallee became once more the scene of social kindness and\nof elegant hospitality. Illness and the terror she had suffered had\nstolen from Blanche much of her sprightliness, but all her affectionate\nsimplicity remained, and, though she appeared less blooming, she was not\nless engaging than before. The unfortunate adventure on the Pyrenees had\nmade the Count very anxious to reach home, and, after little more than a\nweek's stay at La Vallee, Emily prepared to set out with her friends\nfor Languedoc, assigning the care of her house, during her absence,\nto Theresa. On the evening, preceding her departure, this old servant\nbrought again the ring of Valancourt, and, with tears, entreated her\nmistress to receive it, for that she had neither seen, or heard of M.\nValancourt, since the night when he delivered it to her. As she said\nthis, her countenance expressed more alarm, than she dared to utter;\nbut Emily, checking her own propensity to fear, considered, that he had\nprobably returned to the residence of his brother, and, again refusing\nto accept the ring, bade Theresa preserve it, till she saw him, which,\nwith extreme reluctance, she promised to do.\n\nOn the following day, Count De Villefort, with Emily and the Lady\nBlanche, left La Vallee, and, on the ensuing evening, arrived at the\nChateau-le-Blanc, where the Countess, Henri, and M. Du Pont, whom\nEmily was surprised to find there, received them with much joy and\ncongratulation. She was concerned to observe, that the Count still\nencouraged the hopes of his friend, whose countenance declared, that\nhis affection had suffered no abatement from absence; and was much\ndistressed, when, on the second evening after her arrival, the Count,\nhaving withdrawn her from the Lady Blanche, with whom she was walking,\nrenewed the subject of M. Du Pont's hopes. The mildness, with which\nshe listened to his intercessions at first, deceiving him, as to her\nsentiments, he began to believe, that, her affection for Valancourt\nbeing overcome, she was, at length, disposed to think favourably of\nM. Du Pont; and, when she afterwards convinced him of his mistake, he\nventured, in the earnestness of his wish to promote what he considered\nto be the happiness of two persons, whom he so much esteemed, gently\nto remonstrate with her, on thus suffering an ill-placed affection to\npoison the happiness of her most valuable years.\n\nObserving her silence and the deep dejection of her countenance, he\nconcluded with saying, 'I will not say more now, but I will still\nbelieve, my dear Mademoiselle St. Aubert, that you will not always\nreject a person, so truly estimable as my friend Du Pont.'\n\nHe spared her the pain of replying, by leaving her; and she strolled on,\nsomewhat displeased with the Count for having persevered to plead for a\nsuit, which she had repeatedly rejected, and lost amidst the melancholy\nrecollections, which this topic had revived, till she had insensibly\nreached the borders of the woods, that screened the monastery of St.\nClair, when, perceiving how far she had wandered, she determined to\nextend her walk a little farther, and to enquire about the abbess and\nsome of her friends among the nuns.\n\nThough the evening was now drawing to a close, she accepted the\ninvitation of the friar, who opened the gate, and, anxious to meet some\nof her old acquaintances, proceeded towards the convent parlour. As she\ncrossed the lawn, that sloped from the front of the monastery towards\nthe sea, she was struck with the picture of repose, exhibited by some\nmonks, sitting in the cloisters, which extended under the brow of the\nwoods, that crowned this eminence; where, as they meditated, at this\ntwilight hour, holy subjects, they sometimes suffered their attention to\nbe relieved by the scene before them, nor thought it profane to look at\nnature, now that it had exchanged the brilliant colours of day for the\nsober hue of evening. Before the cloisters, however, spread an\nancient chesnut, whose ample branches were designed to screen the full\nmagnificence of a scene, that might tempt the wish to worldly pleasures;\nbut still, beneath the dark and spreading foliage, gleamed a wide extent\nof ocean, and many a passing sail; while, to the right and left, thick\nwoods were seen stretching along the winding shores. So much as this had\nbeen admitted, perhaps, to give to the secluded votary an image of the\ndangers and vicissitudes of life, and to console him, now that he had\nrenounced its pleasures, by the certainty of having escaped its evils.\nAs Emily walked pensively along, considering how much suffering she\nmight have escaped, had she become a votaress of the order, and remained\nin this retirement from the time of her father's death, the vesper-bell\nstruck up, and the monks retired slowly toward the chapel, while she,\npursuing her way, entered the great hall, where an unusual silence\nseemed to reign. The parlour too, which opened from it, she found\nvacant, but, as the evening bell was sounding, she believed the nuns had\nwithdrawn into the chapel, and sat down to rest, for a moment, before\nshe returned to the chateau, where, however, the increasing gloom made\nher now anxious to be.\n\nNot many minutes had elapsed, before a nun, entering in haste, enquired\nfor the abbess, and was retiring, without recollecting Emily, when\nshe made herself known, and then learned, that a mass was going to be\nperformed for the soul of sister Agnes, who had been declining, for some\ntime, and who was now believed to be dying.\n\nOf her sufferings the sister gave a melancholy account, and of the\nhorrors, into which she had frequently started, but which had now\nyielded to a dejection so gloomy, that neither the prayers, in which she\nwas joined by the sisterhood, or the assurances of her confessor, had\npower to recall her from it, or to cheer her mind even with a momentary\ngleam of comfort.\n\nTo this relation Emily listened with extreme concern, and, recollecting\nthe frenzied manners and the expressions of horror, which she had\nherself witnessed of Agnes, together with the history, that sister\nFrances had communicated, her compassion was heightened to a very\npainful degree. As the evening was already far advanced, Emily did not\nnow desire to see her, or to join in the mass, and, after leaving many\nkind remembrances with the nun, for her old friends, she quitted the\nmonastery, and returned over the cliffs towards the chateau, meditating\nupon what she had just heard, till, at length she forced her mind upon\nless interesting subjects.\n\nThe wind was high, and as she drew near the chateau, she often paused\nto listen to its awful sound, as it swept over the billows, that beat\nbelow, or groaned along the surrounding woods; and, while she rested on\na cliff at a short distance from the chateau, and looked upon the wide\nwaters, seen dimly beneath the last shade of twilight, she thought of\nthe following address:\n\n TO THE WINDS\n\n Viewless, through heaven's vast vault your course ye steer,\n Unknown from whence ye come, or whither go!\n Mysterious pow'rs! I hear ye murmur low,\n Till swells your loud gust on my startled ear,\n And, awful! seems to say--some God is near!\n I love to list your midnight voices float\n In the dread storm, that o'er the ocean rolls,\n And, while their charm the angry wave controuls,\n Mix with its sullen roar, and sink remote.\n Then, rising in the pause, a sweeter note,\n The dirge of spirits, who your deeds bewail,\n A sweeter note oft swells while sleeps the gale!\n But soon, ye sightless pow'rs! your rest is o'er,\n Solemn and slow, ye rise upon the air,\n Speak in the shrouds, and bid the sea-boy fear,\n And the faint-warbled dirge--is heard no more!\n  Oh! then I deprecate your awful reign!\n The loud lament yet bear not on your breath!\n Bear not the crash of bark far on the main,\n Bear not the cry of men, who cry in vain,\n The crew's dread chorus sinking into death!\n Oh! give not these, ye pow'rs!  I ask alone,\n As rapt I climb these dark romantic steeps,\n The elemental war, the billow's moan;\n I ask the still, sweet tear, that listening Fancy weeps!\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVI\n\n\n  Unnatural deeds\n Do breed unnatural troubles:  infected minds\n To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.\n More needs she the divine, than the physician.\n     MACBETH\n\nOn the following evening, the view of the convent towers, rising among\nthe shadowy woods, reminded Emily of the nun, whose condition had so\nmuch affected her; and, anxious to know how she was, as well as to see\nsome of her former friends, she and the Lady Blanche extended their walk\nto the monastery. At the gate stood a carriage, which, from the heat\nof the horses, appeared to have just arrived; but a more than common\nstillness pervaded the court and the cloisters, through which Emily\nand Blanche passed in their way to the great hall, where a nun, who was\ncrossing to the stair-case, replied to the enquiries of the former, that\nsister Agnes was still living, and sensible, but that it was thought she\ncould not survive the night. In the parlour, they found several of\nthe boarders, who rejoiced to see Emily, and told her many little\ncircumstances that had happened in the convent since her departure, and\nwhich were interesting to her only because they related to persons, whom\nshe had regarded with affection. While they thus conversed the abbess\nentered the room, and expressed much satisfaction at seeing Emily, but\nher manner was unusually solemn, and her countenance dejected. 'Our\nhouse,' said she, after the first salutations were over, 'is truly a\nhouse of mourning--a daughter is now paying the debt of nature.--You\nhave heard, perhaps, that our daughter Agnes is dying?'\n\nEmily expressed her sincere concern.\n\n'Her death presents to us a great and awful lesson,' continued the\nabbess; 'let us read it, and profit by it; let it teach us to prepare\nourselves for the change, that awaits us all! You are young, and have\nit yet in your power to secure \"the peace that passeth all\nunderstanding\"--the peace of conscience. Preserve it in your youth, that\nit may comfort you in age; for vain, alas! and imperfect are the good\ndeeds of our latter years, if those of our early life have been evil!'\n\nEmily would have said, that good deeds, she hoped, were never vain;\nbut she considered that it was the abbess who spoke, and she remained\nsilent.\n\n'The latter days of Agnes,' resumed the abbess, 'have been exemplary;\nwould they might atone for the errors of her former ones! Her sufferings\nnow, alas! are great; let us believe, that they will make her peace\nhereafter! I have left her with her confessor, and a gentleman, whom she\nhas long been anxious to see, and who is just arrived from Paris.\nThey, I hope, will be able to administer the repose, which her mind has\nhitherto wanted.'