Project Gutenberg's The Mysteries of Udolpho, by Ann Radcliffe

Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check
the laws for your country before redistributing these files!!!

Please take a look at the important information in this header.
We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an
electronic path open for the next readers.

Please do not remove this.

This should be the first thing seen when anyone opens the book.
Do not change or edit it without written permission.  The words
are carefully chosen to provide users with the information they
need about what they can legally do with the texts.


**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations*

Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and
further information is included below.  We need your donations.
The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a 501(c)(3)
organization with EIN [Employee Identification Number] 64-6221541

As of 12/12/00 contributions are only being solicited from people in:
Colorado, Connecticut, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa,
Kentucky, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Montana,
Nevada, Oklahoma, South Carolina, South Dakota,
Texas, Vermont, and Wyoming.

As the requirements for other states are met,
additions to this list will be made and fund raising
will begin in the additional states.  Please feel
free to ask to check the status of your state.

International donations are accepted,
but we don't know ANYTHING about how
to make them tax-deductible, or
even if they CAN be made deductible,
and don't have the staff to handle it
even if there are ways.

These donations should be made to:

Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109


Title:  The Mysteries of Udolpho

Author:  Ann Radcliffe

Release Date: June, 2002  [Etext #3268]
[Yes, we are about one year ahead of schedule]
[The actual date this file first posted = 03/04/01]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Project Gutenberg's The Mysteries of Udolpho, by Ann Radcliffe
*****This file should be named newhd10.txt or newhd10.zip*****

Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, newhd11.txt
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, newhd10a.txt

[Keyed and Proofed by Karalee Coleman <kcoleman@cadvision.com>

Project Gutenberg Etexts are usually created from multiple editions,
all of which are in the Public Domain in the United States, unless a
copyright notice is included.  Therefore, we usually do NOT keep any
of these books in compliance with any particular paper edition.

We are now trying to release all our books one year in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please be encouraged to send us error messages even years after
the official publication date.

Please note:  neither this list nor its contents are final till
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg Etexts is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month.  A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.

Most people start at our sites at:
http://gutenberg.net
http://promo.net/pg


Those of you who want to download any Etext before announcement
can surf to them as follows, and just download by date; this is
also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.

http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext02
or
ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext02

Or /etext01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90

Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
as it appears in our Newsletters.


Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work.  The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any etext selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc.  This
projected audience is one hundred million readers.  If our value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour this year as we release fifty new Etext
files per month, or 500 more Etexts in 2000 for a total of 3000+
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
should reach over 300 billion Etexts given away by year's end.

The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away One Trillion Etext
Files by December 31, 2001.  [10,000 x 100,000,000 = 1 Trillion]
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.

At our revised rates of production, we will reach only one-third
of that goal by the end of 2001, or about 3,333 Etexts unless we
manage to get some real funding.

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created
to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.

We need your donations more than ever!

Presently, contributions are only being solicited from people in:
Colorado, Connecticut, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa,
Kentucky, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Montana,
Nevada, Oklahoma, South Carolina, South Dakota,
Texas, Vermont, and Wyoming.

As the requirements for other states are met,
additions to this list will be made and fund raising
will begin in the additional states.

These donations should be made to:

Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109


Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation,
EIN [Employee Identification Number] 64-6221541,
has been approved as a 501(c)(3) organization by the US Internal
Revenue Service (IRS).  Donations are tax-deductible to the extent
permitted by law.  As the requirements for other states are met,
additions to this list will be made and fund raising will begin in the
additional states.

All donations should be made to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation.  Mail to:

Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Avenue
Oxford, MS 38655-4109  [USA]


We need your donations more than ever!

You can get up to date donation information at:

http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html


***

If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,
you can always email directly to:

Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com>

hart@pobox.com forwards to hart@prairienet.org and archive.org
if your mail bounces from archive.org, I will still see it, if
it bounces from prairienet.org, better resend later on. . . .

Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.

We would prefer to send you information by email.


***


Example command-line FTP session:

ftp ftp.ibiblio.org
login: anonymous
password: your@login
cd pub/docs/books/gutenberg
cd etext90 through etext99 or etext00 through etext02, etc.
dir [to see files]
get or mget [to get files. . .set bin for zip files]
GET GUTINDEX.??  [to get a year's listing of books, e.g., GUTINDEX.99]
GET GUTINDEX.ALL [to get a listing of ALL books]


**The Legal Small Print**


(Three Pages)

***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here?  You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this etext, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault.  So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you.  It also tells you how
you may distribute copies of this etext if you want to.

*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS ETEXT
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
etext, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement.  If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this etext by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from.  If you received this etext on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM ETEXTS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etexts,
is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties.  Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this etext
under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
any commercial products without permission.

To create these etexts, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works.  Despite these efforts, the Project's etexts and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects".  Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other etext medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may 
receive this etext from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm etext) disclaims
all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

If you discover a Defect in this etext within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from.  If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy.  If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.

THIS ETEXT IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS".  NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE ETEXT OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.

INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,
and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated
with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including
legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the 
following that you do or cause:  [1] distribution of this etext,
[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the etext,
or [3] any Defect.

DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this etext electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:

[1]  Only give exact copies of it.  Among other things, this
     requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
     etext or this "small print!" statement.  You may however,
     if you wish, distribute this etext in machine readable
     binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
     including any form resulting from conversion by word
     processing or hypertext software, but only so long as
     *EITHER*:

     [*]  The etext, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
          does *not* contain characters other than those
          intended by the author of the work, although tilde
          (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
          be used to convey punctuation intended by the
          author, and additional characters may be used to
          indicate hypertext links; OR

     [*]  The etext may be readily converted by the reader at
          no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
          form by the program that displays the etext (as is
          the case, for instance, with most word processors);
          OR

     [*]  You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
          no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
          etext in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
          or other equivalent proprietary form).

[2]  Honor the etext refund and replacement provisions of this
     "Small Print!" statement.

[3]  Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the
     gross profits you derive calculated using the method you
     already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  If you
     don't derive profits, no royalty is due.  Royalties are
     payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
     the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
     legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
     periodic) tax return.  Please contact us beforehand to
     let us know your plans and to work out the details.

WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of
public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed
in machine readable form.  

The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time, 
public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses.
Money should be paid to the:
"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
hart@pobox.com

*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.12.12.00*END*





[Keyed and Proofed by Karalee Coleman <kcoleman@cadvision.com>





The Mysteries of Udolpho

by Ann Radcliffe




A Romance
Interspersed With Some Pieces of Poetry

 Fate sits on these dark battlements, and frowns,
 And, as the portals open to receive me,
 Her voice, in sullen echoes through the courts,
 Tells of a nameless deed.




VOLUME 1



CHAPTER I


      home is the resort
 Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where,
 Supporting and supported, polish'd friends
 And dear relations mingle into bliss.*
      *Thomson


On the pleasant banks of the Garonne, in the province of Gascony, 
stood, in the year 1584, the chateau of Monsieur St. Aubert.  From 
its windows were seen the pastoral landscapes of Guienne and Gascony 
stretching along the river, gay with luxuriant woods and vine, and 
plantations of olives.  To the south, the view was bounded by the 
majestic Pyrenees, whose summits, veiled in clouds, or exhibiting 
awful forms, seen, and lost again, as the partial vapours rolled 
along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed through the blue tinge of 
air, and sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy pine, that swept 
downward to their base.  These tremendous precipices were contrasted 
by the soft green of the pastures and woods that hung upon their 
skirts; among whose flocks, and herds, and simple cottages, the eye, 
after having scaled the cliffs above, delighted to repose.  To the 
north, and to the east, the plains of Guienne and Languedoc were lost 
in the mist of distance; on the west, Gascony was bounded by the 
waters of Biscay.

M.  St. Aubert loved to wander, with his wife and daughter, on the 
margin of the Garonne, and to listen to the music that floated on its 
waves.  He had known life in other forms than those of pastoral 
simplicity, having mingled in the gay and in the busy scenes of the 
world; but the flattering portrait of mankind, which his heart had 
delineated in early youth, his experience had too sorrowfully 
corrected.  Yet, amidst the changing visions of life, his principles 
remained unshaken, his benevolence unchilled; and he retired from the 
multitude 'more in PITY than in anger,' to scenes of simple nature, 
to the pure delights of literature, and to the exercise of domestic 
virtues.

He was a descendant from the younger branch of an illustrious family, 
and it was designed, that the deficiency of his patrimonial wealth 
should be supplied either by a splendid alliance in marriage, or by 
success in the intrigues of public affairs.  But St. Aubert had too 
nice a sense of honour to fulfil the latter hope, and too small a 
portion of ambition to sacrifice what he called happiness, to the 
attainment of wealth.  After the death of his father he married a 
very amiable woman, his equal in birth, and not his superior in 
fortune.  The late Monsieur St. Aubert's liberality, or extravagance, 
had so much involved his affairs, that his son found it necessary to 
dispose of a part of the family domain, and, some years after his 
marriage, he sold it to Monsieur Quesnel, the brother of his wife, 
and retired to a small estate in Gascony, where conjugal felicity, 
and parental duties, divided his attention with the treasures of 
knowledge and the illuminations of genius.

To this spot he had been attached from his infancy.  He had often 
made excursions to it when a boy, and the impressions of delight 
given to his mind by the homely kindness of the grey-headed peasant, 
to whom it was intrusted, and whose fruit and cream never failed, had 
not been obliterated by succeeding circumstances.  The green pastures 
along which he had so often bounded in the exultation of health, and 
youthful freedom--the woods, under whose refreshing shade he had 
first indulged that pensive melancholy, which afterwards made a 
strong feature of his character--the wild walks of the mountains, the 
river, on whose waves he had floated, and the distant plains, which 
seemed boundless as his early hopes--were never after remembered by 
St. Aubert but with enthusiasm and regret.  At length he disengaged 
himself from the world, and retired hither, to realize the wishes of 
many years.

The building, as it then stood, was merely a summer cottage, rendered 
interesting to a stranger by its neat simplicity, or the beauty of 
the surrounding scene; and considerable additions were necessary to 
make it a comfortable family residence.  St. Aubert felt a kind of 
affection for every part of the fabric, which he remembered in his 
youth, and would not suffer a stone of it to be removed, so that the 
new building, adapted to the style of the old one, formed with it 
only a simple and elegant residence.  The taste of Madame St. Aubert 
was conspicuous in its internal finishing, where the same chaste 
simplicity was observable in the furniture, and in the few ornaments 
of the apartments, that characterized the manners of its inhabitants.

The library occupied the west side of the chateau, and was enriched 
by a collection of the best books in the ancient and modern 
languages.  This room opened upon a grove, which stood on the brow of 
a gentle declivity, that fell towards the river, and the tall trees 
gave it a melancholy and pleasing shade; while from the windows the 
eye caught, beneath the spreading branches, the gay and luxuriant 
landscape stretching to the west, and overlooked on the left by the 
bold precipices of the Pyrenees.  Adjoining the library was a green-
house, stored with scarce and beautiful plants; for one of the 
amusements of St. Aubert was the study of botany, and among the 
neighbouring mountains, which afforded a luxurious feast to the mind 
of the naturalist, he often passed the day in the pursuit of his 
favourite science.  He was sometimes accompanied in these little 
excursions by Madame St. Aubert, and frequently by his daughter; 
when, with a small osier basket to receive plants, and another filled 
with cold refreshments, such as the cabin of the shepherd did not 
afford, they wandered away among the most romantic and magnificent 
scenes, nor suffered the charms of Nature's lowly children to 
abstract them from the observance of her stupendous works.  When 
weary of sauntering among cliffs that seemed scarcely accessible but 
to the steps of the enthusiast, and where no track appeared on the 
vegetation, but what the foot of the izard had left; they would seek 
one of those green recesses, which so beautifully adorn the bosom of 
these mountains, where, under the shade of the lofty larch, or cedar, 
they enjoyed their simple repast, made sweeter by the waters of the 
cool stream, that crept along the turf, and by the breath of wild 
flowers and aromatic plants, that fringed the rocks, and inlaid the 
grass.

Adjoining the eastern side of the green-house, looking towards the 
plains of Languedoc, was a room, which Emily called hers, and which 
contained her books, her drawings, her musical instruments, with some 
favourite birds and plants.  Here she usually exercised herself in 
elegant arts, cultivated only because they were congenial to her 
taste, and in which native genius, assisted by the instructions of 
Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert, made her an early proficient.  The 
windows of this room were particularly pleasant; they descended to 
the floor, and, opening upon the little lawn that surrounded the 
house, the eye was led between groves of almond, palm-trees, 
flowering-ash, and myrtle, to the distant landscape, where the 
Garonne wandered.

The peasants of this gay climate were often seen on an evening, when 
the day's labour was done, dancing in groups on the margin of the 
river.  Their sprightly melodies, debonnaire steps, the fanciful 
figure of their dances, with the tasteful and capricious manner in 
which the girls adjusted their simple dress, gave a character to the 
scene entirely French.