\n\nEmily fervently joined in the wish.\n\n'During her illness, she has sometimes named you,' resumed the abbess;\n'perhaps, it would comfort her to see you; when her present visitors\nhave left her, we will go to her chamber, if the scene will not be\ntoo melancholy for your spirits. But, indeed, to such scenes, however\npainful, we ought to accustom ourselves, for they are salutary to the\nsoul, and prepare us for what we are ourselves to suffer.'\n\nEmily became grave and thoughtful; for this conversation brought to her\nrecollection the dying moments of her beloved father, and she wished\nonce more to weep over the spot, where his remains were buried.\nDuring the silence, which followed the abbess' speech, many minute\ncircumstances attending his last hours occurred to her--his emotion on\nperceiving himself to be in the neighbourhood of Chateau-le-Blanc--his\nrequest to be interred in a particular spot in the church of this\nmonastery--and the solemn charge he had delivered to her to destroy\ncertain papers, without examining them.--She recollected also the\nmysterious and horrible words in those manuscripts, upon which her eye\nhad involuntarily glanced; and, though they now, and, indeed, whenever\nshe remembered them, revived an excess of painful curiosity, concerning\ntheir full import, and the motives for her father's command, it was\never her chief consolation, that she had strictly obeyed him in this\nparticular.\n\nLittle more was said by the abbess, who appeared too much affected by\nthe subject she had lately left, to be willing to converse, and her\ncompanions had been for some time silent from the same cause, when this\ngeneral reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a stranger, Monsieur\nBonnac, who had just quitted the chamber of sister Agnes. He appeared\nmuch disturbed, but Emily fancied, that his countenance had more the\nexpression of horror, than of grief. Having drawn the abbess to a\ndistant part of the room, he conversed with her for some time, during\nwhich she seemed to listen with earnest attention, and he to speak\nwith caution, and a more than common degree of interest. When he had\nconcluded, he bowed silently to the rest of the company, and quitted the\nroom. The abbess, soon after, proposed going to the chamber of sister\nAgnes, to which Emily consented, though not without some reluctance, and\nLady Blanche remained with the boarders below.\n\nAt the door of the chamber they met the confessor, whom, as he lifted\nup his head on their approach, Emily observed to be the same that had\nattended her dying father; but he passed on, without noticing her, and\nthey entered the apartment, where, on a mattress, was laid sister Agnes,\nwith one nun watching in the chair beside her. Her countenance was so\nmuch changed, that Emily would scarcely have recollected her, had she\nnot been prepared to do so: it was ghastly, and overspread with gloomy\nhorror; her dim and hollow eyes were fixed on a crucifix, which she\nheld upon her bosom; and she was so much engaged in thought, as not to\nperceive the abbess and Emily, till they stood at the bed-side. Then,\nturning her heavy eyes, she fixed them, in wild horror, upon Emily, and,\nscreaming, exclaimed, 'Ah! that vision comes upon me in my dying hours!'\n\nEmily started back in terror, and looked for explanation to the abbess,\nwho made her a signal not to be alarmed, and calmly said to Agnes,\n'Daughter, I have brought Mademoiselle St. Aubert to visit you: I\nthought you would be glad to see her.'\n\nAgnes made no reply; but, still gazing wildly upon Emily, exclaimed, 'It\nis her very self! Oh! there is all that fascination in her look, which\nproved my destruction! What would you have--what is it you came to\ndemand--Retribution?--It will soon be yours--it is yours already.\nHow many years have passed, since last I saw you! My crime is but as\nyesterday.--Yet I am grown old beneath it; while you are still young and\nblooming--blooming as when you forced me to commit that most abhorred\ndeed! O! could I once forget it!--yet what would that avail?--the deed\nis done!'\n\nEmily, extremely shocked, would now have left the room; but the abbess,\ntaking her hand, tried to support her spirits, and begged she would stay\na few moments, when Agnes would probably be calm, whom now she tried to\nsooth. But the latter seemed to disregard her, while she still fixed\nher eyes on Emily, and added, 'What are years of prayers and repentance?\nthey cannot wash out the foulness of murder!--Yes, murder! Where is\nhe--where is he?--Look there--look there!--see where he stalks along\nthe room! Why do you come to torment me now?' continued Agnes, while her\nstraining eyes were bent on air, 'why was not I punished before?--O!\ndo not frown so sternly! Hah! there again! 'til she herself! Why do you\nlook so piteously upon me--and smile, too? smile on me! What groan was\nthat?'\n\nAgnes sunk down, apparently lifeless, and Emily, unable to support\nherself, leaned against the bed, while the abbess and the attendant nun\nwere applying the usual remedies to Agnes. 'Peace,' said the abbess,\nwhen Emily was going to speak, 'the delirium is going off, she will soon\nrevive. When was she thus before, daughter?'\n\n'Not of many weeks, madam,' replied the nun, 'but her spirits have been\nmuch agitated by the arrival of the gentleman she wished so much to\nsee.'\n\n'Yes,' observed the abbess, 'that has undoubtedly occasioned this\nparoxysm of frenzy. When she is better, we will leave her to repose.'\n\nEmily very readily consented, but, though she could now give little\nassistance, she was unwilling to quit the chamber, while any might be\nnecessary.\n\nWhen Agnes recovered her senses, she again fixed her eyes on Emily, but\ntheir wild expression was gone, and a gloomy melancholy had succeeded.\nIt was some moments before she recovered sufficient spirits to speak;\nshe then said feebly--'The likeness is wonderful!--surely it must\nbe something more than fancy. Tell me, I conjure you,' she added,\naddressing Emily, 'though your name is St. Aubert, are you not the\ndaughter of the Marchioness?'\n\n'What Marchioness?' said Emily, in extreme surprise; for she had\nimagined, from the calmness of Agnes's manner, that her intellects were\nrestored. The abbess gave her a significant glance, but she repeated the\nquestion.\n\n'What Marchioness?' exclaimed Agnes, 'I know but of one--the Marchioness\nde Villeroi.'\n\nEmily, remembering the emotion of her late father, upon the unexpected\nmention of this lady, and his request to be laid near to the tomb of\nthe Villerois, now felt greatly interested, and she entreated Agnes to\nexplain the reason of her question. The abbess would now have withdrawn\nEmily from the room, who being, however, detained by a strong interest,\nrepeated her entreaties.\n\n'Bring me that casket, sister,' said Agnes; 'I will shew her to you; yet\nyou need only look in that mirror, and you will behold her; you surely\nare her daughter: such striking resemblance is never found but among\nnear relations.'\n\nThe nun brought the casket, and Agnes, having directed her how to unlock\nit, she took thence a miniature, in which Emily perceived the exact\nresemblance of the picture, which she had found among her late father's\npapers. Agnes held out her hand to receive it; gazed upon it earnestly\nfor some moments in silence; and then, with a countenance of deep\ndespair, threw up her eyes to Heaven, and prayed inwardly. When she had\nfinished, she returned the miniature to Emily. 'Keep it,' said she,\n'I bequeath it to you, for I must believe it is your right. I have\nfrequently observed the resemblance between you; but never, till this\nday, did it strike upon my conscience so powerfully! Stay, sister, do\nnot remove the casket--there is another picture I would shew.'\n\nEmily trembled with expectation, and the abbess again would have\nwithdrawn her. 'Agnes is still disordered,' said she, 'you observe how\nshe wanders. In these moods she says any thing, and does not scruple, as\nyou have witnessed, to accuse herself of the most horrible crimes.'\n\nEmily, however, thought she perceived something more than madness in\nthe inconsistencies of Agnes, whose mention of the Marchioness,\nand production of her picture, had interested her so much, that she\ndetermined to obtain further information, if possible, respecting the\nsubject of it.\n\nThe nun returned with the casket, and, Agnes pointing out to her a\nsecret drawer, she took from it another miniature. 'Here,' said Agnes,\nas she offered it to Emily, 'learn a lesson for your vanity, at least;\nlook well at this picture, and see if you can discover any resemblance\nbetween what I was, and what I am.'\n\nEmily impatiently received the miniature, which her eyes had scarcely\nglanced upon, before her trembling hands had nearly suffered it to\nfall--it was the resemblance of the portrait of Signora Laurentini,\nwhich she had formerly seen in the castle of Udolpho--the lady, who\nhad disappeared in so mysterious a manner, and whom Montoni had been\nsuspected of having caused to be murdered.\n\nIn silent astonishment, Emily continued to gaze alternately upon the\npicture and the dying nun, endeavouring to trace a resemblance between\nthem, which no longer existed.\n\n'Why do you look so sternly on me?' said Agnes, mistaking the nature of\nEmily's emotion.\n\n'I have seen this face before,' said Emily, at length; 'was it really\nyour resemblance?'\n\n'You may well ask that question,' replied the nun,--'but it was once\nesteemed a striking likeness of me. Look at me well, and see what guilt\nhas made me. I then was innocent; the evil passions of my nature slept.\nSister!' added she solemnly, and stretching forth her cold, damp hand\nto Emily, who shuddered at its touch--'Sister! beware of the first\nindulgence of the passions; beware of the first! Their course, if not\nchecked then, is rapid--their force is uncontroulable--they lead us we\nknow not whither--they lead us perhaps to the commission of crimes, for\nwhich whole years of prayer and penitence cannot atone!--Such may be the\nforce of even a single passion, that it overcomes every other, and sears\nup every other approach to the heart. Possessing us like a fiend, it\nleads us on to the acts of a fiend, making us insensible to pity and\nto conscience. And, when its purpose is accomplished, like a fiend,\nit leaves us to the torture of those feelings, which its power had\nsuspended--not annihilated,--to the tortures of compassion, remorse, and\nconscience. Then, we awaken as from a dream, and perceive a new\nworld around us--we gaze in astonishment, and horror--but the deed\nis committed; not all the powers of heaven and earth united can\nundo it--and the spectres of conscience will not fly! What are\nriches--grandeur--health itself, to the luxury of a pure conscience, the\nhealth of the soul;--and what the sufferings of poverty, disappointment,\ndespair--to the anguish of an afflicted one! O! how long is it since\nI knew that luxury! I believed, that I had suffered the most agonizing\npangs of human nature, in love, jealousy, and despair--but these pangs\nwere ease, compared with the stings of conscience, which I have since\nendured. I tasted too what was called the sweet of revenge--but it was\ntransient, it expired even with the object, that provoked it. Remember,\nsister, that the passions are the seeds of vices as well as of virtues,\nfrom which either may spring, accordingly as they are nurtured. Unhappy\nthey who have never been taught the art to govern them!'\n\n'Alas! unhappy!' said the abbess, 'and ill-informed of our holy\nreligion!' Emily listened to Agnes, in silent awe, while she still\nexamined the miniature, and became confirmed in her opinion of its\nstrong resemblance to the portrait at Udolpho. 'This face is familiar to\nme,' said she, wishing to lead the nun to an explanation, yet fearing to\ndiscover too abruptly her knowledge of Udolpho.\n\n'You are mistaken,' replied Agnes, 'you certainly never saw that picture\nbefore.'\n\n'No,' replied Emily, 'but I have seen one extremely like it.'\n'Impossible,' said Agnes, who may now be called the Lady Laurentini.\n\n'It was in the castle of Udolpho,' continued Emily, looking stedfastly\nat her.\n\n'Of Udolpho!' exclaimed Laurentini, 'of Udolpho in Italy!' 'The same,'\nreplied Emily.\n\n'You know me then,' said Laurentini, 'and you are the daughter of the\nMarchioness.' Emily was somewhat surprised at this abrupt assertion. 'I\nam the daughter of the late Mons. St. Aubert,' said she; 'and the lady\nyou name is an utter stranger to me.'\n\n'At least you believe so,' rejoined Laurentini.\n\nEmily asked what reasons there could be to believe otherwise.\n\n'The family likeness, that you bear her,' said the nun. 'The\nMarchioness, it is known, was attached to a gentleman of Gascony, at the\ntime when she accepted the hand of the Marquis, by the command of her\nfather. Ill-fated, unhappy woman!'\n\nEmily, remembering the extreme emotion which St. Aubert had betrayed on\nthe mention of the Marchioness, would now have suffered something more\nthan surprise, had her confidence in his integrity been less; as it\nwas, she could not, for a moment, believe what the words of Laurentini\ninsinuated; yet she still felt strongly interested, concerning them, and\nbegged, that she would explain them further.\n\n'Do not urge me on that subject,' said the nun, 'it is to me a terrible\none! Would that I could blot it from my memory!' She sighed deeply,\nand, after the pause of a moment, asked Emily, by what means she had\ndiscovered her name?\n\n'By your portrait in the castle of Udolpho, to which this miniature\nbears a striking resemblance,' replied Emily.\n\n'You have been at Udolpho then!' said the nun, with great emotion.\n'Alas! what scenes does the mention of it revive in my fancy--scenes of\nhappiness--of suffering--and of horror!'\n\nAt this moment, the terrible spectacle, which Emily had witnessed in a\nchamber of that castle, occurred to her, and she shuddered, while she\nlooked upon the nun--and recollected her late words--that 'years of\nprayer and penitence could not wash out the foulness of murder.' She\nwas now compelled to attribute these to another cause, than that of\ndelirium. With a degree of horror, that almost deprived her of sense,\nshe now believed she looked upon a murderer; all the recollected\nbehaviour of Laurentini seemed to confirm the supposition, yet Emily was\nstill lost in a labyrinth of perplexities, and, not knowing how to ask\nthe questions, which might lead to truth, she could only hint them in\nbroken sentences.\n\n'Your sudden departure from Udolpho'--said she.\n\nLaurentini groaned.\n\n'The reports that followed it,' continued Emily--'The west chamber--the\nmournful veil--the object it conceals!--when murders are committed--'\n\nThe nun shrieked. 'What! there again!' said she, endeavouring to raise\nherself, while her starting eyes seemed to follow some object round\nthe room--'Come from the grave! What! Blood--blood too!--There was\nno blood--thou canst not say it!--Nay, do not smile,--do not smile so\npiteously!'\n\nLaurentini fell into convulsions, as she uttered the last words; and\nEmily, unable any longer to endure the horror of the scene, hurried from\nthe room, and sent some nuns to the assistance of the abbess.\n\nThe Lady Blanche, and the boarders, who were in the parlour, now\nassembled round Emily, and, alarmed by her manner and affrighted\ncountenance, asked a hundred questions, which she avoided answering\nfurther, than by saying, that she believed sister Agnes was dying. They\nreceived this as a sufficient explanation of her terror, and had then\nleisure to offer restoratives, which, at length, somewhat revived Emily,\nwhose mind was, however, so much shocked with the terrible surmises, and\nperplexed with doubts by some words from the nun, that she was unable\nto converse, and would have left the convent immediately, had she not\nwished to know whether Laurentini would survive the late attack. After\nwaiting some time, she was informed, that, the convulsions having\nceased, Laurentini seemed to be reviving, and Emily and Blanche were\ndeparting, when the abbess appeared, who, drawing the former aside, said\nshe had something of consequence to say to her, but, as it was late,\nshe would not detain her then, and requested to see her on the following\nday.\n\nEmily promised to visit her, and, having taken leave, returned with the\nLady Blanche towards the chateau, on the way to which the deep gloom of\nthe woods made Blanche lament, that the evening was so far advanced; for\nthe surrounding stillness and obscurity rendered her sensible of fear,\nthough there was a servant to protect her; while Emily was too much\nengaged by the horrors of the scene she had just witnessed, to be\naffected by the solemnity of the shades, otherwise than as they served\nto promote her gloomy reverie, from which, however, she was at length\nrecalled by the Lady Blanche, who pointed out, at some distance, in\nthe dusky path they were winding, two persons slowly advancing. It was\nimpossible to avoid them without striking into a still more secluded\npart of the wood, whither the strangers might easily follow; but all\napprehension vanished, when Emily distinguished the voice of Mons. Du\nPont, and perceived, that his companion was the gentleman, whom she\nhad seen at the monastery, and who was now conversing with so much\nearnestness as not immediately to perceive their approach. When Du Pont\njoined the ladies, the stranger took leave, and they proceeded to the\nchateau, where the Count, when he heard of Mons. Bonnac, claimed him for\nan acquaintance, and, on learning the melancholy occasion of his visit\nto Languedoc, and that he was lodged at a small inn in the village,\nbegged the favour of Mons. Du Pont to invite him to the chateau.\n\nThe latter was happy to do so, and the scruples of reserve, which made\nM. Bonnac hesitate to accept the invitation, being at length overcome,\nthey went to the chateau, where the kindness of the Count and the\nsprightliness of his son were exerted to dissipate the gloom, that\noverhung the spirits of the stranger. M. Bonnac was an officer in the\nFrench service, and appeared to be about fifty; his figure was tall\nand commanding, his manners had received the last polish, and there was\nsomething in his countenance uncommonly interesting; for over features,\nwhich, in youth, must have been remarkably handsome, was spread a\nmelancholy, that seemed the effect of long misfortune, rather than of\nconstitution, or temper.\n\nThe conversation he held, during supper, was evidently an effort of\npoliteness, and there were intervals in which, unable to struggle\nagainst the feelings, that depressed him, he relapsed into silence and\nabstraction, from which, however, the Count, sometimes, withdrew him in\na manner so delicate and benevolent, that Emily, while she observed him,\nalmost fancied she beheld her late father.\n\nThe party separated, at an early hour, and then, in the solitude of her\napartment, the scenes, which Emily had lately witnessed, returned to\nher fancy, with dreadful energy. That in the dying nun she should have\ndiscovered Signora Laurentini, who, instead of having been murdered by\nMontoni, was, as it now seemed, herself guilty of some dreadful crime,\nexcited both horror and surprise in a high degree; nor did the hints,\nwhich she had dropped, respecting the marriage of the Marchioness de\nVilleroi, and the enquiries she had made concerning Emily's birth,\noccasion her a less degree of interest, though it was of a different\nnature.\n\nThe history, which sister Frances had formerly related, and had said to\nbe that of Agnes, it now appeared, was erroneous; but for what purpose\nit had been fabricated, unless the more effectually to conceal the true\nstory, Emily could not even guess. Above all, her interest was excited\nas to the relation, which the story of the late Marchioness de Villeroi\nbore to that of her father; for, that some kind of relation existed\nbetween them, the grief of St. Aubert, upon hearing her named, his\nrequest to be buried near her, and her picture, which had been found\namong his papers, certainly proved. Sometimes it occurred to Emily, that\nhe might have been the lover, to whom it was said the Marchioness was\nattached, when she was compelled to marry the Marquis de Villeroi; but\nthat he had afterwards cherished a passion for her, she could not suffer\nherself to believe, for a moment. The papers, which he had so solemnly\nenjoined her to destroy, she now fancied had related to this connection,\nand she wished more earnestly than before to know the reasons, that\nmade him consider the injunction necessary, which, had her faith in\nhis principles been less, would have led to believe, that there was\na mystery in her birth dishonourable to her parents, which those\nmanuscripts might have revealed.\n\nReflections, similar to these, engaged her mind, during the greater part\nof the night, and when, at length, she fell into a slumber, it was only\nto behold a vision of the dying nun, and to awaken in horrors, like\nthose she had witnessed.\n\nOn the following morning, she was too much indisposed to attend her\nappointment with the abbess, and, before the day concluded, she heard,\nthat sister Agnes was no more. Mons. Bonnac received this intelligence,\nwith concern; but Emily observed, that he did not appear so much\naffected now, as on the preceding evening, immediately after quitting\nthe apartment of the nun, whose death was probably less terrible to him,\nthan the confession he had been then called upon to witness. However\nthis might be, he was perhaps consoled, in some degree, by a knowledge\nof the legacy bequeathed him, since his family was large, and the\nextravagance of some part of it had lately been the means of involving\nhim in great distress, and even in the horrors of a prison; and it was\nthe grief he had suffered from the wild career of a favourite son, with\nthe pecuniary anxieties and misfortunes consequent upon it, that\nhad given to his countenance the air of dejection, which had so much\ninterested Emily.