The front of the chateau, which, having a southern aspect, opened 
upon the grandeur of the mountains, was occupied on the ground floor 
by a rustic hall, and two excellent sitting rooms.  The first floor, 
for the cottage had no second story, was laid out in bed-chambers, 
except one apartment that opened to a balcony, and which was 
generally used for a breakfast-room.

In the surrounding ground, St. Aubert had made very tasteful 
improvements; yet, such was his attachment to objects he had 
remembered from his boyish days, that he had in some instances 
sacrificed taste to sentiment.  There were two old larches that 
shaded the building, and interrupted the prospect; St. Aubert had 
sometimes declared that he believed he should have been weak enough 
to have wept at their fall.  In addition to these larches he planted 
a little grove of beech, pine, and mountain-ash.  On a lofty terrace, 
formed by the swelling bank of the river, rose a plantation of 
orange, lemon, and palm-trees, whose fruit, in the coolness of 
evening, breathed delicious fragrance.  With these were mingled a few 
trees of other species.  Here, under the ample shade of a plane-tree, 
that spread its majestic canopy towards the river, St. Aubert loved 
to sit in the fine evenings of summer, with his wife and children, 
watching, beneath its foliage, the setting sun, the mild splendour of 
its light fading from the distant landscape, till the shadows of 
twilight melted its various features into one tint of sober grey.  
Here, too, he loved to read, and to converse with Madame St. Aubert; 
or to play with his children, resigning himself to the influence of 
those sweet affections, which are ever attendant on simplicity and 
nature.  He has often said, while tears of pleasure trembled in his 
eyes, that these were moments infinitely more delightful than any 
passed amid the brilliant and tumultuous scenes that are courted by 
the world.  His heart was occupied; it had, what can be so rarely 
said, no wish for a happiness beyond what it experienced.  The 
consciousness of acting right diffused a serenity over his manners, 
which nothing else could impart to a man of moral perceptions like 
his, and which refined his sense of every surrounding blessing.

The deepest shade of twilight did not send him from his favourite 
plane-tree.  He loved the soothing hour, when the last tints of light 
die away; when the stars, one by one, tremble through aether, and are 
reflected on the dark mirror of the waters; that hour, which, of all 
others, inspires the mind with pensive tenderness, and often elevates 
it to sublime contemplation.  When the moon shed her soft rays among 
the foliage, he still lingered, and his pastoral supper of cream and 
fruits was often spread beneath it.  Then, on the stillness of night, 
came the song of the nightingale, breathing sweetness, and awakening 
melancholy.

The first interruptions to the happiness he had known since his 
retirement, were occasioned by the death of his two sons.  He lost 
them at that age when infantine simplicity is so fascinating; and 
though, in consideration of Madame St. Aubert's distress, he 
restrained the expression of his own, and endeavoured to bear it, as 
he meant, with philosophy, he had, in truth, no philosophy that could 
render him calm to such losses.  One daughter was now his only 
surviving child; and, while he watched the unfolding of her infant 
character, with anxious fondness, he endeavoured, with unremitting 
effort, to counteract those traits in her disposition, which might 
hereafter lead her from happiness.  She had discovered in her early 
years uncommon delicacy of mind, warm affections, and ready 
benevolence; but with these was observable a degree of susceptibility 
too exquisite to admit of lasting peace.  As she advanced in youth, 
this sensibility gave a pensive tone to her spirits, and a softness 
to her manner, which added grace to beauty, and rendered her a very 
interesting object to persons of a congenial disposition.  But St. 
Aubert had too much good sense to prefer a charm to a virtue; and had 
penetration enough to see, that this charm was too dangerous to its 
possessor to be allowed the character of a blessing.  He endeavoured, 
therefore, to strengthen her mind; to enure her to habits of self-
command; to teach her to reject the first impulse of her feelings, 
and to look, with cool examination, upon the disappointments he 
sometimes threw in her way.  While he instructed her to resist first 
impressions, and to acquire that steady dignity of mind, that can 
alone counterbalance the passions, and bear us, as far as is 
compatible with our nature, above the reach of circumstances, he 
taught himself a lesson of fortitude; for he was often obliged to 
witness, with seeming indifference, the tears and struggles which his 
caution occasioned her.

In person, Emily resembled her mother; having the same elegant 
symmetry of form, the same delicacy of features, and the same blue 
eyes, full of tender sweetness.  But, lovely as was her person, it 
was the varied expression of her countenance, as conversation 
awakened the nicer emotions of her mind, that threw such a 
captivating grace around her:

 Those tend'rer tints, that shun the careless eye,
 And, in the world's contagious circle, die.

St. Aubert cultivated her understanding with the most scrupulous 
care.  He gave her a general view of the sciences, and an exact 
acquaintance with every part of elegant literature.  He taught her 
Latin and English, chiefly that she might understand the sublimity of 
their best poets.  She discovered in her early years a taste for 
works of genius; and it was St. Aubert's principle, as well as his 
inclination, to promote every innocent means of happiness.  'A well-
informed mind,' he would say, 'is the best security against the 
contagion of folly and of vice.  The vacant mind is ever on the watch 
for relief, and ready to plunge into error, to escape from the 
languor of idleness.  Store it with ideas, teach it the pleasure of 
thinking; and the temptations of the world without, will be 
counteracted by the gratifications derived from the world within.  
Thought, and cultivation, are necessary equally to the happiness of a 
country and a city life; in the first they prevent the uneasy 
sensations of indolence, and afford a sublime pleasure in the taste 
they create for the beautiful, and the grand; in the latter, they 
make dissipation less an object of necessity, and consequently of 
interest.'

It was one of Emily's earliest pleasures to ramble among the scenes 
of nature; nor was it in the soft and glowing landscape that she most 
delighted; she loved more the wild wood-walks, that skirted the 
mountain; and still more the mountain's stupendous recesses, where 
the silence and grandeur of solitude impressed a sacred awe upon her 
heart, and lifted her thoughts to the GOD OF HEAVEN AND EARTH.  In 
scenes like these she would often linger along, wrapt in a melancholy 
charm, till the last gleam of day faded from the west; till the 
lonely sound of a sheep-bell, or the distant bark of a watch-dog, 
were all that broke on the stillness of the evening.  Then, the gloom 
of the woods; the trembling of their leaves, at intervals, in the 
breeze; the bat, flitting on the twilight; the cottage-lights, now 
seen, and now lost--were circumstances that awakened her mind into 
effort, and led to enthusiasm and poetry.

Her favourite walk was to a little fishing-house, belonging to St. 
Aubert, in a woody glen, on the margin of a rivulet that descended 
from the Pyrenees, and, after foaming among their rocks, wound its 
silent way beneath the shades it reflected.  Above the woods, that 
screened this glen, rose the lofty summits of the Pyrenees, which 
often burst boldly on the eye through the glades below.  Sometimes 
the shattered face of a rock only was seen, crowned with wild shrubs; 
or a shepherd's cabin seated on a cliff, overshadowed by dark 
cypress, or waving ash.  Emerging from the deep recesses of the 
woods, the glade opened to the distant landscape, where the rich 
pastures and vine-covered slopes of Gascony gradually declined to the 
plains; and there, on the winding shores of the Garonne, groves, and 
hamlets, and villas--their outlines softened by distance, melted from 
the eye into one rich harmonious tint.

This, too, was the favourite retreat of St. Aubert, to which he 
frequently withdrew from the fervour of noon, with his wife, his 
daughter, and his books; or came at the sweet evening hour to welcome 
the silent dusk, or to listen for the music of the nightingale.  
Sometimes, too, he brought music of his own, and awakened every fairy 
echo with the tender accents of his oboe; and often have the tones of 
Emily's voice drawn sweetness from the waves, over which they 
trembled.

It was in one of these excursions to this spot, that she observed the 
following lines written with a pencil on a part of the wainscot:

 SONNET

 Go, pencil! faithful to thy master's sighs!
 Go--tell the Goddess of the fairy scene,
 When next her light steps wind these wood-walks green,
 Whence all his tears, his tender sorrows, rise;
 Ah! paint her form, her soul-illumin'd eyes,
 The sweet expression of her pensive face,
 The light'ning smile, the animated grace--
 The portrait well the lover's voice supplies;
 Speaks all his heart must feel, his tongue would say:
 Yet ah! not all his heart must sadly feel!
 How oft the flow'ret's silken leaves conceal
 The drug that steals the vital spark away!
 And who that gazes on that angel-smile,
 Would fear its charm, or think it could beguile!

These lines were not inscribed to any person; Emily therefore could 
not apply them to herself, though she was undoubtedly the nymph of 
these shades.  Having glanced round the little circle of her 
acquaintance without being detained by a suspicion as to whom they 
could be addressed, she was compelled to rest in uncertainty; an 
uncertainty which would have been more painful to an idle mind than 
it was to hers.  She had no leisure to suffer this circumstance, 
trifling at first, to swell into importance by frequent remembrance.  
The little vanity it had excited (for the incertitude which forbade 
her to presume upon having inspired the sonnet, forbade her also to 
disbelieve it) passed away, and the incident was dismissed from her 
thoughts amid her books, her studies, and the exercise of social 
charities.

Soon after this period, her anxiety was awakened by the indisposition 
of her father, who was attacked with a fever; which, though not 
thought to be of a dangerous kind, gave a severe shock to his 
constitution.  Madame St. Aubert and Emily attended him with 
unremitting care; but his recovery was very slow, and, as he advanced 
towards health, Madame seemed to decline.

The first scene he visited, after he was well enough to take the air, 
was his favourite fishing-house.  A basket of provisions was sent 
thither, with books, and Emily's lute; for fishing-tackle he had no 
use, for he never could find amusement in torturing or destroying.

After employing himself, for about an hour, in botanizing, dinner was 
served.  It was a repast, to which gratitude, for being again 
permitted to visit this spot, gave sweetness; and family happiness 
once more smiled beneath these shades.  Monsieur St. Aubert conversed 
with unusual cheerfulness; every object delighted his senses.  The 
refreshing pleasure from the first view of nature, after the pain of 
illness, and the confinement of a sick-chamber, is above the 
conceptions, as well as the descriptions, of those in health.  The 
green woods and pastures; the flowery turf; the blue concave of the 
heavens; the balmy air; the murmur of the limpid stream; and even the 
hum of every little insect of the shade, seem to revivify the soul, 
and make mere existence bliss.

Madame St. Aubert, reanimated by the cheerfulness and recovery of her 
husband, was no longer sensible of the indisposition which had lately 
oppressed her; and, as she sauntered along the wood-walks of this 
romantic glen, and conversed with him, and with her daughter, she 
often looked at them alternately with a degree of tenderness, that 
filled her eyes with tears.  St. Aubert observed this more than once, 
and gently reproved her for the emotion; but she could only smile, 
clasp his hand, and that of Emily, and weep the more.  He felt the 
tender enthusiasm stealing upon himself in a degree that became 
almost painful; his features assumed a serious air, and he could not 
forbear secretly sighing--'Perhaps I shall some time look back to 
these moments, as to the summit of my happiness, with hopeless 
regret.  But let me not misuse them by useless anticipation; let me 
hope I shall not live to mourn the loss of those who are dearer to me 
than life.'

To relieve, or perhaps to indulge, the pensive temper of his mind, he 
bade Emily fetch the lute she knew how to touch with such sweet 
pathos.  As she drew near the fishing-house, she was surprised to 
hear the tones of the instrument, which were awakened by the hand of 
taste, and uttered a plaintive air, whose exquisite melody engaged 
all her attention.  She listened in profound silence, afraid to move 
from the spot, lest the sound of her steps should occasion her to 
lose a note of the music, or should disturb the musician.  Every 
thing without the building was still, and no person appeared.  She 
continued to listen, till timidity succeeded to surprise and delight; 
a timidity, increased by a remembrance of the pencilled lines she had 
formerly seen, and she hesitated whether to proceed, or to return.

While she paused, the music ceased; and, after a momentary 
hesitation, she re-collected courage to advance to the fishing-house, 
which she entered with faltering steps, and found unoccupied!  Her 
lute lay on the table; every thing seemed undisturbed, and she began 
to believe it was another instrument she had heard, till she 
remembered, that, when she followed M. and Madame St. Aubert from 
this spot, her lute was left on a window seat.  She felt alarmed, yet 
knew not wherefore; the melancholy gloom of evening, and the profound 
stillness of the place, interrupted only by the light trembling of 
leaves, heightened her fanciful apprehensions, and she was desirous 
of quitting the building, but perceived herself grow faint, and sat 
down.  As she tried to recover herself, the pencilled lines on the 
wainscot met her eye; she started, as if she had seen a stranger; 
but, endeavouring to conquer the tremor of her spirits, rose, and 
went to the window.  To the lines before noticed she now perceived 
that others were added, in which her name appeared.

Though no longer suffered to doubt that they were addressed to 
herself, she was as ignorant, as before, by whom they could be 
written.  While she mused, she thought she heard the sound of a step 
without the building, and again alarmed, she caught up her lute, and 
hurried away.  Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert she found in a little 
path that wound along the sides of the glen.