\n\nTo his friend Mons. Du Pont he recited some particulars of his late\nsufferings, when it appeared, that he had been confined for several\nmonths in one of the prisons of Paris, with little hope of release,\nand without the comfort of seeing his wife, who had been absent in the\ncountry, endeavouring, though in vain, to procure assistance from his\nfriends. When, at length, she had obtained an order for admittance, she\nwas so much shocked at the change, which long confinement and sorrow had\nmade in his appearance, that she was seized with fits, which, by their\nlong continuance, threatened her life.\n\n'Our situation affected those, who happened to witness it,' continued\nMons. Bonnac, 'and one generous friend, who was in confinement at the\nsame time, afterwards employed the first moments of his liberty in\nefforts to obtain mine. He succeeded; the heavy debt, that oppressed\nme, was discharged; and, when I would have expressed my sense of the\nobligation I had received, my benefactor was fled from my search. I have\nreason to believe he was the victim of his own generosity, and that he\nreturned to the state of confinement, from which he had released me;\nbut every enquiry after him was unsuccessful. Amiable and unfortunate\nValancourt!'\n\n'Valancourt!' exclaimed Mons. Du Pont. 'Of what family?'\n\n'The Valancourts, Counts Duvarney,' replied Mons. Bonnac.\n\nThe emotion of Mons. Du Pont, when he discovered the generous benefactor\nof his friend to be the rival of his love, can only be imagined; but,\nhaving overcome his first surprise, he dissipated the apprehensions of\nMons. Bonnac by acquainting him, that Valancourt was at liberty, and had\nlately been in Languedoc; after which his affection for Emily prompted\nhim to make some enquiries, respecting the conduct of his rival, during\nhis stay at Paris, of which M. Bonnac appeared to be well informed. The\nanswers he received were such as convinced him, that Valancourt had been\nmuch misrepresented, and, painful as was the sacrifice, he formed the\njust design of relinquishing his pursuit of Emily to a lover, who, it\nnow appeared, was not unworthy of the regard, with which she honoured\nhim.\n\nThe conversation of Mons. Bonnac discovered, that Valancourt, some\ntime after his arrival at Paris, had been drawn into the snares, which\ndetermined vice had spread for him, and that his hours had been chiefly\ndivided between the parties of the captivating Marchioness and those\ngaming assemblies, to which the envy, or the avarice, of his brother\nofficers had spared no art to seduce him. In these parties he had lost\nlarge sums, in efforts to recover small ones, and to such losses the\nCount De Villefort and Mons. Henri had been frequent witnesses. His\nresources were, at length, exhausted; and the Count, his brother,\nexasperated by his conduct, refused to continue the supplies necessary\nto his present mode of life, when Valancourt, in consequence of\naccumulated debts, was thrown into confinement, where his brother\nsuffered him to remain, in the hope, that punishment might effect a\nreform of conduct, which had not yet been confirmed by long habit.\n\nIn the solitude of his prison, Valancourt had leisure for reflection,\nand cause for repentance; here, too, the image of Emily, which, amidst\nthe dissipation of the city had been obscured, but never obliterated\nfrom his heart, revived with all the charms of innocence and beauty, to\nreproach him for having sacrificed his happiness and debased his talents\nby pursuits, which his nobler faculties would formerly have taught him\nto consider were as tasteless as they were degrading. But, though his\npassions had been seduced, his heart was not depraved, nor had habit\nriveted the chains, that hung heavily on his conscience; and, as he\nretained that energy of will, which was necessary to burst them, he, at\nlength, emancipated himself from the bondage of vice, but not till after\nmuch effort and severe suffering.\n\nBeing released by his brother from the prison, where he had witnessed\nthe affecting meeting between Mons. Bonnac and his wife, with whom he\nhad been for some time acquainted, the first use of his liberty formed a\nstriking instance of his humanity and his rashness; for with nearly all\nthe money, just received from his brother, he went to a gaming-house,\nand gave it as a last stake for the chance of restoring his friend to\nfreedom, and to his afflicted family. The event was fortunate, and,\nwhile he had awaited the issue of this momentous stake, he made a solemn\nvow never again to yield to the destructive and fascinating vice of\ngaming.\n\nHaving restored the venerable Mons. Bonnac to his rejoicing family, he\nhurried from Paris to Estuviere; and, in the delight of having made the\nwretched happy, forgot, for a while, his own misfortunes. Soon, however,\nhe remembered, that he had thrown away the fortune, without which he\ncould never hope to marry Emily; and life, unless passed with her,\nnow scarcely appeared supportable; for her goodness, refinement, and\nsimplicity of heart, rendered her beauty more enchanting, if possible,\nto his fancy, than it had ever yet appeared. Experience had taught\nhim to understand the full value of the qualities, which he had before\nadmired, but which the contrasted characters he had seen in the world\nmade him now adore; and these reflections, increasing the pangs of\nremorse and regret, occasioned the deep dejection, that had accompanied\nhim even into the presence of Emily, of whom he considered himself no\nlonger worthy. To the ignominy of having received pecuniary obligations\nfrom the Marchioness Chamfort, or any other lady of intrigue, as the\nCount De Villefort had been informed, or of having been engaged in the\ndepredating schemes of gamesters, Valancourt had never submitted; and\nthese were some of such scandals as often mingle with truth, against the\nunfortunate. Count De Villefort had received them from authority which\nhe had no reason to doubt, and which the imprudent conduct he had\nhimself witnessed in Valancourt, had certainly induced him the more\nreadily to believe. Being such as Emily could not name to the Chevalier,\nhe had no opportunity of refuting them; and, when he confessed\nhimself to be unworthy of her esteem, he little suspected, that he was\nconfirming to her the most dreadful calumnies. Thus the mistake had been\nmutual, and had remained so, when Mons. Bonnac explained the conduct of\nhis generous, but imprudent young friend to Du Pont, who, with severe\njustice, determined not only to undeceive the Count on this subject, but\nto resign all hope of Emily. Such a sacrifice as his love rendered\nthis, was deserving of a noble reward, and Mons. Bonnac, if it had been\npossible for him to forget the benevolent Valancourt, would have wished\nthat Emily might accept the just Du Pont.\n\nWhen the Count was informed of the error he had committed, he was\nextremely shocked at the consequence of his credulity, and the account\nwhich Mons. Bonnac gave of his friend's situation, while at Paris,\nconvinced him, that Valancourt had been entrapped by the schemes of a\nset of dissipated young men, with whom his profession had partly obliged\nhim to associate, rather than by an inclination to vice; and, charmed\nby the humanity, and noble, though rash generosity, which his conduct\ntowards Mons. Bonnac exhibited, he forgave him the transient errors,\nthat had stained his youth, and restored him to the high degree of\nesteem, with which he had regarded him, during their early acquaintance.\nBut, as the least reparation he could now make Valancourt was to\nafford him an opportunity of explaining to Emily his former conduct,\nhe immediately wrote, to request his forgiveness of the unintentional\ninjury he had done him, and to invite him to Chateau-le-Blanc. Motives\nof delicacy with-held the Count from informing Emily of this letter,\nand of kindness from acquainting her with the discovery respecting\nValancourt, till his arrival should save her from the possibility of\nanxiety, as to its event; and this precaution spared her even severer\ninquietude, than the Count had foreseen, since he was ignorant of the\nsymptoms of despair, which Valancourt's late conduct had betrayed.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVII\n\n\n  But in these cases,\n We still have judgment here; that we but teach\n Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return\n To plague the inventor:  thus even-handed justice\n Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice\n To our own lips.\n     MACBETH\n\nSome circumstances of an extraordinary nature now withdrew Emily from\nher own sorrows, and excited emotions, which partook of both surprise\nand horror.\n\nA few days followed that, on which Signora Laurentini died, her will\nwas opened at the monastery, in the presence of the superiors and Mons.\nBonnac, when it was found, that one third of her personal property was\nbequeathed to the nearest surviving relative of the late Marchioness de\nVilleroi, and that Emily was the person.\n\nWith the secret of Emily's family the abbess had long been acquainted,\nand it was in observance of the earnest request of St. Aubert, who\nwas known to the friar, that attended him on his death-bed, that\nhis daughter had remained in ignorance of her relationship to the\nMarchioness. But some hints, which had fallen from Signora Laurentini,\nduring her last interview with Emily, and a confession of a very\nextraordinary nature, given in her dying hours, had made the abbess\nthink it necessary to converse with her young friend, on the topic she\nhad not before ventured to introduce; and it was for this purpose, that\nshe had requested to see her on the morning that followed her interview\nwith the nun. Emily's indisposition had then prevented the intended\nconversation; but now, after the will had been examined, she received\na summons, which she immediately obeyed, and became informed of\ncircumstances, that powerfully affected her. As the narrative of the\nabbess was, however, deficient in many particulars, of which the reader\nmay wish to be informed, and the history of the nun is materially\nconnected with the fate of the Marchioness de Villeroi, we shall omit\nthe conversation, that passed in the parlour of the convent, and mingle\nwith our relation a brief history of\n\n LAURENTINI DI UDOLPHO,\n\nWho was the only child of her parents, and heiress of the ancient house\nof Udolpho, in the territory of Venice. It was the first misfortune\nof her life, and that which led to all her succeeding misery, that the\nfriends, who ought to have restrained her strong passions, and mildly\ninstructed her in the art of governing them, nurtured them by early\nindulgence. But they cherished their own failings in her; for their\nconduct was not the result of rational kindness, and, when they either\nindulged, or opposed the passions of their child, they gratified their\nown. Thus they indulged her with weakness, and reprehended her with\nviolence; her spirit was exasperated by their vehemence, instead of\nbeing corrected by their wisdom; and their oppositions became contest\nfor victory, in which the due tenderness of the parents, and the\naffectionate duties of the child, were equally forgotten; but, as\nreturning fondness disarmed the parents' resentment soonest, Laurentini\nwas suffered to believe that she had conquered, and her passions became\nstronger by every effort, that had been employed to subdue them.\n\nThe death of her father and mother in the same year left her to her own\ndiscretion, under the dangerous circumstances attendant on youth\nand beauty. She was fond of company, delighted with admiration, yet\ndisdainful of the opinion of the world, when it happened to contradict\nher inclinations; had a gay and brilliant wit, and was mistress of\nall the arts of fascination. Her conduct was such as might have been\nexpected, from the weakness of her principles and the strength of her\npassions.\n\nAmong her numerous admirers was the late Marquis de Villeroi, who, on\nhis tour through Italy, saw Laurentini at Venice, where she usually\nresided, and became her passionate adorer. Equally captivated by the\nfigure and accomplishments of the Marquis, who was at that period one of\nthe most distinguished noblemen of the French court, she had the art so\neffectually to conceal from him the dangerous traits of her character\nand the blemishes of her late conduct, that he solicited her hand in\nmarriage.\n\nBefore the nuptials were concluded, she retired to the castle of\nUdolpho, whither the Marquis followed, and, where her conduct, relaxing\nfrom the propriety, which she had lately assumed, discovered to him\nthe precipice, on which he stood. A minuter enquiry than he had before\nthought it necessary to make, convinced him, that he had been deceived\nin her character, and she, whom he had designed for his wife, afterwards\nbecame his mistress.\n\nHaving passed some weeks at Udolpho, he was called abruptly to France,\nwhither he returned with extreme reluctance, for his heart was still\nfascinated by the arts of Laurentini, with whom, however, he had on\nvarious pretences delayed his marriage; but, to reconcile her to this\nseparation, he now gave repeated promises of returning to conclude\nthe nuptials, as soon as the affair, which thus suddenly called him to\nFrance, should permit.\n\nSoothed, in some degree, by these assurances, she suffered him to\ndepart; and, soon after, her relative, Montoni, arriving at Udolpho,\nrenewed the addresses, which she had before refused, and which she now\nagain rejected. Meanwhile, her thoughts were constantly with the Marquis\nde Villeroi, for whom she suffered all the delirium of Italian love,\ncherished by the solitude, to which she confined herself; for she\nhad now lost all taste for the pleasures of society and the gaiety of\namusement. Her only indulgences were to sigh and weep over a miniature\nof the Marquis; to visit the scenes, that had witnessed their happiness,\nto pour forth her heart to him in writing, and to count the weeks, the\ndays, which must intervene before the period that he had mentioned as\nprobable for his return. But this period passed without bringing\nhim; and week after week followed in heavy and almost intolerable\nexpectation. During this interval, Laurentini's fancy, occupied\nincessantly by one idea, became disordered; and, her whole heart being\ndevoted to one object, life became hateful to her, when she believed\nthat object lost.\n\nSeveral months passed, during which she heard nothing from the Marquis\nde Villeroi, and her days were marked, at intervals, with the phrensy\nof passion and the sullenness of despair. She secluded herself from all\nvisitors, and, sometimes, remained in her apartment, for weeks\ntogether, refusing to speak to every person, except her favourite female\nattendant, writing scraps of letters, reading, again and again, those\nshe had received from the Marquis, weeping over his picture, and\nspeaking to it, for many hours, upbraiding, reproaching and caressing it\nalternately.\n\nAt length, a report reached her, that the Marquis had married in France,\nand, after suffering all the extremes of love, jealousy and indignation,\nshe formed the desperate resolution of going secretly to that country,\nand, if the report proved true, of attempting a deep revenge. To her\nfavourite woman only she confided the plan of her journey, and she\nengaged her to partake of it. Having collected her jewels, which,\ndescending to her from many branches of her family, were of immense\nvalue, and all her cash, to a very large amount, they were packed in\na trunk, which was privately conveyed to a neighbouring town, whither\nLaurentini, with this only servant, followed, and thence proceeded\nsecretly to Leghorn, where they embarked for France.\n\nWhen, on her arrival in Languedoc, she found, that the Marquis de\nVilleroi had been married, for some months, her despair almost deprived\nher of reason, and she alternately projected and abandoned the horrible\ndesign of murdering the Marquis, his wife and herself. At length she\ncontrived to throw herself in his way, with an intention of reproaching\nhim, for his conduct, and of stabbing herself in his presence; but,\nwhen she again saw him, who so long had been the constant object of\nher thoughts and affections, resentment yielded to love; her resolution\nfailed; she trembled with the conflict of emotions, that assailed her\nheart, and fainted away.\n\nThe Marquis was not proof against her beauty and sensibility; all the\nenergy, with which he had first loved, returned, for his passion had\nbeen resisted by prudence, rather than overcome by indifference; and,\nsince the honour of his family would not permit him to marry her, he had\nendeavoured to subdue his love, and had so far succeeded, as to select\nthe then Marchioness for his wife, whom he loved at first with a\ntempered and rational affection. But the mild virtues of that amiable\nlady did not recompense him for her indifference, which appeared,\nnotwithstanding her efforts to conceal it; and he had, for some time,\nsuspected that her affections were engaged by another person, when\nLaurentini arrived in Languedoc. This artful Italian soon perceived,\nthat she had regained her influence over him, and, soothed by the\ndiscovery, she determined to live, and to employ all her enchantments to\nwin his consent to the diabolical deed, which she believed was necessary\nto the security of her happiness. She conducted her scheme with deep\ndissimulation and patient perseverance, and, having completely estranged\nthe affections of the Marquis from his wife, whose gentle goodness and\nunimpassioned manners had ceased to please, when contrasted with the\ncaptivations of the Italian, she proceeded to awaken in his mind the\njealousy of pride, for it was no longer that of love, and even pointed\nout to him the person, to whom she affirmed the Marchioness had\nsacrificed her honour; but Laurentini had first extorted from him a\nsolemn promise to forbear avenging himself upon his rival. This was\nan important part of her plan, for she knew, that, if his desire of\nvengeance was restrained towards one party, it would burn more fiercely\ntowards the other, and he might then, perhaps, be prevailed on to assist\nin the horrible act, which would release him from the only barrier, that\nwith-held him from making her his wife.\n\nThe innocent Marchioness, meanwhile, observed, with extreme grief, the\nalteration in her husband's manners. He became reserved and thoughtful\nin her presence; his conduct was austere, and sometimes even rude; and\nhe left her, for many hours together, to weep for his unkindness, and to\nform plans for the recovery of his affection. His conduct afflicted her\nthe more, because, in obedience to the command of her father, she had\naccepted his hand, though her affections were engaged to another, whose\namiable disposition, she had reason to believe, would have ensured her\nhappiness. This circumstance Laurentini had discovered, soon after her\narrival in France, and had made ample use of it in assisting her designs\nupon the Marquis, to whom she adduced such seeming proof of his wife's\ninfidelity, that, in the frantic rage of wounded honour, he consented to\ndestroy his wife. A slow poison was administered, and she fell a victim\nto the jealousy and subtlety of Laurentini and to the guilty weakness of\nher husband.\n\nBut the moment of Laurentini's triumph, the moment, to which she had\nlooked forward for the completion of all her wishes, proved only the\ncommencement of a suffering, that never left her to her dying hour.\n\nThe passion of revenge, which had in part stimulated her to the\ncommission of this atrocious deed, died, even at the moment when it was\ngratified, and left her to the horrors of unavailing pity and remorse,\nwhich would probably have empoisoned all the years she had promised\nherself with the Marquis de Villeroi, had her expectations of an\nalliance with him been realized. But he, too, had found the moment of\nhis revenge to be that of remorse, as to himself, and detestation, as\nto the partner of his crime; the feeling, which he had mistaken for\nconviction, was no more; and he stood astonished, and aghast, that no\nproof remained of his wife's infidelity, now that she had suffered the\npunishment of guilt. Even when he was informed, that she was dying, he\nhad felt suddenly and unaccountably reassured of her innocence, nor was\nthe solemn assurance she made him in her last hour, capable of affording\nhim a stronger conviction of her blameless conduct.\n\nIn the first horrors of remorse and despair, he felt inclined to deliver\nup himself and the woman, who had plunged him into this abyss of guilt,\ninto the hands of justice; but, when the paroxysm of his suffering\nwas over, his intention changed. Laurentini, however, he saw only once\nafterwards, and that was, to curse her as the instigator of his crime,\nand to say, that he spared her life only on condition, that she\npassed the rest of her days in prayer and penance. Overwhelmed with\ndisappointment, on receiving contempt and abhorrence from the man,\nfor whose sake she had not scrupled to stain her conscience with\nhuman blood, and, touched with horror of the unavailing crime she had\ncommitted, she renounced the world, and retired to the monastery of St.