Having reached a green summit, shadowed by palm-trees, and 
overlooking the vallies and plains of Gascony, they seated themselves 
on the turf; and while their eyes wandered over the glorious scene, 
and they inhaled the sweet breath of flowers and herbs that enriched 
the grass, Emily played and sung several of their favourite airs, 
with the delicacy of expression in which she so much excelled.

Music and conversation detained them in this enchanting spot, till 
the sun's last light slept upon the plains; till the white sails that 
glided beneath the mountains, where the Garonne wandered, became dim, 
and the gloom of evening stole over the landscape.  It was a 
melancholy but not unpleasing gloom.  St. Aubert and his family rose, 
and left the place with regret; alas! Madame St. Aubert knew not that 
she left it for ever.

When they reached the fishing-house she missed her bracelet, and 
recollected that she had taken it from her arm after dinner, and had 
left it on the table when she went to walk.  After a long search, in 
which Emily was very active, she was compelled to resign herself to 
the loss of it.  What made this bracelet valuable to her was a 
miniature of her daughter to which it was attached, esteemed a 
striking resemblance, and which had been painted only a few months 
before.  When Emily was convinced that the bracelet was really gone, 
she blushed, and became thoughtful.  That some stranger had been in 
the fishing-house, during her absence, her lute, and the additional 
lines of a pencil, had already informed her:  from the purport of 
these lines it was not unreasonable to believe, that the poet, the 
musician, and the thief were the same person.  But though the music 
she had heard, the written lines she had seen, and the disappearance 
of the picture, formed a combination of circumstances very 
remarkable, she was irresistibly restrained from mentioning them; 
secretly determining, however, never again to visit the fishing-house 
without Monsieur or Madame St. Aubert.

They returned pensively to the chateau, Emily musing on the incident 
which had just occurred; St. Aubert reflecting, with placid 
gratitude, on the blessings he possessed; and Madame St. Aubert 
somewhat disturbed, and perplexed, by the loss of her daughter's 
picture.  As they drew near the house, they observed an unusual 
bustle about it; the sound of voices was distinctly heard, servants 
and horses were seen passing between the trees, and, at length, the 
wheels of a carriage rolled along.  Having come within view of the 
front of the chateau, a landau, with smoking horses, appeared on the 
little lawn before it.  St. Aubert perceived the liveries of his 
brother-in-law, and in the parlour he found Monsieur and Madame 
Quesnel already entered.  They had left Paris some days before, and 
were on the way to their estate, only ten leagues distant from La 
Vallee, and which Monsieur Quesnel had purchased several years before 
of St. Aubert.  This gentleman was the only brother of Madame St. 
Aubert; but the ties of relationship having never been strengthened 
by congeniality of character, the intercourse between them had not 
been frequent.  M. Quesnel had lived altogether in the world; his aim 
had been consequence; splendour was the object of his taste; and his 
address and knowledge of character had carried him forward to the 
attainment of almost all that he had courted.  By a man of such a 
disposition, it is not surprising that the virtues of St. Aubert 
should be overlooked; or that his pure taste, simplicity, and 
moderated wishes, were considered as marks of a weak intellect, and 
of confined views.  The marriage of his sister with St. Aubert had 
been mortifying to his ambition, for he had designed that the 
matrimonial connection she formed should assist him to attain the 
consequence which he so much desired; and some offers were made her 
by persons whose rank and fortune flattered his warmest hope.  But 
his sister, who was then addressed also by St. Aubert, perceived, or 
thought she perceived, that happiness and splendour were not the 
same, and she did not hesitate to forego the last for the attainment 
of the former.  Whether Monsieur Quesnel thought them the same, or 
not, he would readily have sacrificed his sister's peace to the 
gratification of his own ambition; and, on her marriage with St. 
Aubert, expressed in private his contempt of her spiritless conduct, 
and of the connection which it permitted.  Madame St. Aubert, though 
she concealed this insult from her husband, felt, perhaps, for the 
first time, resentment lighted in her heart; and, though a regard for 
her own dignity, united with considerations of prudence, restrained 
her expression of this resentment, there was ever after a mild 
reserve in her manner towards M. Quesnel, which he both understood 
and felt.

In his own marriage he did not follow his sister's example.  His lady 
was an Italian, and an heiress by birth; and, by nature and 
education, was a vain and frivolous woman.

They now determined to pass the night with St. Aubert; and as the 
chateau was not large enough to accommodate their servants, the 
latter were dismissed to the neighbouring village.  When the first 
compliments were over, and the arrangements for the night made M. 
Quesnel began the display of his intelligence and his connections; 
while St. Aubert, who had been long enough in retirement to find 
these topics recommended by their novelty, listened, with a degree of 
patience and attention, which his guest mistook for the humility of 
wonder.  The latter, indeed, described the few festivities which the 
turbulence of that period permitted to the court of Henry the Third, 
with a minuteness, that somewhat recompensed for his ostentation; 
but, when he came to speak of the character of the Duke de Joyeuse, 
of a secret treaty, which he knew to be negotiating with the Porte, 
and of the light in which Henry of Navarre was received, M. St. 
Aubert recollected enough of his former experience to be assured, 
that his guest could be only of an inferior class of politicians; and 
that, from the importance of the subjects upon which he committed 
himself, he could not be of the rank to which he pretended to belong.  
The opinions delivered by M. Quesnel, were such as St. Aubert 
forebore to reply to, for he knew that his guest had neither humanity 
to feel, nor discernment to perceive, what is just.

Madame Quesnel, meanwhile, was expressing to Madame St. Aubert her 
astonishment, that she could bear to pass her life in this remote 
corner of the world, as she called it, and describing, from a wish, 
probably, of exciting envy, the splendour of the balls, banquets, and 
processions which had just been given by the court, in honour of the 
nuptials of the Duke de Joyeuse with Margaretta of Lorrain, the 
sister of the Queen.  She described with equal minuteness the 
magnificence she had seen, and that from which she had been excluded; 
while Emily's vivid fancy, as she listened with the ardent curiosity 
of youth, heightened the scenes she heard of; and Madame St. Aubert, 
looking on her family, felt, as a tear stole to her eye, that though 
splendour may grace happiness, virtue only can bestow it.

'It is now twelve years, St. Aubert,' said M. Quesnel, 'since I 
purchased your family estate.'--'Somewhere thereabout,' replied St. 
Aubert, suppressing a sigh.  'It is near five years since I have been 
there,' resumed Quesnel; 'for Paris and its neighbourhood is the only 
place in the world to live in, and I am so immersed in politics, and 
have so many affairs of moment on my hands, that I find it difficult 
to steal away even for a month or two.'  St. Aubert remaining silent, 
M. Quesnel proceeded:  'I have sometimes wondered how you, who have 
lived in the capital, and have been accustomed to company, can exist 
elsewhere;--especially in so remote a country as this, where you can 
neither hear nor see any thing, and can in short be scarcely 
conscious of life.'

'I live for my family and myself,' said St. Aubert; 'I am now 
contented to know only happiness;--formerly I knew life.'

'I mean to expend thirty or forty thousand livres on improvements,' 
said M. Quesnel, without seeming to notice the words of St. Aubert; 
'for I design, next summer, to bring here my friends, the Duke de 
Durefort and the Marquis Ramont, to pass a month or two with me.'  To 
St. Aubert's enquiry, as to these intended improvements, he replied, 
that he should take down the whole east wing of the chateau, and 
raise upon the site a set of stables.  'Then I shall build,' said he, 
'a SALLE A MANGER, a SALON, a SALLE AU COMMUNE, and a number of rooms 
for servants; for at present there is not accommodation for a third 
part of my own people.'

'It accommodated our father's household,' said St. Aubert, grieved 
that the old mansion was to be thus improved, 'and that was not a 
small one.'

'Our notions are somewhat enlarged since those days,' said M. 
Quesnel;--'what was then thought a decent style of living would not 
now be endured.'  Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words, 
but his anger soon yielded to contempt.  'The ground about the 
chateau is encumbered with trees; I mean to cut some of them down.'

'Cut down the trees too!' said St. Aubert.

'Certainly.  Why should I not? they interrupt my prospects.  There is 
a chesnut which spreads its branches before the whole south side of 
the chateau, and which is so ancient that they tell me the hollow of 
its trunk will hold a dozen men.  Your enthusiasm will scarcely 
contend that there can be either use, or beauty, in such a sapless 
old tree as this.'

'Good God!' exclaimed St. Aubert, 'you surely will not destroy that 
noble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of the 
estate!  It was in its maturity when the present mansion was built.  
How often, in my youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and 
sat embowered amidst a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has 
pattered above, and not a rain drop reached me!  How often I have sat 
with a book in my hand, sometimes reading, and sometimes looking out 
between the branches upon the wide landscape, and the setting sun, 
till twilight came, and brought the birds home to their little nests 
among the leaves!  How often--but pardon me,' added St. Aubert, 
recollecting that he was speaking to a man who could neither 
comprehend, nor allow his feelings, 'I am talking of times and 
feelings as old-fashioned as the taste that would spare that 
venerable tree.'

'It will certainly come down,' said M. Quesnel; 'I believe I shall 
plant some Lombardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that I shall 
leave of the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and 
tells me how much it adorns a villa of her uncle, not far from 
Venice.'

'On the banks of the Brenta, indeed,' continued St. Aubert, 'where 
its spiry form is intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and 
where it plays over light and elegant porticos and colonnades, it, 
unquestionably, adorns the scene; but among the giants of the forest, 
and near a heavy gothic mansion--'

'Well, my good sir,' said M. Quesnel, 'I will not dispute with you.  
You must return to Paris before our ideas can at all agree.  But A-
PROPOS of Venice, I have some thoughts of going thither, next summer; 
events may call me to take possession of that same villa, too, which 
they tell me is the most charming that can be imagined.  In that case 
I shall leave the improvements I mention to another year, and I may, 
perhaps, be tempted to stay some time in Italy.'

Emily was somewhat surprised to hear him talk of being tempted to 
remain abroad, after he had mentioned his presence to be so necessary 
at Paris, that it was with difficulty he could steal away for a month 
or two; but St. Aubert understood the self-importance of the man too 
well to wonder at this trait; and the possibility, that these 
projected improvements might be deferred, gave him a hope, that they 
might never take place.

Before they separated for the night, M. Quesnel desired to speak with 
St. Aubert alone, and they retired to another room, where they 
remained a considerable time.  The subject of this conversation was 
not known; but, whatever it might be, St. Aubert, when he returned to 
the supper-room, seemed much disturbed, and a shade of sorrow 
sometimes fell upon his features that alarmed Madame St. Aubert.  
When they were alone she was tempted to enquire the occasion of it, 
but the delicacy of mind, which had ever appeared in his conduct, 
restrained her:  she considered that, if St. Aubert wished her to be 
acquainted with the subject of his concern, he would not wait on her 
enquiries.

On the following day, before M. Quesnel departed, he had a second 
conference with St. Aubert.

The guests, after dining at the chateau, set out in the cool of the 
day for Epourville, whither they gave him and Madame St. Aubert a 
pressing invitation, prompted rather by the vanity of displaying 
their splendour, than by a wish to make their friends happy.

Emily returned, with delight, to the liberty which their presence had 
restrained, to her books, her walks, and the rational conversation of 
M. and Madame St. Aubert, who seemed to rejoice, no less, that they 
were delivered from the shackles, which arrogance and frivolity had 
imposed.

Madame St. Aubert excused herself from sharing their usual evening 
walk, complaining that she was not quite well, and St. Aubert and 
Emily went out together.

They chose a walk towards the mountains, intending to visit some old 
pensioners of St. Aubert, which, from his very moderate income, he 
contrived to support, though it is probable M. Quesnel, with his very 
large one, could not have afforded this.

After distributing to his pensioners their weekly stipends, listening 
patiently to the complaints of some, redressing the grievances of 
others, and softening the discontents of all, by the look of 
sympathy, and the smile of benevolence, St. Aubert returned home 
through the woods,

     where
 At fall of eve the fairy-people throng,
 In various games and revelry to pass
 The summer night, as village stories tell.*
     *Thomson


'The evening gloom of woods was always delightful to me,' said St. 
Aubert, whose mind now experienced the sweet calm, which results from 
the consciousness of having done a beneficent action, and which 
disposes it to receive pleasure from every surrounding object.  'I 
remember that in my youth this gloom used to call forth to my fancy a 
thousand fairy visions, and romantic images; and, I own, I am not yet 
wholly insensible of that high enthusiasm, which wakes the poet's 
dream:  I can linger, with solemn steps, under the deep shades, send 
forward a transforming eye into the distant obscurity, and listen 
with thrilling delight to the mystic murmuring of the woods.'

'O my dear father,' said Emily, while a sudden tear started to her 
eye, 'how exactly you describe what I have felt so often, and which I 
thought nobody had ever felt but myself!  But hark! here comes the 
sweeping sound over the wood-tops;--now it dies away;--how solemn the 
stillness that succeeds!  Now the breeze swells again.  It is like 
the voice of some supernatural being--the voice of the spirit of the 
woods, that watches over them by night.  Ah! what light is yonder?  
But it is gone.  And now it gleams again, near the root of that large 
chestnut:  look, sir!'