\nClaire, a dreadful victim to unresisted passion.\n\nThe Marquis, immediately after the death of his wife, quitted\nChateau-le-Blanc, to which he never returned, and endeavoured to lose\nthe sense of his crime amidst the tumult of war, or the dissipations\nof a capital; but his efforts were vain; a deep dejection hung over him\never after, for which his most intimate friend could not account, and\nhe, at length, died, with a degree of horror nearly equal to that, which\nLaurentini had suffered. The physician, who had observed the singular\nappearance of the unfortunate Marchioness, after death, had been bribed\nto silence; and, as the surmises of a few of the servants had proceeded\nno further than a whisper, the affair had never been investigated.\nWhether this whisper ever reached the father of the Marchioness, and,\nif it did, whether the difficulty of obtaining proof deterred him from\nprosecuting the Marquis de Villeroi, is uncertain; but her death was\ndeeply lamented by some part of her family, and particularly by her\nbrother, M. St. Aubert; for that was the degree of relationship, which\nhad existed between Emily's father and the Marchioness; and there is no\ndoubt, that he suspected the manner of her death. Many letters passed\nbetween the Marquis and him, soon after the decease of his beloved\nsister, the subject of which was not known, but there is reason to\nbelieve, that they related to the cause of her death; and these were the\npapers, together with some letters of the Marchioness, who had confided\nto her brother the occasion of her unhappiness, which St. Aubert had so\nsolemnly enjoined his daughter to destroy: and anxiety for her peace had\nprobably made him forbid her to enquire into the melancholy story,\nto which they alluded. Such, indeed, had been his affliction, on the\npremature death of this his favourite sister, whose unhappy marriage had\nfrom the first excited his tenderest pity, that he never could hear\nher named, or mention her himself after her death, except to Madame St.\nAubert. From Emily, whose sensibility he feared to awaken, he had so\ncarefully concealed her history and name, that she was ignorant, till\nnow, that she ever had such a relative as the Marchioness de Villeroi;\nand from this motive he had enjoined silence to his only surviving\nsister, Madame Cheron, who had scrupulously observed his request.\n\nIt was over some of the last pathetic letters of the Marchioness, that\nSt. Aubert was weeping, when he was observed by Emily, on the eve of\nher departure from La Vallee, and it was her picture, which he had so\ntenderly caressed. Her disastrous death may account for the emotion he\nhad betrayed, on hearing her named by La Voisin, and for his request to\nbe interred near the monument of the Villerois, where her remains were\ndeposited, but not those of her husband, who was buried, where he died,\nin the north of France.\n\nThe confessor, who attended St. Aubert in his last moments, recollected\nhim to be the brother of the late Marchioness, when St. Aubert, from\ntenderness to Emily, had conjured him to conceal the circumstance, and\nto request that the abbess, to whose care he particularly recommended\nher, would do the same; a request, which had been exactly observed.\n\nLaurentini, on her arrival in France, had carefully concealed her\nname and family, and, the better to disguise her real history, had,\non entering the convent, caused the story to be circulated, which had\nimposed on sister Frances, and it is probable, that the abbess, who did\nnot preside in the convent, at the time of her noviciation, was also\nentirely ignorant of the truth. The deep remorse, that seized on\nthe mind of Laurentini, together with the sufferings of disappointed\npassion, for she still loved the Marquis, again unsettled her\nintellects, and, after the first paroxysms of despair were passed, a\nheavy and silent melancholy had settled upon her spirits, which suffered\nfew interruptions from fits of phrensy, till the time of her death.\nDuring many years, it had been her only amusement to walk in the woods\nnear the monastery, in the solitary hours of night, and to play upon\na favourite instrument, to which she sometimes joined the delightful\nmelody of her voice, in the most solemn and melancholy airs of her\nnative country, modulated by all the energetic feeling, that dwelt in\nher heart. The physician, who had attended her, recommended it to the\nsuperior to indulge her in this whim, as the only means of soothing her\ndistempered fancy; and she was suffered to walk in the lonely hours of\nnight, attended by the servant, who had accompanied her from Italy; but,\nas the indulgence transgressed against the rules of the convent, it was\nkept as secret as possible; and thus the mysterious music of Laurentini\nhad combined with other circumstances, to produce a report, that not\nonly the chateau, but its neighbourhood, was haunted.\n\nSoon after her entrance into this holy community, and before she had\nshewn any symptoms of insanity there, she made a will, in which, after\nbequeathing a considerable legacy to the convent, she divided the\nremainder of her personal property, which her jewels made very valuable,\nbetween the wife of Mons. Bonnac, who was an Italian lady and her\nrelation, and the nearest surviving relative of the late Marchioness\nde Villeroi. As Emily St. Aubert was not only the nearest, but the sole\nrelative, this legacy descended to her, and thus explained to her the\nwhole mystery of her father's conduct.\n\nThe resemblance between Emily and her unfortunate aunt had frequently\nbeen observed by Laurentini, and had occasioned the singular behaviour,\nwhich had formerly alarmed her; but it was in the nun's dying hour, when\nher conscience gave her perpetually the idea of the Marchioness, that\nshe became more sensible, than ever, of this likeness, and, in her\nphrensy, deemed it no resemblance of the person she had injured, but the\noriginal herself. The bold assertion, that had followed, on the recovery\nof her senses, that Emily was the daughter of the Marchioness de\nVilleroi, arose from a suspicion that she was so; for, knowing that her\nrival, when she married the Marquis, was attached to another lover, she\nhad scarcely scrupled to believe, that her honour had been sacrificed,\nlike her own, to an unresisted passion.\n\nOf a crime, however, to which Emily had suspected, from her phrensied\nconfession of murder, that she had been instrumental in the castle of\nUdolpho, Laurentini was innocent; and she had herself been deceived,\nconcerning the spectacle, that formerly occasioned her so much terror,\nand had since compelled her, for a while, to attribute the horrors of\nthe nun to a consciousness of a murder, committed in that castle.\n\nIt may be remembered, that, in a chamber of Udolpho, hung a black\nveil, whose singular situation had excited Emily's curiosity, and which\nafterwards disclosed an object, that had overwhelmed her with horror;\nfor, on lifting it, there appeared, instead of the picture she had\nexpected, within a recess of the wall, a human figure of ghastly\npaleness, stretched at its length, and dressed in the habiliments of\nthe grave. What added to the horror of the spectacle, was, that the face\nappeared partly decayed and disfigured by worms, which were visible on\nthe features and hands. On such an object, it will be readily believed,\nthat no person could endure to look twice. Emily, it may be recollected,\nhad, after the first glance, let the veil drop, and her terror had\nprevented her from ever after provoking a renewal of such suffering, as\nshe had then experienced. Had she dared to look again, her delusion and\nher fears would have vanished together, and she would have perceived,\nthat the figure before her was not human, but formed of wax. The history\nof it is somewhat extraordinary, though not without example in the\nrecords of that fierce severity, which monkish superstition has\nsometimes inflicted on mankind. A member of the house of Udolpho, having\ncommitted some offence against the prerogative of the church, had been\ncondemned to the penance of contemplating, during certain hours of the\nday, a waxen image, made to resemble a human body in the state, to which\nit is reduced after death. This penance, serving as a memento of the\ncondition at which he must himself arrive, had been designed to\nreprove the pride of the Marquis of Udolpho, which had formerly so\nmuch exasperated that of the Romish church; and he had not only\nsuperstitiously observed this penance himself, which, he had believed,\nwas to obtain a pardon for all his sins, but had made it a condition\nin his will, that his descendants should preserve the image, on pain of\nforfeiting to the church a certain part of his domain, that they\nalso might profit by the humiliating moral it conveyed. The figure,\ntherefore, had been suffered to retain its station in the wall of the\nchamber, but his descendants excused themselves from observing the\npenance, to which he had been enjoined.\n\nThis image was so horribly natural, that it is not surprising Emily\nshould have mistaken it for the object it resembled, nor, since she had\nheard such an extraordinary account, concerning the disappearing of the\nlate lady of the castle, and had such experience of the character of\nMontoni, that she should have believed this to be the murdered body of\nthe lady Laurentini, and that he had been the contriver of her death.\n\nThe situation, in which she had discovered it, occasioned her, at first,\nmuch surprise and perplexity; but the vigilance, with which the doors\nof the chamber, where it was deposited, were afterwards secured, had\ncompelled her to believe, that Montoni, not daring to confide the secret\nof her death to any person, had suffered her remains to decay in this\nobscure chamber. The ceremony of the veil, however, and the circumstance\nof the doors having been left open, even for a moment, had occasioned\nher much wonder and some doubts; but these were not sufficient to\novercome her suspicion of Montoni; and it was the dread of his terrible\nvengeance, that had sealed her lips in silence, concerning what she had\nseen in the west chamber.\n\nEmily, in discovering the Marchioness de Villeroi to have been the\nsister of Mons. St. Aubert, was variously affected; but, amidst the\nsorrow, which she suffered for her untimely death, she was released from\nan anxious and painful conjecture, occasioned by the rash assertion of\nSignora Laurentini, concerning her birth and the honour of her parents.\nHer faith in St. Aubert's principles would scarcely allow her to suspect\nthat he had acted dishonourably; and she felt such reluctance to\nbelieve herself the daughter of any other, than her, whom she had always\nconsidered and loved as a mother, that she would hardly admit such a\ncircumstance to be possible; yet the likeness, which it had frequently\nbeen affirmed she bore to the late Marchioness, the former behaviour\nof Dorothee the old housekeeper, the assertion of Laurentini, and the\nmysterious attachment, which St. Aubert had discovered, awakened doubts,\nas to his connection with the Marchioness, which her reason could\nneither vanquish, or confirm. From these, however, she was now relieved,\nand all the circumstances of her father's conduct were fully explained:\nbut her heart was oppressed by the melancholy catastrophe of her\namiable relative, and by the awful lesson, which the history of the\nnun exhibited, the indulgence of whose passions had been the means of\nleading her gradually to the commission of a crime, from the prophecy\nof which in her early years she would have recoiled in horror, and\nexclaimed--that it could not be!--a crime, which whole years of\nrepentance and of the severest penance had not been able to obliterate\nfrom her conscience.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XVIII\n\n\n  Then, fresh tears\n Stood on her cheek, as doth the honey-dew\n Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd\n     SHAKESPEARE\n\nAfter the late discoveries, Emily was distinguished at the chateau by\nthe Count and his family, as a relative of the house of Villeroi, and\nreceived, if possible, more friendly attention, than had yet been shewn\nher.\n\nCount De Villefort's surprise at the delay of an answer to his letter,\nwhich had been directed to Valancourt, at Estuviere, was mingled with\nsatisfaction for the prudence, which had saved Emily from a share of the\nanxiety he now suffered, though, when he saw her still drooping under\nthe effect of his former error, all his resolution was necessary to\nrestrain him from relating the truth, that would afford her a momentary\nrelief. The approaching nuptials of the Lady Blanche now divided his\nattention with this subject of his anxiety, for the inhabitants of the\nchateau were already busied in preparations for that event, and the\narrival of Mons. St. Foix was daily expected. In the gaiety, which\nsurrounded her, Emily vainly tried to participate, her spirits being\ndepressed by the late discoveries, and by the anxiety concerning the\nfate of Valancourt, that had been occasioned by the description of his\nmanner, when he had delivered the ring. She seemed to perceive in it\nthe gloomy wildness of despair; and, when she considered to what that\ndespair might have urged him, her heart sunk with terror and grief.\nThe state of suspense, as to his safety, to which she believed herself\ncondemned, till she should return to La Vallee, appeared insupportable,\nand, in such moments, she could not even struggle to assume the\ncomposure, that had left her mind, but would often abruptly quit the\ncompany she was with, and endeavour to sooth her spirits in the deep\nsolitudes of the woods, that overbrowed the shore. Here, the faint roar\nof foaming waves, that beat below, and the sullen murmur of the wind\namong the branches around, were circumstances in unison with the temper\nof her mind; and she would sit on a cliff, or on the broken steps of\nher favourite watch-tower, observing the changing colours of the evening\nclouds, and the gloom of twilight draw over the sea, till the white tops\nof billows, riding towards the shore, could scarcely be discerned amidst\nthe darkened waters. The lines, engraved by Valancourt on this tower,\nshe frequently repeated with melancholy enthusiasm, and then would\nendeavour to check the recollections and the grief they occasioned, and\nto turn her thoughts to indifferent subjects.\n\nOne evening, having wandered with her lute to this her favourite spot,\nshe entered the ruined tower, and ascended a winding staircase, that\nled to a small chamber, which was less decayed than the rest of the\nbuilding, and whence she had often gazed, with admiration, on the wide\nprospect of sea and land, that extended below. The sun was now setting\non that tract of the Pyrenees, which divided Languedoc from Rousillon,\nand, placing herself opposite to a small grated window, which, like the\nwood-tops beneath, and the waves lower still, gleamed with the red glow\nof the west, she touched the chords of her lute in solemn symphony, and\nthen accompanied it with her voice, in one of the simple and affecting\nairs, to which, in happier days, Valancourt had often listened in\nrapture, and which she now adapted to the following lines.\n\n TO MELANCHOLY\n\n Spirit of love and sorrow--hail!\n Thy solemn voice from far I hear,\n Mingling with ev'ning's dying gale:\n Hail, with this sadly-pleasing tear!\n\n O! at this still, this lonely hour,\n Thine own sweet hour of closing day,\n Awake thy lute, whose charmful pow'r\n Shall call up Fancy to obey:\n\n To paint the wild romantic dream,\n That meets the poet's musing eye,\n As, on the bank of shadowy stream,\n He breathes to her the fervid sigh.\n\n O lonely spirit! let thy song\n Lead me through all thy sacred haunt;\n The minister's moon-light aisles along,\n Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt.\n\n I hear their dirges faintly swell!\n Then, sink at once in silence drear,\n While, from the pillar'd cloister's cell,\n Dimly their gliding forms appear!\n\n Lead where the pine-woods wave on high,\n Whose pathless sod is darkly seen,\n As the cold moon, with trembling eye,\n Darts her long beams the leaves between.\n\n Lead to the mountain's dusky head,\n Where, far below, in shade profound,\n Wide forests, plains and hamlets spread,\n And sad the chimes of vesper sound,\n\n Or guide me, where the dashing oar\n Just breaks the stillness of the vale,\n As slow it tracks the winding shore,\n To meet the ocean's distant sail:\n\n To pebbly banks, that Neptune laves,\n With measur'd surges, loud and deep,\n Where the dark cliff bends o'er the waves,\n And wild the winds of autumn sweep.\n\n There pause at midnight's spectred hour,\n And list the long-resounding gale;\n And catch the fleeting moon-light's pow'r,\n O'er foaming seas and distant sail.\n\nThe soft tranquillity of the scene below, where the evening breeze\nscarcely curled the water, or swelled the passing sail, that caught the\nlast gleam of the sun, and where, now and then, a dipping oar was all\nthat disturbed the trembling radiance, conspired with the tender melody\nof her lute to lull her mind into a state of gentle sadness, and she\nsung the mournful songs of past times, till the remembrances they\nawakened were too powerful for her heart, her tears fell upon the\nlute, over which she drooped, and her voice trembled, and was unable to\nproceed.\n\nThough the sun had now sunk behind the mountains, and even his reflected\nlight was fading from their highest points, Emily did not leave the\nwatch-tower, but continued to indulge her melancholy reverie, till a\nfootstep, at a little distance, startled her, and, on looking through\nthe grate, she observed a person walking below, whom, however, soon\nperceiving to be Mons. Bonnac, she returned to the quiet thoughtfulness\nhis step had interrupted. After some time, she again struck her lute,\nand sung her favourite air; but again a step disturbed her, and, as she\npaused to listen, she heard it ascending the stair-case of the tower.\nThe gloom of the hour, perhaps, made her sensible to some degree of\nfear, which she might not otherwise have felt; for, only a few minutes\nbefore, she had seen Mons. Bonnac pass. The steps were quick and\nbounding, and, in the next moment, the door of the chamber opened, and a\nperson entered, whose features were veiled in the obscurity of\ntwilight; but his voice could not be concealed, for it was the voice\nof Valancourt! At the sound, never heard by Emily, without emotion, she\nstarted, in terror, astonishment and doubtful pleasure, and had scarcely\nbeheld him at her feet, when she sunk into a seat, overcome by the\nvarious emotions, that contended at her heart, and almost insensible to\nthat voice, whose earnest and trembling calls seemed as if endeavouring\nto save her. Valancourt, as he hung over Emily, deplored his own rash\nimpatience, in having thus surprised her: for when he had arrived at\nthe chateau, too anxious to await the return of the Count, who, he\nunderstood, was in the grounds, he went himself to seek him, when, as\nhe passed the tower, he was struck by the sound of Emily's voice, and\nimmediately ascended.\n\nIt was a considerable time before she revived, but, when her\nrecollection returned, she repulsed his attentions, with an air of\nreserve, and enquired, with as much displeasure as it was possible she\ncould feel in these first moments of his appearance, the occasion of his\nvisit.\n\n'Ah Emily!' said Valancourt, 'that air, those words--alas! I have, then,\nlittle to hope--when you ceased to esteem me, you ceased also to love\nme!'\n\n'Most true, sir,' replied Emily, endeavouring to command her trembling\nvoice; 'and if you had valued my esteem, you would not have given me\nthis new occasion for uneasiness.'\n\nValancourt's countenance changed suddenly from the anxieties of doubt to\nan expression of surprise and dismay: he was silent a moment, and then\nsaid, 'I had been taught to hope for a very different reception! Is\nit, then, true, Emily, that I have lost your regard forever? am I to\nbelieve, that, though your esteem for me may return--your affection\nnever can? Can the Count have meditated the cruelty, which now tortures\nme with a second death?'\n\nThe voice, in which he spoke this, alarmed Emily as much as his words\nsurprised her, and, with trembling impatience, she begged that he would\nexplain them.\n\n'Can any explanation be necessary?' said Valancourt, 'do you not know\nhow cruelly my conduct has been misrepresented? that the actions of\nwhich you once believed me guilty (and, O Emily! how could you so\ndegrade me in your opinion, even for a moment!) those actions--I hold in\nas much contempt and abhorrence as yourself? Are you, indeed, ignorant,\nthat Count de Villefort has detected the slanders, that have robbed me\nof all I hold dear on earth, and has invited me hither to justify to\nyou my former conduct? It is surely impossible you can be uninformed of\nthese circumstances, and I am again torturing myself with a false hope!'\n\nThe silence of Emily confirmed this supposition; for the deep twilight\nwould not allow Valancourt to distinguish the astonishment and doubting\njoy, that fixed her features. For a moment, she continued unable to\nspeak; then a profound sigh seemed to give some relief to her spirits,\nand she said,\n\n'Valancourt! I was, till this moment, ignorant of all the circumstances\nyou have mentioned; the emotion I now suffer may assure you of the truth\nof this, and, that, though I had ceased to esteem, I had not taught\nmyself entirely to forget you.'\n\n'This moment,' said Valancourt, in a low voice, and leaning for support\nagainst the window--'this moment brings with it a conviction that\noverpowers me!