'Are you such an admirer of nature,' said St. Aubert, 'and so little 
acquainted with her appearances as not to know that for the glow-
worm?  But come,' added he gaily, 'step a little further, and we 
shall see fairies, perhaps; they are often companions.  The glow-worm 
lends his light, and they in return charm him with music, and the 
dance.  Do you see nothing tripping yonder?'

Emily laughed.  'Well, my dear sir,' said she, 'since you allow of 
this alliance, I may venture to own I have anticipated you; and 
almost dare venture to repeat some verses I made one evening in these 
very woods.'

'Nay,' replied St. Aubert, 'dismiss the ALMOST, and venture quite; 
let us hear what vagaries fancy has been playing in your mind.  If 
she has given you one of her spells, you need not envy those of the 
fairies.'

'If it is strong enough to enchant your judgment, sir,' said Emily, 
'while I disclose her images, I need NOT envy them.  The lines go in 
a sort of tripping measure, which I thought might suit the subject 
well enough, but I fear they are too irregular.'

  THE GLOW-WORM

 How pleasant is the green-wood's deep-matted shade
  On a mid-summer's eve, when the fresh rain is o'er;
 When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle thro' the glade,
  And swiftly in the thin air the light swallows soar!

 But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest,
  And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay
 Tripping through the forest-walk, where flow'rs, unprest,
  Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.

 To music's softest sounds they dance away the hour,
  Till moon-light steals down among the trembling leaves,
 And checquers all the ground, and guides them to the bow'r,
  The long haunted bow'r, where the nightingale grieves.

 Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done,
  But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend;
 And often as her dying notes their pity have won,
  They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend.

 When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev'ning star,
  And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere,
 How cheerless would they be, tho' they fairies are,
  If I, with my pale light, came not near!

 Yet cheerless tho' they'd be, they're ungrateful to my love!
  For, often when the traveller's benighted on his way,
 And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him thro' the grove,
  They bind me in their magic spells to lead him far astray;

 And in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out,
  While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground,
 And, afar in the woods, they raise a dismal shout,
  Till I shrink into my cell again for terror of the sound!

 But, see where all the tiny elves come dancing in a ring,
  With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the horn,
 And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet string;
  Then round about the oak they go till peeping of the morn.

 Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun the fairy-queen,
  Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous is of me,
 That yester-eve I lighted them, along the dewy green,
  To seek the purple flow'r, whose juice from all her spells can 
free.

 And now, to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund band,
  With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the lute;
 If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her fairy wand,
  And to me the dance will cease, and the music all be mute.

 O! had I but that purple flow'r whose leaves her charms can foil,
  And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it on the wind,
 I'd be her slave no longer, nor the traveller beguile,
  And help all faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind!

 But soon the VAPOUR OF THE WOODS will wander afar,
  And the fickle moon will fade, and the stars disappear,
 Then, cheerless will they be, tho' they fairies are,
  If I, with my pale light, come not near!

Whatever St. Aubert might think of the stanzas, he would not deny his 
daughter the pleasure of believing that he approved them; and, having 
given his commendation, he sunk into a reverie, and they walked on in 
silence.

     A faint erroneous ray
 Glanc'd from th' imperfect surfaces of things,
 Flung half an image on the straining eye;
 While waving woods, and villages, and streams,
 And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long retain
 The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene,
 Uncertain if beheld.*
     *Thomson.


St. Aubert continued silent till he reached the chateau, where his 
wife had retired to her chamber.  The languor and dejection, that had 
lately oppressed her, and which the exertion called forth by the 
arrival of her guests had suspended, now returned with increased 
effect.  On the following day, symptoms of fever appeared, and St. 
Aubert, having sent for medical advice, learned, that her disorder 
was a fever of the same nature as that, from which he had lately 
recovered.  She had, indeed, taken the infection, during her 
attendance upon him, and, her constitution being too weak to throw 
out the disease immediately, it had lurked in her veins, and 
occasioned the heavy languor of which she had complained.  St. 
Aubert, whose anxiety for his wife overcame every other 
consideration, detained the physician in his house.  He remembered 
the feelings and the reflections that had called a momentary gloom 
upon his mind, on the day when he had last visited the fishing-house, 
in company with Madame St. Aubert, and he now admitted a 
presentiment, that this illness would be a fatal one.  But he 
effectually concealed this from her, and from his daughter, whom he 
endeavoured to re-animate with hopes that her constant assiduities 
would not be unavailing.  The physician, when asked by St. Aubert for 
his opinion of the disorder, replied, that the event of it depended 
upon circumstances which he could not ascertain.  Madame St. Aubert 
seemed to have formed a more decided one; but her eyes only gave 
hints of this.  She frequently fixed them upon her anxious friends 
with an expression of pity, and of tenderness, as if she anticipated 
the sorrow that awaited them, and that seemed to say, it was for 
their sakes only, for their sufferings, that she regretted life.  On 
the seventh day, the disorder was at its crisis.  The physician 
assumed a graver manner, which she observed, and took occasion, when 
her family had once quitted the chamber, to tell him, that she 
perceived her death was approaching.  'Do not attempt to deceive me,' 
said she, 'I feel that I cannot long survive.  I am prepared for the 
event, I have long, I hope, been preparing for it.  Since I have not 
long to live, do not suffer a mistaken compassion to induce you to 
flatter my family with false hopes.  If you do, their affliction will 
only be the heavier when it arrives:  I will endeavour to teach them 
resignation by my example.'

The physician was affected; he promised to obey her, and told St. 
Aubert, somewhat abruptly, that there was nothing to expect.  The 
latter was not philosopher enough to restrain his feelings when he 
received this information; but a consideration of the increased 
affliction which the observance of his grief would occasion his wife, 
enabled him, after some time, to command himself in her presence.  
Emily was at first overwhelmed with the intelligence; then, deluded 
by the strength of her wishes, a hope sprung up in her mind that her 
mother would yet recover, and to this she pertinaciously adhered 
almost to the last hour.

The progress of this disorder was marked, on the side of Madame St. 
Aubert, by patient suffering, and subjected wishes.  The composure, 
with which she awaited her death, could be derived only from the 
retrospect of a life governed, as far as human frailty permits, by a 
consciousness of being always in the presence of the Deity, and by 
the hope of a higher world.  But her piety could not entirely subdue 
the grief of parting from those whom she so dearly loved.  During 
these her last hours, she conversed much with St. Aubert and Emily, 
on the prospect of futurity, and on other religious topics.  The 
resignation she expressed, with the firm hope of meeting in a future 
world the friends she left in this, and the effort which sometimes 
appeared to conceal her sorrow at this temporary separation, 
frequently affected St. Aubert so much as to oblige him to leave the 
room.  Having indulged his tears awhile, he would dry them and return 
to the chamber with a countenance composed by an endeavour which did 
but increase his grief.

Never had Emily felt the importance of the lessons, which had taught 
her to restrain her sensibility, so much as in these moments, and 
never had she practised them with a triumph so complete.  But when 
the last was over, she sunk at once under the pressure of her sorrow, 
and then perceived that it was hope, as well as fortitude, which had 
hitherto supported her.  St. Aubert was for a time too devoid of 
comfort himself to bestow any on his daughter.



CHAPTER II


 I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
 Would harrow up thy soul.
     SHAKESPEARE


Madame St. Aubert was interred in the neighbouring village church;  
her husband and daughter attended her to the grave, followed by a 
long train of the peasantry, who were sincere mourners of this 
excellent woman.

On his return from the funeral, St. Aubert shut himself in his 
chamber.  When he came forth, it was with a serene countenance, 
though pale in sorrow.  He gave orders that his family should attend 
him.  Emily only was absent; who, overcome with the scene she had 
just witnessed, had retired to her closet to weep alone.  St. Aubert 
followed her thither:  he took her hand in silence, while she 
continued to weep; and it was some moments before he could so far 
command his voice as to speak.  It trembled while he said, 'My Emily, 
I am going to prayers with my family; you will join us.  We must ask 
support from above.  Where else ought we to seek it--where else can 
we find it?'

Emily checked her tears, and followed her father to the parlour, 
where, the servants being assembled, St. Aubert read, in a low and 
solemn voice, the evening service, and added a prayer for the soul of 
the departed.  During this, his voice often faltered, his tears fell 
upon the book, and at length he paused.  But the sublime emotions of 
pure devotion gradually elevated his views above this world, and 
finally brought comfort to his heart.

When the service was ended, and the servants were withdrawn, he 
tenderly kissed Emily, and said, 'I have endeavoured to teach you, 
from your earliest youth, the duty of self-command; I have pointed 
out to you the great importance of it through life, not only as it 
preserves us in the various and dangerous temptations that call us 
from rectitude and virtue, but as it limits the indulgences which are 
termed virtuous, yet which, extended beyond a certain boundary, are 
vicious, for their consequence is evil.  All excess is vicious; even 
that sorrow, which is amiable in its origin, becomes a selfish and 
unjust passion, if indulged at the expence of our duties--by our 
duties I mean what we owe to ourselves, as well as to others.  The 
indulgence of excessive grief enervates the mind, and almost 
incapacitates it for again partaking of those various innocent 
enjoyments which a benevolent God designed to be the sun-shine of our 
lives.  My dear Emily, recollect and practise the precepts I have so 
often given you, and which your own experience has so often shewn you 
to be wise.

'Your sorrow is useless.  Do not receive this as merely a commonplace 
remark, but let reason THEREFORE restrain sorrow.  I would not 
annihilate your feelings, my child, I would only teach you to command 
them; for whatever may be the evils resulting from a too susceptible 
heart, nothing can be hoped from an insensible one; that, on the 
other hand, is all vice--vice, of which the deformity is not 
softened, or the effect consoled for, by any semblance or possibility 
of good.  You know my sufferings, and are, therefore, convinced that 
mine are not the light words which, on these occasions, are so often 
repeated to destroy even the sources of honest emotion, or which 
merely display the selfish ostentation of a false philosophy.  I will 
shew my Emily, that I can practise what I advise.  I have said thus 
much, because I cannot bear to see you wasting in useless sorrow, for 
want of that resistance which is due from mind; and I have not said 
it till now, because there is a period when all reasoning must yield 
to nature; that is past:  and another, when excessive indulgence, 
having sunk into habit, weighs down the elasticity of the spirits so 
as to render conquest nearly impossible; this is to come.  You, my 
Emily, will shew that you are willing to avoid it.'

Emily smiled through her tears upon her father:  'Dear sir,' said 
she, and her voice trembled; she would have added, 'I will shew 
myself worthy of being your daughter;' but a mingled emotion of 
gratitude, affection, and grief overcame her.  St. Aubert suffered 
her to weep without interruption, and then began to talk on common 
topics.

The first person who came to condole with St. Aubert was a M. 
Barreaux, an austere and seemingly unfeeling man.  A taste for botany 
had introduced them to each other, for they had frequently met in 
their wanderings among the mountains.  M. Barreaux had retired from 
the world, and almost from society, to live in a pleasant chateau, on 
the skirts of the woods, near La Vallee.  He also had been 
disappointed in his opinion of mankind; but he did not, like St. 
Aubert, pity and mourn for them; he felt more indignation at their 
vices, than compassion for their weaknesses.

St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to see him; for, though he had 
often pressed him to come to the chateau, he had never till now 
accepted the invitation; and now he came without ceremony or reserve, 
entering the parlour as an old friend.  The claims of misfortune 
appeared to have softened down all the ruggedness and prejudices of 
his heart.  St. Aubert unhappy, seemed to be the sole idea that 
occupied his mind.  It was in manners, more than in words, that he 
appeared to sympathize with his friends:  he spoke little on the 
subject of their grief; but the minute attention he gave them, and 
the modulated voice, and softened look that accompanied it, came from 
his heart, and spoke to theirs.

At this melancholy period St. Aubert was likewise visited by Madame 
Cheron, his only surviving sister, who had been some years a widow, 
and now resided on her own estate near Tholouse.  The intercourse 
between them had not been very frequent.  In her condolements, words 
were not wanting; she understood not the magic of the look that 
speaks at once to the soul, or the voice that sinks like balm to the 
heart:  but she assured St. Aubert that she sincerely sympathized 
with him, praised the virtues of his late wife, and then offered what 
she considered to be consolation.  Emily wept unceasingly while she 
spoke; St. Aubert was tranquil, listened to what she said in silence, 
and then turned the discourse upon another subject.

At parting she pressed him and her niece to make her an early visit.  
'Change of place will amuse you,' said she, 'and it is wrong to give 
way to grief.'  St. Aubert acknowledged the truth of these words of 
course; but, at the same time, felt more reluctant than ever to quit 
the spot which his past happiness had consecrated.  The presence of 
his wife had sanctified every surrounding scene, and, each day, as it 
gradually softened the acuteness of his suffering, assisted the 
tender enchantment that bound him to home.

But there were calls which must be complied with, and of this kind 
was the visit he paid to his brother-in-law M. Quesnel.  An affair of 
an interesting nature made it necessary that he should delay this 
visit no longer, and, wishing to rouse Emily from her dejection, he 
took her with him to Epourville.

As the carriage entered upon the forest that adjoined his paternal 
domain, his eyes once more caught, between the chesnut avenue, the 
turreted corners of the chateau.  He sighed to think of what had 
passed since he was last there, and that it was now the property of a 
man who neither revered nor valued it.  At length he entered the 
avenue, whose lofty trees had so often delighted him when a boy, and 
whose melancholy shade was now so congenial with the tone of his 
spirits.  Every feature of the edifice, distinguished by an air of 
heavy grandeur, appeared successively between the branches of the 
trees--the broad turret, the arched gate-way that led into the 
courts, the drawbridge, and the dry fosse which surrounded the whole.

The sound of carriage wheels brought a troop of servants to the great 
gate, where St. Aubert alighted, and from which he led Emily into the 
gothic hall, now no longer hung with the arms and ancient banners of 
the family.  These were displaced, and the oak wainscotting, and 
beams that crossed the roof, were painted white.  The large table, 
too, that used to stretch along the upper end of the hall, where the 
master of the mansion loved to display his hospitality, and whence 
the peal of laughter, and the song of conviviality, had so often 
resounded, was now removed; even the benches that had surrounded the 
hall were no longer there.  The heavy walls were hung with frivolous 
ornaments, and every thing that appeared denoted the false taste and 
corrupted sentiments of the present owner.

St. Aubert followed a gay Parisian servant to a parlour, where sat 
Mons. and Madame Quesnel, who received him with a stately politeness, 
and, after a few formal words of condolement, seemed to have 
forgotten that they ever had a sister.

Emily felt tears swell into her eyes, and then resentment checked 
them.  St. Aubert, calm and deliberate, preserved his dignity without 
assuming importance, and Quesnel was depressed by his presence 
without exactly knowing wherefore.

After some general conversation, St. Aubert requested to speak with 
him alone; and Emily, being left with Madame Quesnel, soon learned 
that a large party was invited to dine at the chateau, and was 
compelled to hear that nothing which was past and irremediable ought 
to prevent the festivity of the present hour.

St. Aubert, when he was told that company were expected, felt a mixed 
emotion of disgust and indignation against the insensibility of 
Quesnel, which prompted him to return home immediately.  But he was 
informed, that Madame Cheron had been asked to meet him; and, when he 
looked at Emily, and considered that a time might come when the 
enmity of her uncle would be prejudicial to her, he determined not to 
incur it himself, by conduct which would be resented as indecorous, 
by the very persons who now showed so little sense of decorum.

Among the visitors assembled at dinner were two Italian gentlemen, of 
whom one was named Montoni, a distant relation of Madame Quesnel, a 
man about forty, of an uncommonly handsome person, with features 
manly and expressive, but whose countenance exhibited, upon the 
whole, more of the haughtiness of command, and the quickness of 
discernment, than of any other character.

Signor Cavigni, his friend, appeared to be about thirty--inferior in 
dignity, but equal to him in penetration of countenance, and superior 
in insinuation of manner.

Emily was shocked by the salutation with which Madame Cheron met her 
father--'Dear brother,' said she, 'I am concerned to see you look so 
very ill; do, pray, have advice!'  St. Aubert answered, with a 
melancholy smile, that he felt himself much as usual; but Emily's 
fears made her now fancy that her father looked worse than he really 
did.

Emily would have been amused by the new characters she saw, and the 
varied conversation that passed during dinner, which was served in a 
style of splendour she had seldom seen before, had her spirits been 
less oppressed.  Of the guests, Signor Montoni was lately come from 
Italy, and he spoke of the commotions which at that period agitated 
the country; talked of party differences with warmth, and then 
lamented the probable consequences of the tumults.  His friend spoke 
with equal ardour, of the politics of his country; praised the 
government and prosperity of Venice, and boasted of its decided 
superiority over all the other Italian states.  He then turned to the 
ladies, and talked with the same eloquence, of Parisian fashions, the 
French opera, and French manners; and on the latter subject he did 
not fail to mingle what is so particularly agreeable to French taste.  
The flattery was not detected by those to whom it was addressed, 
though its effect, in producing submissive attention, did not escape 
his observation.  When he could disengage himself from the 
assiduities of the other ladies, he sometimes addressed Emily:  but 
she knew nothing of Parisian fashions, or Parisian operas; and her 
modesty, simplicity, and correct manners formed a decided contrast to 
those of her female companions.

After dinner, St. Aubert stole from the room to view once more the 
old chesnut which Quesnel talked of cutting down.  As he stood under 
its shade, and looked up among its branches, still luxuriant, and saw 
here and there the blue sky trembling between them; the pursuits and 
events of his early days crowded fast to his mind, with the figures 
and characters of friends--long since gone from the earth; and he now 
felt himself to be almost an insulated being, with nobody but his 
Emily for his heart to turn to.

He stood lost amid the scenes of years which fancy called up, till 
the succession closed with the picture of his dying wife, and he 
started away, to forget it, if possible, at the social board.

St. Aubert ordered his carriage at an early hour, and Emily observed, 
that he was more than usually silent and dejected on the way home; 
but she considered this to be the effect of his visit to a place 
which spoke so eloquently of former times, nor suspected that he had 
a cause of grief which he concealed from her.

On entering the chateau she felt more depressed than ever, for she 
more than ever missed the presence of that dear parent, who, whenever 
she had been from home, used to welcome her return with smiles and 
fondness; now, all was silent and forsaken.

But what reason and effort may fail to do, time effects.  Week after 
week passed away, and each, as it passed, stole something from the 
harshness of her affliction, till it was mellowed to that tenderness 
which the feeling heart cherishes as sacred.  St. Aubert, on the 
contrary, visibly declined in health; though Emily, who had been so 
constantly with him, was almost the last person who observed it.  His 
constitution had never recovered from the late attack of the fever, 
and the succeeding shock it received from Madame St. Aubert's death 
had produced its present infirmity.  His physician now ordered him to 
travel; for it was perceptible that sorrow had seized upon his 
nerves, weakened as they had been by the preceding illness; and 
variety of scene, it was probable, would, by amusing his mind, 
restore them to their proper tone.

For some days Emily was occupied in preparations to attend him; and 
he, by endeavours to diminish his expences at home during the 
journey--a purpose which determined him at length to dismiss his 
domestics.  Emily seldom opposed her father's wishes by questions or 
remonstrances, or she would now have asked why he did not take a 
servant, and have represented that his infirm health made one almost 
necessary.  But when, on the eve of their departure, she found that 
he had dismissed Jacques, Francis, and Mary, and detained only 
Theresa the old housekeeper, she was extremely surprised, and 
ventured to ask his reason for having done so.  'To save expences, my 
dear,' he replied--'we are going on an expensive excursion.'

The physician had prescribed the air of Languedoc and Provence; and 
St. Aubert determined, therefore, to travel leisurely along the 
shores of the Mediterranean, towards Provence.

They retired early to their chamber on the night before their 
departure; but Emily had a few books and other things to collect, and 
the clock had struck twelve before she had finished, or had 
remembered that some of her drawing instruments, which she meant to 
take with her, were in the parlour below.  As she went to fetch 
these, she passed her father's room, and, perceiving the door half 
open, concluded that he was in his study--for, since the death of 
Madame St. Aubert, it had been frequently his custom to rise from his 
restless bed, and go thither to compose his mind.  When she was below 
stairs she looked into this room, but without finding him; and as she 
returned to her chamber, she tapped at his door, and receiving no 
answer, stepped softly in, to be certain whether he was there.

The room was dark, but a light glimmered through some panes of glass 
that were placed in the upper part of a closet-door.  Emily believed 
her father to be in the closet, and, surprised that he was up at so 
late an hour, apprehended he was unwell, and was going to enquire; 
but, considering that her sudden appearance at this hour might alarm 
him, she removed her light to the stair-case, and then stepped softly 
to the closet.  On looking through the panes of glass, she saw him 
seated at a small table, with papers before him, some of which he was 
reading with deep attention and interest, during which he often wept 
and sobbed aloud.  Emily, who had come to the door to learn whether 
her father was ill, was now detained there by a mixture of curiosity 
and tenderness.  She could not witness his sorrow, without being 
anxious to know the subject of; and she therefore continued to 
observe him in silence, concluding that those papers were letters of 
her late mother.  Presently he knelt down, and with a look so solemn 
as she had seldom seen him assume, and which was mingled with a 
certain wild expression, that partook more of horror than of any 
other character, he prayed silently for a considerable time.

When he rose, a ghastly paleness was on his countenance.  Emily was 
hastily retiring; but she saw him turn again to the papers, and she 
stopped.  He took from among them a small case, and from thence a 
miniature picture.  The rays of light fell strongly upon it, and she 
perceived it to be that of a lady, but not of her mother.

St. Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly upon his portrait, put it to 
his lips, and then to his heart, and sighed with a convulsive force.  
Emily could scarcely believe what she saw to be real.  She never knew 
till now that he had a picture of any other lady than her mother, 
much less that he had one which he evidently valued so highly; but 
having looked repeatedly, to be certain that it was not the 
resemblance of Madame St. Aubert, she became entirely convinced that 
it was designed for that of some other person.

At length St. Aubert returned the picture to its case; and Emily, 
recollecting that she was intruding upon his private sorrows, softly 
withdrew from the chamber.



CHAPTER III


 O how canst thou renounce the boundless store
 Of charms which nature to her vot'ry yields!
 The warbling woodland, the resounding shore,
 The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields;
 All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
 And all that echoes to the song of even;
 All that the mountain's shelt'ring bosom shields,
 And all the dread magnificence of heaven;
 O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!
 . . . . .
 These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health,
 And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart.
     THE MINSTREL

St. Aubert, instead of taking the more direct road, that ran along 
the feet of the Pyrenees to Languedoc, chose one that, winding over 
the heights, afforded more extensive views and greater variety of 
romantic scenery.  He turned a little out of his way to take leave of 
M. Barreaux, whom he found botanizing in the wood near his chateau, 
and who, when he was told the purpose of St. Aubert's visit, 
expressed a degree of concern, such as his friend had thought it was 
scarcely possible for him to feel on any similar occasion.  They 
parted with mutual regret.

'If any thing could have tempted me from my retirement,' said M. 
Barreaux, 'it would have been the pleasure of accompanying you on 
this little tour.  I do not often offer compliments; you may, 
therefore, believe me, when I say, that I shall look for your return 
with impatience.'

The travellers proceeded on their journey.  As they ascended the 
heights, St. Aubert often looked back upon the chateau, in the plain 
below; tender images crowded to his mind; his melancholy imagination 
suggested that he should return no more; and though he checked this 
wandering thought, still he continued to look, till the haziness of 
distance blended his home with the general landscape, and St. Aubert 
seemed to

 Drag at each remove a lengthening chain.

He and Emily continued sunk in musing silence for some leagues, from 
which melancholy reverie Emily first awoke, and her young fancy, 
struck with the grandeur of the objects around, gradually yielded to 
delightful impressions.  The road now descended into glens, confined 
by stupendous walls of rock, grey and barren, except where shrubs 
fringed their summits, or patches of meagre vegetation tinted their 
recesses, in which the wild goat was frequently browsing.  And now, 
the way led to the lofty cliffs, from whence the landscape was seen 
extending in all its magnificence.

Emily could not restrain her transport as she looked over the pine 
forests of the mountains upon the vast plains, that, enriched with 
woods, towns, blushing vines, and plantations of almonds, palms, and 
olives, stretched along, till their various colours melted in 
distance into one harmonious hue, that seemed to unite earth with 
heaven.  Through the whole of this glorious scene the majestic 
Garonne wandered; descending from its source among the Pyrenees, and 
winding its blue waves towards the Bay of Biscay.

The ruggedness of the unfrequented road often obliged the wanderers 
to alight from their little carriage, but they thought themselves 
amply repaid for this inconvenience by the grandeur of the scenes; 
and, while the muleteer led his animals slowly over the broken 
ground, the travellers had leisure to linger amid these solitudes, 
and to indulge the sublime reflections, which soften, while they 
elevate, the heart, and fill it with the certainty of a present God!  
Still the enjoyment of St. Aubert was touched with that pensive 
melancholy, which gives to every object a mellower tint, and breathes 
a sacred charm over all around.

They had provided against part of the evil to be encountered from a 
want of convenient inns, by carrying a stock of provisions in the 
carriage, so that they might take refreshment on any pleasant spot, 
in the open air, and pass the nights wherever they should happen to 
meet with a comfortable cottage.  For the mind, also, they had 
provided, by a work on botany, written by M. Barreaux, and by several 
of the Latin and Italian poets; while Emily's pencil enabled her to 
preserve some of those combinations of forms, which charmed her at 
every step.