--I am dear to you then--still dear to you, my Emily!'\n\n'Is it necessary that I should tell you so?' she replied, 'is it\nnecessary, that I should say--these are the first moments of joy I have\nknown, since your departure, and that they repay me for all those of\npain I have suffered in the interval?'\n\nValancourt sighed deeply, and was unable to reply; but, as he pressed\nher hand to his lips, the tears, that fell over it, spoke a language,\nwhich could not be mistaken, and to which words were inadequate.\n\nEmily, somewhat tranquillized, proposed returning to the chateau,\nand then, for the first time, recollected that the Count had invited\nValancourt thither to explain his conduct, and that no explanation had\nyet been given. But, while she acknowledged this, her heart would\nnot allow her to dwell, for a moment, on the possibility of his\nunworthiness; his look, his voice, his manner, all spoke the noble\nsincerity, which had formerly distinguished him; and she again permitted\nherself to indulge the emotions of a joy, more surprising and powerful,\nthan she had ever before experienced.\n\nNeither Emily, or Valancourt, were conscious how they reached the\nchateau, whither they might have been transferred by the spell of a\nfairy, for any thing they could remember; and it was not, till they had\nreached the great hall, that either of them recollected there were other\npersons in the world besides themselves. The Count then came forth\nwith surprise, and with the joyfulness of pure benevolence, to welcome\nValancourt, and to entreat his forgiveness of the injustice he had done\nhim; soon after which, Mons. Bonnac joined this happy group, in which he\nand Valancourt were mutually rejoiced to meet.\n\nWhen the first congratulations were over, and the general joy became\nsomewhat more tranquil, the Count withdrew with Valancourt to the\nlibrary, where a long conversation passed between them, in which\nthe latter so clearly justified himself of the criminal parts of the\nconduct, imputed to him, and so candidly confessed and so feelingly\nlamented the follies, which he had committed, that the Count was\nconfirmed in his belief of all he had hoped; and, while he perceived so\nmany noble virtues in Valancourt, and that experience had taught him\nto detest the follies, which before he had only not admired, he did not\nscruple to believe, that he would pass through life with the dignity of\na wise and good man, or to entrust to his care the future happiness of\nEmily St. Aubert, for whom he felt the solicitude of a parent. Of this\nhe soon informed her, in a short conversation, when Valancourt had left\nhim. While Emily listened to a relation of the services, that Valancourt\nhad rendered Mons. Bonnac, her eyes overflowed with tears of pleasure,\nand the further conversation of Count De Villefort perfectly dissipated\nevery doubt, as to the past and future conduct of him, to whom she now\nrestored, without fear, the esteem and affection, with which she had\nformerly received him.\n\nWhen they returned to the supper-room, the Countess and Lady Blanche\nmet Valancourt with sincere congratulations; and Blanche, indeed, was\nso much rejoiced to see Emily returned to happiness, as to forget, for a\nwhile, that Mons. St. Foix was not yet arrived at the chateau, though\nhe had been expected for some hours; but her generous sympathy was, soon\nafter, rewarded by his appearance. He was now perfectly recovered from\nthe wounds, received, during his perilous adventure among the Pyrenees,\nthe mention of which served to heighten to the parties, who had\nbeen involved in it, the sense of their present happiness. New\ncongratulations passed between them, and round the supper-table appeared\na group of faces, smiling with felicity, but with a felicity, which had\nin each a different character. The smile of Blanche was frank and gay,\nthat of Emily tender and pensive; Valancourt's was rapturous, tender and\ngay alternately; Mons. St. Foix's was joyous, and that of the Count, as\nhe looked on the surrounding party, expressed the tempered complacency\nof benevolence; while the features of the Countess, Henri, and Mons.\nBonnac, discovered fainter traces of animation. Poor Mons. Du Pont did\nnot, by his presence, throw a shade of regret over the company; for,\nwhen he had discovered, that Valancourt was not unworthy of the esteem\nof Emily, he determined seriously to endeavour at the conquest of\nhis own hopeless affection, and had immediately withdrawn from\nChateau-le-Blanc--a conduct, which Emily now understood, and rewarded\nwith her admiration and pity.\n\nThe Count and his guests continued together till a late hour, yielding\nto the delights of social gaiety, and to the sweets of friendship. When\nAnnette heard of the arrival of Valancourt, Ludovico had some difficulty\nto prevent her going into the supper-room, to express her joy, for she\ndeclared, that she had never been so rejoiced at any ACCIDENT as this,\nsince she had found Ludovico himself.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XIX\n\n\n  Now my task is smoothly done,\n I can fly, or I can run\n Quickly to the green earth's end,\n Where the bow'd welkin low doth bend,\n And, from thence, can soar as soon\n To the corners of the moon.\n     MILTON\n\nThe marriages of the Lady Blanche and Emily St. Aubert were celebrated,\non the same day, and with the ancient baronial magnificence, at\nChateau-le-Blanc. The feasts were held in the great hall of the castle,\nwhich, on this occasion, was hung with superb new tapestry, representing\nthe exploits of Charlemagne and his twelve peers; here, were seen the\nSaracens, with their horrible visors, advancing to battle; and there,\nwere displayed the wild solemnities of incantation, and the necromantic\nfeats, exhibited by the magician JARL before the Emperor. The sumptuous\nbanners of the family of Villeroi, which had long slept in dust, were\nonce more unfurled, to wave over the gothic points of painted casements;\nand music echoed, in many a lingering close, through every winding\ngallery and colonnade of that vast edifice.\n\nAs Annette looked down from the corridor upon the hall, whose arches and\nwindows were illuminated with brilliant festoons of lamps, and gazed\non the splendid dresses of the dancers, the costly liveries of the\nattendants, the canopies of purple velvet and gold, and listened to\nthe gay strains that floated along the vaulted roof, she almost fancied\nherself in an enchanted palace, and declared, that she had not met with\nany place, which charmed her so much, since she read the fairy tales;\nnay, that the fairies themselves, at their nightly revels in this old\nhall, could display nothing finer; while old Dorothee, as she surveyed\nthe scene, sighed, and said, the castle looked as it was wont to do in\nthe time of her youth.\n\nAfter gracing the festivities of Chateau-le-Blanc, for some days,\nValancourt and Emily took leave of their kind friends, and returned to\nLa Vallee, where the faithful Theresa received them with unfeigned\njoy, and the pleasant shades welcomed them with a thousand tender and\naffecting remembrances; and, while they wandered together over the\nscenes, so long inhabited by the late Mons. and Madame St. Aubert, and\nEmily pointed out, with pensive affection, their favourite haunts, her\npresent happiness was heightened, by considering, that it would have\nbeen worthy of their approbation, could they have witnessed it.\n\nValancourt led her to the plane-tree on the terrace, where he had first\nventured to declare his love, and where now the remembrance of the\nanxiety he had then suffered, and the retrospect of all the dangers\nand misfortunes they had each encountered, since last they sat together\nbeneath its broad branches, exalted the sense of their present felicity,\nwhich, on this spot, sacred to the memory of St. Aubert, they solemnly\nvowed to deserve, as far as possible, by endeavouring to imitate his\nbenevolence,--by remembering, that superior attainments of every sort\nbring with them duties of superior exertion,--and by affording to their\nfellow-beings, together with that portion of ordinary comforts, which\nprosperity always owes to misfortune, the example of lives passed in\nhappy thankfulness to GOD, and, therefore, in careful tenderness to his\ncreatures.\n\nSoon after their return to La Vallee, the brother of Valancourt came to\ncongratulate him on his marriage, and to pay his respects to Emily, with\nwhom he was so much pleased, as well as with the prospect of rational\nhappiness, which these nuptials offered to Valancourt, that he\nimmediately resigned to him a part of the rich domain, the whole of\nwhich, as he had no family, would of course descend to his brother, on\nhis decease.\n\nThe estates, at Tholouse, were disposed of, and Emily purchased of\nMons. Quesnel the ancient domain of her late father, where, having given\nAnnette a marriage portion, she settled her as the housekeeper,\nand Ludovico as the steward; but, since both Valancourt and herself\npreferred the pleasant and long-loved shades of La Vallee to the\nmagnificence of Epourville, they continued to reside there, passing,\nhowever, a few months in the year at the birth-place of St. Aubert, in\ntender respect to his memory.\n\nThe legacy, which had been bequeathed to Emily by Signora Laurentini,\nshe begged Valancourt would allow her to resign to Mons. Bonnac;\nand Valancourt, when she made the request, felt all the value of the\ncompliment it conveyed. The castle of Udolpho, also, descended to the\nwife of Mons. Bonnac, who was the nearest surviving relation of the\nhouse of that name, and thus affluence restored his long-oppressed\nspirits to peace, and his family to comfort.\n\nO! how joyful it is to tell of happiness, such as that of Valancourt\nand Emily; to relate, that, after suffering under the oppression of the\nvicious and the disdain of the weak, they were, at length, restored to\neach other--to the beloved landscapes of their native country,--to the\nsecurest felicity of this life, that of aspiring to moral and labouring\nfor intellectual improvement--to the pleasures of enlightened society,\nand to the exercise of the benevolence, which had always animated their\nhearts; while the bowers of La Vallee became, once more, the retreat of\ngoodness, wisdom and domestic blessedness!\n\nO! useful may it be to have shewn, that, though the vicious can\nsometimes pour affliction upon the good, their power is transient\nand their punishment certain; and that innocence, though oppressed\nby injustice, shall, supported by patience, finally triumph over\nmisfortune!\n\nAnd, if the weak hand, that has recorded this tale, has, by its scenes,\nbeguiled the mourner of one hour of sorrow, or, by its moral, taught him\nto sustain it--the effort, however humble, has not been vain, nor is the\nwriter unrewarded."