The loneliness of the road, where, only now and then, a peasant was 
seen driving his mule, or some mountaineer-children at play among the 
rocks, heightened the effect of the scenery.  St. Aubert was so much 
struck with it, that he determined, if he could hear of a road, to 
penetrate further among the mountains, and, bending his way rather 
more to the south, to emerge into Rousillon, and coast the 
Mediterranean along part of that country to Languedoc.

Soon after mid-day, they reached the summit of one of those cliffs, 
which, bright with the verdure of palm-trees, adorn, like gems, the 
tremendous walls of the rocks, and which overlooked the greater part 
of Gascony, and part of Languedoc.  Here was shade, and the fresh 
water of a spring, that, gliding among the turf, under the trees, 
thence precipitated itself from rock to rock, till its dashing 
murmurs were lost in the abyss, though its white foam was long seen 
amid the darkness of the pines below.

This was a spot well suited for rest, and the travellers alighted to 
dine, while the mules were unharnessed to browse on the savoury herbs 
that enriched this summit.

It was some time before St. Aubert or Emily could withdraw their 
attention from the surrounding objects, so as to partake of their 
little repast.  Seated in the shade of the palms, St. Aubert pointed 
out to her observation the course of the rivers, the situation of 
great towns, and the boundaries of provinces, which science, rather 
than the eye, enabled him to describe.  Notwithstanding this 
occupation, when he had talked awhile he suddenly became silent, 
thoughtful, and tears often swelled to his eyes, which Emily 
observed, and the sympathy of her own heart told her their cause.  
The scene before them bore some resemblance, though it was on a much 
grander scale, to a favourite one of the late Madame St. Aubert, 
within view of the fishing-house.  They both observed this, and 
thought how delighted she would have been with the present landscape, 
while they knew that her eyes must never, never more open upon this 
world.  St. Aubert remembered the last time of his visiting that spot 
in company with her, and also the mournfully presaging thoughts which 
had then arisen in his mind, and were now, even thus soon, realized!  
The recollections subdued him, and he abruptly rose from his seat, 
and walked away to where no eye could observe his grief.

When he returned, his countenance had recovered its usual serenity; 
he took Emily's hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking, 
and soon after called to the muleteer, who sat at a little distance, 
concerning a road among the mountains towards Rousillon.  Michael 
said, there were several that way, but he did not know how far they 
extended, or even whether they were passable; and St. Aubert, who did 
not intend to travel after sun-set, asked what village they could 
reach about that time.  The muleteer calculated that they could 
easily reach Mateau, which was in their present road; but that, if 
they took a road that sloped more to the south, towards Rousillon, 
there was a hamlet, which he thought they could gain before the 
evening shut in.

St. Aubert, after some hesitation, determined to take the latter 
course, and Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his 
mules, again set forward, but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him 
doing homage to a cross, that stood on a rock impending over their 
way.  Having concluded his devotions, he smacked his whip in the air, 
and, in spite of the rough road, and the pain of his poor mules, 
which he had been lately lamenting, rattled, in a full gallop, along 
the edge of a precipice, which it made the eye dizzy to look down.  
Emily was terrified almost to fainting; and St. Aubert, apprehending 
still greater danger from suddenly stopping the driver, was compelled 
to sit quietly, and trust his fate to the strength and discretion of 
the mules, who seemed to possess a greater portion of the latter 
quality than their master; for they carried the travellers safely 
into the valley, and there stopped upon the brink of the rivulet that 
watered it.

Leaving the splendour of extensive prospects, they now entered this 
narrow valley screened by

 Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell,
 Here scorch'd by lightnings, there with ivy green.

The scene of barrenness was here and there interrupted by the 
spreading branches of the larch and cedar, which threw their gloom 
over the cliff, or athwart the torrent that rolled in the vale.  No 
living creature appeared, except the izard, scrambling among the 
rocks, and often hanging upon points so dangerous, that fancy shrunk 
from the view of them.  This was such a scene as SALVATOR would have 
chosen, had he then existed, for his canvas; St. Aubert, impressed by 
the romantic character of the place, almost expected to see banditti 
start from behind some projecting rock, and he kept his hand upon the 
arms with which he always travelled.

As they advanced, the valley opened; its savage features gradually 
softened, and, towards evening, they were among heathy mountains, 
stretched in far perspective, along which the solitary sheep-bell was 
heard, and the voice of the shepherd calling his wandering flocks to 
the nightly fold.  His cabin, partly shadowed by the cork-tree and 
the ilex, which St. Aubert observed to flourish in higher regions of 
the air than any other trees, except the fir, was all the human 
habitation that yet appeared.  Along the bottom of this valley the 
most vivid verdure was spread; and, in the little hollow recesses of 
the mountains, under the shade of the oak and chestnut, herds of 
cattle were grazing.  Groups of them, too, were often seen reposing 
on the banks of the rivulet, or laving their sides in the cool 
stream, and sipping its wave.

The sun was now setting upon the valley; its last light gleamed upon 
the water, and heightened the rich yellow and purple tints of the 
heath and broom, that overspread the mountains.  St. Aubert enquired 
of Michael the distance to the hamlet he had mentioned, but the man 
could not with certainty tell; and Emily began to fear that he had 
mistaken the road.  Here was no human being to assist, or direct 
them; they had left the shepherd and his cabin far behind, and the 
scene became so obscured in twilight, that the eye could not follow 
the distant perspective of the valley in search of a cottage, or a 
hamlet.  A glow of the horizon still marked the west, and this was of 
some little use to the travellers.  Michael seemed endeavouring to 
keep up his courage by singing; his music, however, was not of a kind 
to disperse melancholy; he sung, in a sort of chant, one of the most 
dismal ditties his present auditors had ever heard, and St. Aubert at 
length discovered it to be a vesper-hymn to his favourite saint.

They travelled on, sunk in that thoughtful melancholy, with which 
twilight and solitude impress the mind.  Michael had now ended his 
ditty, and nothing was heard but the drowsy murmur of the breeze 
among the woods, and its light flutter, as it blew freshly into the 
carriage.  They were at length roused by the sound of fire-arms.  St. 
Aubert called to the muleteer to stop, and they listened.  The noise 
was not repeated; but presently they heard a rustling among the 
brakes.  St. Aubert drew forth a pistol, and ordered Michael to 
proceed as fast as possible; who had not long obeyed, before a horn 
sounded, that made the mountains ring.  He looked again from the 
window, and then saw a young man spring from the bushes into the 
road, followed by a couple of dogs.  The stranger was in a hunter's 
dress.  His gun was slung across his shoulders, the hunter's horn 
hung from his belt, and in his hand was a small pike, which, as he 
held it, added to the manly grace of his figure, and assisted the 
agility of his steps.

After a moment's hesitation, St. Aubert again stopped the carriage, 
and waited till he came up, that they might enquire concerning the 
hamlet they were in search of.  The stranger informed him, that it 
was only half a league distant, that he was going thither himself, 
and would readily shew the way.  St. Aubert thanked him for the 
offer, and, pleased with his chevalier-like air and open countenance, 
asked him to take a seat in the carriage; which the stranger, with an 
acknowledgment, declined, adding that he would keep pace with the 
mules.  'But I fear you will be wretchedly accommodated,' said he:  
'the inhabitants of these mountains are a simple people, who are not 
only without the luxuries of life, but almost destitute of what in 
other places are held to be its necessaries.'

'I perceive you are not one of its inhabitants, sir,' said St. 
Aubert.

'No, sir, I am only a wanderer here.'

The carriage drove on, and the increasing dusk made the travellers 
very thankful that they had a guide; the frequent glens, too, that 
now opened among the mountains, would likewise have added to their 
perplexity.  Emily, as she looked up one of these, saw something at a 
great distance like a bright cloud in the air.  'What light is 
yonder, sir?' said she.

St. Aubert looked, and perceived that it was the snowy summit of a 
mountain, so much higher than any around it, that it still reflected 
the sun's rays, while those below lay in deep shade.

At length, the village lights were seen to twinkle through the dusk, 
and, soon after, some cottages were discovered in the valley, or 
rather were seen by reflection in the stream, on whose margin they 
stood, and which still gleamed with the evening light.

The stranger now came up, and St. Aubert, on further enquiry, found 
not only that there was no inn in the place, but not any sort of 
house of public reception.  The stranger, however, offered to walk 
on, and enquire for a cottage to accommodate them; for which further 
civility St. Aubert returned his thanks, and said, that, as the 
village was so near, he would alight, and walk with him.  Emily 
followed slowly in the carriage.

On the way, St. Aubert asked his companion what success he had had in 
the chase.  'Not much, sir,' he replied, 'nor do I aim at it.  I am 
pleased with the country, and mean to saunter away a few weeks among 
its scenes.  My dogs I take with me more for companionship than for 
game.  This dress, too, gives me an ostensible business, and procures 
me that respect from the people, which would, perhaps, be refused to 
a lonely stranger, who had no visible motive for coming among them.'

'I admire your taste,' said St. Aubert, 'and, if I was a younger man, 
should like to pass a few weeks in your way exceedingly.  I, too, am 
a wanderer, but neither my plan nor pursuits are exactly like yours--
I go in search of health, as much as of amusement.'  St. Aubert 
sighed, and paused; and then, seeming to recollect himself, he 
resumed:  'If I can hear of a tolerable road, that shall afford 
decent accommodation, it is my intention to pass into Rousillon, and 
along the sea-shore to Languedoc.  You, sir, seem to be acquainted 
with the country, and can, perhaps, give me information on the 
subject.'

The stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely 
at his service; and then mentioned a road rather more to the east, 
which led to a town, whence it would be easy to proceed into 
Rousillon.

They now arrived at the village, and commenced their search for a 
cottage, that would afford a night's lodging.  In several, which they 
entered, ignorance, poverty, and mirth seemed equally to prevail; and 
the owners eyed St. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity and timidity.  
Nothing like a bed could be found, and he had ceased to enquire for 
one, when Emily joined him, who observed the languor of her father's 
countenance, and lamented, that he had taken a road so ill provided 
with the comforts necessary for an invalid.  Other cottages, which 
they examined, seemed somewhat less savage than the former, 
consisting of two rooms, if such they could be called; the first of 
these occupied by mules and pigs, the second by the family, which 
generally consisted of six or eight children, with their parents, who 
slept on beds of skins and dried beech leaves, spread upon a mud 
floor.  Here, light was admitted, and smoke discharged, through an 
aperture in the roof; and here the scent of spirits (for the 
travelling smugglers, who haunted the Pyrenees, had made this rude 
people familiar with the use of liquors) was generally perceptible 
enough.  Emily turned from such scenes, and looked at her father with 
anxious tenderness, which the young stranger seemed to observe; for, 
drawing St. Aubert aside, he made him an offer of his own bed.  'It 
is a decent one,' said he, 'when compared with what we have just 
seen, yet such as in other circumstances I should be ashamed to offer 
you.'  St. Aubert acknowledged how much he felt himself obliged by 
this kindness, but refused to accept it, till the young stranger 
would take no denial.  'Do not give me the pain of knowing, sir,' 
said he, 'that an invalid, like you, lies on hard skins, while I 
sleep in a bed.  Besides, sir, your refusal wounds my pride; I must 
believe you think my offer unworthy your acceptance.  Let me shew you 
the way.  I have no doubt my landlady can accommodate this young lady 
also.'

St. Aubert at length consented, that, if this could be done, he would 
accept his kindness, though he felt rather surprised, that the 
stranger had proved himself so deficient in gallantry, as to 
administer to the repose of an infirm man, rather than to that of a 
very lovely young woman, for he had not once offered the room for 
Emily.  But she thought not of herself, and the animated smile she 
gave him, told how much she felt herself obliged for the preference 
of her father.

On their way, the stranger, whose name was Valancourt, stepped on 
first to speak to his hostess, and she came out to welcome St. Aubert 
into a cottage, much superior to any he had seen.  This good woman 
seemed very willing to accommodate the strangers, who were soon 
compelled to accept the only two beds in the place.  Eggs and milk 
were the only food the cottage afforded; but against scarcity of 
provisions St. Aubert had provided, and he requested Valancourt to 
stay, and partake with him of less homely fare; an invitation, which 
was readily accepted, and they passed an hour in intelligent 
conversation.  St. Aubert was much pleased with the manly frankness, 
simplicity, and keen susceptibility to the grandeur of nature, which 
his new acquaintance discovered; and, indeed, he had often been heard 
to say, that, without a certain simplicity of heart, this taste could 
not exist in any strong degree.

The conversation was interrupted by a violent uproar without, in 
which the voice of the muleteer was heard above every other sound.  
Valancourt started from his seat, and went to enquire the occasion; 
but the dispute continued so long afterwards, that St. Aubert went 
himself, and found Michael quarrelling with the hostess, because she 
had refused to let his mules lie in a little room where he and three 
of her sons were to pass the night.  The place was wretched enough, 
but there was no other for these people to sleep in; and, with 
somewhat more of delicacy than was usual among the inhabitants of 
this wild tract of country, she persisted in refusing to let the 
animals have the same BED-CHAMBER with her children.  This was a 
tender point with the muleteer; his honour was wounded when his mules 
were treated with disrespect, and he would have received a blow, 
perhaps, with more meekness.  He declared that his beasts were as 
honest beasts, and as good beasts, as any in the whole province; and 
that they had a right to be well treated wherever they went.  'They 
are as harmless as lambs,' said he, 'if people don't affront them.  I 
never knew them behave themselves amiss above once or twice in my 
life, and then they had good reason for doing so.  Once, indeed, they 
kicked at a boy's leg that lay asleep in the stable, and broke it; 
but I told them they were out there, and by St. Anthony! I believe 
they understood me, for they never did so again.'

He concluded this eloquent harangue with protesting, that they should 
share with him, go where he would.

The dispute was at length settled by Valancourt, who drew the hostess 
aside, and desired she would let the muleteer and his beasts have the 
place in question to themselves, while her sons should have the bed 
of skins designed for him, for that he would wrap himself in his 
cloak, and sleep on the bench by the cottage door.  But this she 
thought it her duty to oppose, and she felt it to be her inclination 
to disappoint the muleteer.  Valancourt, however, was positive, and 
the tedious affair was at length settled.

It was late when St. Aubert and Emily retired to their rooms, and 
Valancourt to his station at the door, which, at this mild season, he 
preferred to a close cabin and a bed of skins.  St. Aubert was 
somewhat surprised to find in his room volumes of Homer, Horace, and 
Petrarch; but the name of Valancourt, written in them, told him to 
whom they belonged.



CHAPTER IV


   In truth he was a strange and wayward wight,
  Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene,
  In darkness, and in storm he found delight;
  Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene
  The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling sheen.
  Even sad vicissitude amus'd his soul;
  And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
  And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
 A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to controul.
     THE MINSTREL

St. Aubert awoke at an early hour, refreshed by sleep, and desirous 
to set forward.  He invited the stranger to breakfast with him; and, 
talking again of the road, Valancourt said, that, some months past, 
he had travelled as far as Beaujeu, which was a town of some 
consequence on the way to Rousillon.  He recommended it to St. Aubert 
to take that route, and the latter determined to do so.

'The road from this hamlet,' said Valancourt, 'and that to Beaujeu, 
part at the distance of about a league and a half from hence; if you 
will give me leave, I will direct your muleteer so far.  I must 
wander somewhere, and your company would make this a pleasanter 
ramble than any other I could take.'

St. Aubert thankfully accepted his offer, and they set out together, 
the young stranger on foot, for he refused the invitation of St. 
Aubert to take a seat in his little carriage.

The road wound along the feet of the mountains through a pastoral 
valley, bright with verdure, and varied with groves of dwarf oak, 
beech and sycamore, under whose branches herds of cattle reposed.  
The mountain-ash too, and the weeping birch, often threw their 
pendant foliage over the steeps above, where the scanty soil scarcely 
concealed their roots, and where their light branches waved to every 
breeze that fluttered from the mountains.

The travellers were frequently met at this early hour, for the sun 
had not yet risen upon the valley, by shepherds driving immense 
flocks from their folds to feed upon the hills.  St. Aubert had set 
out thus early, not only that he might enjoy the first appearance of 
sunrise, but that he might inhale the first pure breath of morning, 
which above all things is refreshing to the spirits of the invalid.  
In these regions it was particularly so, where an abundance of wild 
flowers and aromatic herbs breathed forth their essence on the air.

The dawn, which softened the scenery with its peculiar grey tint, now 
dispersed, and Emily watched the progress of the day, first trembling 
on the tops of the highest cliffs, then touching them with splendid 
light, while their sides and the vale below were still wrapt in dewy 
mist.  Meanwhile, the sullen grey of the eastern clouds began to 
blush, then to redden, and then to glow with a thousand colours, till 
the golden light darted over all the air, touched the lower points of 
the mountain's brow, and glanced in long sloping beams upon the 
valley and its stream.  All nature seemed to have awakened from death 
into life; the spirit of St. Aubert was renovated.  His heart was 
full; he wept, and his thoughts ascended to the Great Creator.

Emily wished to trip along the turf, so green and bright with dew, 
and to taste the full delight of that liberty, which the izard seemed 
to enjoy as he bounded along the brow of the cliffs; while Valancourt 
often stopped to speak with the travellers, and with social feeling 
to point out to them the peculiar objects of his admiration.  St. 
Aubert was pleased with him:  'Here is the real ingenuousness and 
ardour of youth,' said he to himself; 'this young man has never been 
at Paris.'

He was sorry when they came to the spot where the roads parted, and 
his heart took a more affectionate leave of him than is usual after 
so short an acquaintance.  Valancourt talked long by the side of the 
carriage; seemed more than once to be going, but still lingered, and 
appeared to search anxiously for topics of conversation to account 
for his delay.  At length he took leave.  As he went, St. Aubert 
observed him look with an earnest and pensive eye at Emily, who bowed 
to him with a countenance full of timid sweetness, while the carriage 
drove on.  St. Aubert, for whatever reason, soon after looked from 
the window, and saw Valancourt standing upon the bank of the road, 
resting on his pike with folded arms, and following the carriage with 
his eyes.  He waved his hand, and Valancourt, seeming to awake from 
his reverie, returned the salute, and started away.

The aspect of the country now began to change, and the travellers 
soon found themselves among mountains covered from their base nearly 
to their summits with forests of gloomy pine, except where a rock of 
granite shot up from the vale, and lost its snowy top in the clouds.  
The rivulet, which had hitherto accompanied them, now expanded into a 
river; and, flowing deeply and silently along, reflected, as in a 
mirror, the blackness of the impending shades.  Sometimes a cliff was 
seen lifting its bold head above the woods and the vapours, that 
floated mid-way down the mountains; and sometimes a face of 
perpendicular marble rose from the water's edge, over which the larch 
threw his gigantic arms, here scathed with lightning, and there 
floating in luxuriant foliage.

They continued to travel over a rough and unfrequented road, seeing 
now and then at a distance the solitary shepherd, with his dog, 
stalking along the valley, and hearing only the dashing of torrents, 
which the woods concealed from the eye, the long sullen murmur of the 
breeze, as it swept over the pines, or the notes of the eagle and the 
vulture, which were seen towering round the beetling cliff.

Often, as the carriage moved slowly over uneven ground, St. Aubert 
alighted, and amused himself with examining the curious plants that 
grew on the banks of the road, and with which these regions abound; 
while Emily, wrapt in high enthusiasm, wandered away under the 
shades, listening in deep silence to the lonely murmur of the woods.

Neither village nor hamlet was seen for many leagues; the goat-herd's 
or the hunter's cabin, perched among the cliffs of the rocks, were 
the only human habitations that appeared.

The travellers again took their dinner in the open air, on a pleasant 
spot in the valley, under the spreading shade of cedars; and then set 
forward towards Beaujeu.

The road now began to descend, and, leaving the pine forests behind, 
wound among rocky precipices.  The evening twilight again fell over 
the scene, and the travellers were ignorant how far they might yet be 
from Beaujeu.  St. Aubert, however, conjectured that the distance 
could not be very great, and comforted himself with the prospect of 
travelling on a more frequented road after reaching that town, where 
he designed to pass the night.  Mingled woods, and rocks, and heathy 
mountains were now seen obscurely through the dusk; but soon even 
these imperfect images faded in darkness.  Michael proceeded with 
caution, for he could scarcely distinguish the road; his mules, 
however, seemed to have more sagacity, and their steps were sure.

On turning the angle of a mountain, a light appeared at a distance, 
that illumined the rocks, and the horizon to a great extent.  It was 
evidently a large fire, but whether accidental, or otherwise, there 
were no means of knowing.  St. Aubert thought it was probably kindled 
by some of the numerous banditti, that infested the Pyrenees, and he 
became watchful and anxious to know whether the road passed near this 
fire.  He had arms with him, which, on an emergency, might afford 
some protection, though certainly a very unequal one, against a band 
of robbers, so desperate too as those usually were who haunted these 
wild regions.  While many reflections rose upon his mind, he heard a 
voice shouting from the road behind, and ordering the muleteer to 
stop.  St. Aubert bade him proceed as fast as possible; but either 
Michael, or his mules were obstinate, for they did not quit the old 
pace.  Horses' feet were now heard; a man rode up to the carriage, 
still ordering the driver to stop; and St. Aubert, who could no 
longer doubt his purpose, was with difficulty able to prepare a 
pistol for his defence, when his hand was upon the door of the 
chaise.  The man staggered on his horse, the report of the pistol was 
followed by a groan, and St. Aubert's horror may be imagined, when in 
the next instant he thought he heard the faint voice of Valancourt.  
He now himself bade the muleteer stop; and, pronouncing the name of 
Valancourt, was answered in a voice, that no longer suffered him to 
doubt.  St. Aubert, who instantly alighted and went to his 
assistance, found him still sitting on his horse, but bleeding 
profusely, and appearing to be in great pain, though he endeavoured 
to soften the terror of St. Aubert by assurances that he was not 
materially hurt, the wound being only in his arm.  St. Aubert, with 
the muleteer, assisted him to dismount, and he sat down on the bank 
of the road, where St. Aubert tried to bind up his arm, but his hands 
trembled so excessively that he could not accomplish it; and, Michael 
being now gone in pursuit of the horse, which, on being disengaged 
from his rider, had galloped off, he called Emily to his assistance.  
Receiving no answer, he went to the carriage, and found her sunk on 
the seat in a fainting fit.  Between the distress of this 
circumstance and that of leaving Valancourt bleeding, he scarcely 
knew what he did; he endeavoured, however, to raise her, and called 
to Michael to fetch water from the rivulet that flowed by the road, 
but Michael was gone beyond the reach of his voice.  Valancourt, who 
heard these calls, and also the repeated name of Emily, instantly 
understood the subject of his distress; and, almost forgetting his 
own condition, he hastened to her relief.  She was reviving when he 
reached the carriage; and then, understanding that anxiety for him 
had occasioned her indisposition, he assured her, in a voice that 
trembled, but not from anguish, that his wound was of no consequence.  
While he said this St. Aubert turned round, and perceiving that he 
was still bleeding, the subject of his alarm changed again, and he 
hastily formed some handkerchiefs into a bandage.  This stopped the 
effusion of the blood; but St. Aubert, dreading the consequence of 
the wound, enquired repeatedly how far they were from Beaujeu; when, 
learning that it was at two leagues' distance, his distress 
increased, since he knew not how Valancourt, in his present state, 
would bear the motion of the carriage, and perceived that he was 
already faint from loss of blood.  When he mentioned the subject of 
his anxiety, Valancourt entreated that he would not suffer himself to 
be thus alarmed on his account, for that he had no doubt he should be 
able to support himself very well; and then he talked of the accident 
as a slight one.  The muleteer being now returned with Valancourt's 
horse, assisted him into the chaise; and, as Emily was now revived, 
they moved slowly on towards Beaujeu.

St. Aubert, when he had recovered from the terror occasioned him by 
this accident, expressed surprise on seeing Valancourt, who explained 
his unexpected appearance by saying, 'You, sir, renewed my taste for 
society; when you had left the hamlet, it did indeed appear a 
solitude.  I determined, therefore, since my object was merely 
amusement, to change the scene; and I took this road, because I knew 
it led through a more romantic tract of mountains than the spot I 
have left.  Besides,' added he, hesitating for an instant, 'I will 
own, and why should I not? that I had some hope of overtaking you.'

'And I have made you a very unexpected return for the compliment,' 
said St. Aubert, who lamented again the rashness which had produced 
the accident, and explained the cause of his late alarm.  But 
Valancourt seemed anxious only to remove from the minds of his 
companions every unpleasant feeling relative to himself; and, for 
that purpose, still struggled against a sense of pain, and tried to 
converse with gaiety.  Emily meanwhile was silent, except when 
Valancourt particularly addressed her, and there was at those times a 
tremulous tone in his voice that spoke much.

They were now so near the fire, which had long flamed at a distance 
on the blackness of night, that it gleamed upon the road, and they 
could distinguish figures moving about the blaze.  The way winding 
still nearer, they perceived in the valley one of those numerous 
bands of gipsies, which at that period particularly haunted the wilds 
of the Pyrenees, and lived partly by plundering the traveller.  Emily 
looked with some degree of terror on the savage countenances of these 
people, shewn by the fire, which heightened the romantic effects of 
the scenery, as it threw a red dusky gleam upon the rocks and on the 
foliage of the trees, leaving heavy masses of shade and regions of 
obscurity, which the eye feared to penetrate.

They were preparing their supper; a large pot stood by the fire, over 
which several figures were busy.  The blaze discovered a rude kind of 
tent, round which many children and dogs were playing, and the whole 
formed a picture highly grotesque.  The travellers saw plainly their 
danger.  Valancourt was silent, but laid his hand on one of St. 
Aubert's pistols;  St. Aubert drew forth another, and Michael was 
ordered to proceed as fast as possible.  They passed the place, 
however, without being attacked; the rovers being probably unprepared 
for the opportunity, and too busy about their supper to feel much 
interest, at the moment, in any thing besides.

After a league and a half more, passed in darkness, the travellers 
arrived at Beaujeu, and drove up to the only inn the place afforded; 
which, though superior to any they had seen since they entered the 
mountains, was bad enough.

The surgeon of the town was immediately sent for, if a surgeon he 
could be called, who prescribed for horses as well as for men, and 
shaved faces at least as dexterously as he set bones.  After 
examining Valancourt's arm, and perceiving that the bullet had passed 
through the flesh without touching the bone, he dressed it, and left 
him with a solemn prescription of quiet, which his patient was not 
inclined to obey.  The delight of ease had now succeeded to pain; for 
ease may be allowed to assume a positive quality when contrasted with 
anguish; and, his spirits thus re-animated, he wished to partake of 
the conversation of St. Aubert and Emily, who, released from so many 
apprehensions, were uncommonly cheerful.  Late as it was, however, 
St. Aubert was obliged to go out with the landlord to buy meat for 
supper; and Emily, who, during this interval, had been absent as long 
as she could, upon excuses of looking to their accommodation, which 
she found rather better than she expected, was compelled to return, 
and converse with Valancourt alone.  They talked of the character of 
the scenes they had passed, of the natural history of the country, of 
poetry, and of St. Aubert; a subject on which Emily always spoke and 
listened to with peculiar pleasure.

The travellers passed an agreeable evening; but St. Aubert was 
fatigued with his journey; and, as Valancourt seemed again sensible 
of pain, they separated soon after supper.

In the morning St. Aubert found that Valancourt had passed a restless 
night; that he was feverish, and his wound very painful.  The 
surgeon, when he dressed it, advised him to remain quietly at 
Beaujeu; advice which was too reasonable to be rejected.  St. Aubert, 
however, had no favourable opinion of this practitioner, and was 
anxious to commit Valancourt into more skilful hands; but learning, 
upon enquiry, that there was no town within several leagues which 
seemed more likely to afford better advice, he altered the plan of 
his journey, and determined to await the recovery of Valancourt, who, 
with somewhat more ceremony than sincerity, made many objections to 
this delay.

By order of his surgeon, Valancourt did not go out of the house that 
day; but St. Aubert and Emily surveyed with delight the environs of 
the town, situated at the feet of the Pyrenean Alps, that rose, some 
in abrupt precipices, and others swelling with woods of cedar, fir, 
and cypress, which stretched nearly to their highest summits.  The 
cheerful green of the beech and mountain-ash was sometimes seen, like 
a gleam of light, amidst the dark verdure of the forest; and 
sometimes a torrent poured its sparkling flood, high among the woods.

Valancourt's indisposition detained the travellers at Beaujeu several 
days, during which interval St. Aubert had observed his disposition 
and his talents with the philosophic inquiry so natural to him.  He 
saw a frank and generous nature, full of ardour, highly susceptible 
of whatever is grand and beautiful, but impetuous, wild, and somewhat 
romantic.  Valancourt had known little of the world.  His perceptions 
were clear, and his feelings just; his indignation of an unworthy, or 
his admiration of a generous action, were expressed in terms of equal 
vehemence.  St. Aubert sometimes smiled at his warmth, but seldom 
checked it, and often repeated to himself, 'This young man has never 
been at Paris.'  A sigh sometimes followed this silent ejaculation.  
He determined not to leave Valancourt till he should be perfectly 
recovered; and, as he was now well enough to travel, though not able 
to manage his horse, St. Aubert invited him to accompany him for a 
few days in the carriage.  This he the more readily did, since he had 
discovered that Valancourt was of a family of the same name in 
Gascony, with whose respectability he was well acquainted.  The 
latter accepted the offer with great pleasure, and they again set 
forward among these romantic wilds about Rousillon.

They travelled leisurely; stopping wherever a scene uncommonly grand 
appeared; frequently alighting to walk to an eminence, whither the 
mules could not go, from which the prospect opened in greater 
magnificence; and often sauntering over hillocks covered with 
lavender, wild thyme, juniper, and tamarisc; and under the shades of 
woods, between those boles they caught the long mountain-vista, 
sublime beyond any thing that Emily had ever imagined.

St. Aubert sometimes amused himself with botanizing, while Valancourt 
and Emily strolled on; he pointing out to her notice the objects that 
particularly charmed him, and reciting beautiful passages from such 
of the Latin and Italian poets as he had heard her admire.  In the 
pauses of conversation, when he thought himself not observed, he 
frequently fixed his eyes pensively on her countenance, which 
expressed with so much animation the taste and energy of her mind; 
and when he spoke again, there was a peculiar tenderness in the tone 
of his voice, that defeated any attempt to conceal his sentiments.  
By degrees these silent pauses became more frequent; till Emily, 
only, betrayed an anxiety to interrupt them; and she; who had been 
hitherto reserved, would now talk again, and again, of the woods and 
the vallies and the mountains, to avoid the danger of sympathy and 
silence.

From Beaujeu the road had constantly ascended, conducting the 
travellers into the higher regions of the air, where immense glaciers 
exhibited their frozen horrors, and eternal snow whitened the summits 
of the mountains.  They often paused to contemplate these stupendous 
scenes, and, seated on some wild cliff, where only the ilex or the 
larch could flourish, looked over dark forests of fir, and precipices 
where human foot had never wandered, into the glen--so deep, that the 
thunder of the torrent, which was seen to foam along the bottom, was 
scarcely heard to murmur.  Over these crags rose others of stupendous 
height, and fantastic shape; some shooting into cones; others 
impending far over their base, in huge masses of granite, along whose 
broken ridges was often lodged a weight of snow, that, trembling even 
to the vibration of a sound, threatened to bear destruction in its 
course to the vale.  Around, on every side, far as the eye could 
penetrate, were seen only forms of grandeur--the long perspective of 
mountain-tops, tinged with ethereal blue, or white with snow; vallies 
of ice, and forests of gloomy fir.  The serenity and clearness of the 
air in these high regions were particularly delightful to the 
travellers; it seemed to inspire them with a finer spirit, and 
diffused an indescribable complacency over their minds.  They had no 
words to express the sublime emotions they felt.  A solemn expression 
characterized the feelings of St. Aubert; tears often came to his 
eyes, and he frequently walked away from his companions.  Valancourt 
now and then spoke, to point to Emily's notice some feature of the 
scene.  The thinness of the atmosphere, through which every object 
came so distinctly to the eye, surprised and deluded her; who could 
scarcely believe that objects, which appeared so near, were, in 
reality, so distant.  The deep silence of these solitudes was broken 
only at intervals by the scream of the vultures, seen cowering round 
some cliff below, or by the cry of the eagle sailing high in the air; 
except when the travellers listened to the hollow thunder that 
sometimes muttered at their feet.  While, above, the deep blue of the 
heavens was unobscured by the lightest cloud, half way down the 
mountains, long billows of vapour were frequently seen rolling, now 
wholly excluding the country below, and now opening, and partially 
revealing its features.  Emily delighted to observe the grandeur of 
these clouds as they changed in shape and tints, and to watch their 
various effect on the lower world, whose features, partly veiled, 
were continually assuming new forms of sublimity.

After traversing these regions for many leagues, they began to 
descend towards Rousillon, and features of beauty then mingled with 
the scene.  Yet the travellers did not look back without some regret 
to the sublime objects they had quitted; though the eye, fatigued 
with the extension of its powers, was glad to repose on the verdure 
of woods and pastures, that now hung on the margin of the river 
below; to view again the humble cottage shaded by cedars, the playful 
group of mountaineer-children, and the flowery nooks that appeared 
among the hills.

As they descended, they saw at a distance, on the right, one of the 
grand passes of the Pyrenees into Spain, gleaming with its 
battlements and towers to the splendour of the setting rays, yellow 
tops of woods colouring the steeps below, while far above aspired the 
snowy points of the mountains, still reflecting a rosy hue.

St. Aubert began to look out for the little town he had been directed 
to by the people of Beaujeu, and where he meant to pass the night; 
but no habitation yet appeared.  Of its distance Valancourt could not 
assist him to judge, for he had never been so far along this chain of 
Alps before.  There was, however, a road to guide them; and there 
could be little doubt that it was the right one; for, since they had 
left Beaujeu, there had been no variety of tracks to perplex or 
mislead.

The sun now gave his last light, and St. Aubert bade the muleteer 
proceed with all possible dispatch.  He found, indeed, the lassitude 
of illness return upon him, after a day of uncommon fatigue, both of 
body and mind, and he longed for repose.  His anxiety was not soothed 
by observing a numerous train, consisting of men, horses, and loaded 
mules, winding down the steeps of an opposite mountain, appearing and 
disappearing at intervals among the woods, so that its numbers could 
not be judged of.  Something bright, like arms, glanced in the 
setting ray, and the military dress was distinguishable upon the men 
who were in the van, and on others scattered among the troop that 
followed.  As these wound into the vale, the rear of the party 
emerged from the woods, and exhibited a band of soldiers.  St. 
Aubert's apprehensions now subsided; he had no doubt that the train 
before him consisted of smugglers, who, in conveying prohibited goods 
over the Pyrenees, had been encountered, and conquered by a party of 
troops.

The travellers had lingered so long among the sublimer scenes of 
these mountains, that they found themselves entirely mistaken in 
their calculation that they could reach Montigny at sun-set; but, as 
they wound along the valley, the saw, on a rude Alpine bridge, that 
united two lofty crags of the glen, a group of mountaineer-children, 
amusing themselves with dropping pebbles into a torrent below, and 
watching the stones plunge into the water, that threw up its white 
spray high in the air as it received them, and returned a sullen 
sound, which the echoes of the mountains prolonged.  Under the bridge 
was seen a perspective of the valley, with its cataract descending 
among the rocks, and a cottage on a cliff, overshadowed with pines.  
It appeared, that they could not be far from some small town.  St. 
Aubert bade the muleteer stop, and then called to the children to 
enquire if he was near Montigny; but the distance, and the roaring of 
the waters, would not suffer his voice to be heard; and the crags, 
adjoining the bridge, were of such tremendous height and steepness, 
that to have climbed either would have been scarcely practicable to a 
person unacquainted with the ascent.  St. Aubert, therefore, did not 
waste more moments in delay.  They continued to travel long after 
twilight had obscured the road, which was so broken, that, now 
thinking it safer to walk than to ride, they all alighted.  The moon 
was rising, but her light was yet too feeble to assist them.  While 
they stepped carefully on, they heard the vesper-bell of a convent.  
The twilight would not permit them to distinguish anything like a 
building, but the sounds seemed to come from some woods, that 
overhung an acclivity to the right.  Valancourt proposed to go in 
search of this convent.  'If they will not accommodate us with a 
night's lodging,' said he, 'they may certainly inform us how far we 
are from Montigny, and direct us towards it.'  He was bounding 
forward, without waiting St. Aubert's reply, when the latter stopped 
him.  'I am very weary,' said St. Aubert, 'and wish for nothing so 
much as for immediate rest.  We will all go to the convent; your good 
looks would defeat our purpose; but when they see mine and Emily's 
exhausted countenances, they will scarcely deny us repose.' 

As he said this, he took Emily's arm within his, and, telling Michael 
to wait awhile in the road with the carriage, they began to ascend 
towards the woods, guided by the bell of the convent.  His steps were 
feeble, and Valancourt offered him his arm, which he accepted.  The 
moon now threw a faint light over their path, and, soon after, 
enabled them to distinguish some towers rising above the tops of the 
woods.  Still following the note of the bell, they entered the shade 
of those woods, lighted only by the moonbeams, that glided down 
between the leaves, and threw a tremulous uncertain gleam upon the 
steep track they were winding.  The gloom and the silence that 
prevailed, except when the bell returned upon the air, together with 
the wildness of the surrounding scene, struck Emily with a degree of 
fear, which, however, the voice and conversation of Valancourt 
somewhat repressed.  When they had been some time ascending, St. 
Aubert complained of weariness, and they stopped to rest upon a 
little green summit, where the trees opened, and admitted the moon-
light.  He sat down upon the turf, between Emily and Valancourt.  The 
bell had now ceased, and the deep repose of the scene was undisturbed 
by any sound, for the low dull murmur of some distant torrents might 
be said to sooth, rather than to interrupt, the silence.

Before them, extended the valley they had quitted; its rocks, and 
woods to the left, just silvered by the rays, formed a contrast to 
the deep shadow, that involved the opposite cliffs, whose fringed 
summits only were tipped with light; while the distant perspective of 
the valley was lost in the yellow mist of moon-light.  The travellers 
sat for some time wrapt in the complacency which such scenes inspire.

'These scenes,' said Valancourt, at length, 'soften the heart, like 
the notes of sweet music, and inspire that delicious melancholy which 
no person, who had felt it once, would resign for the gayest 
pleasures.  They waken our best and purest feelings, disposing us to 
benevolence, pity, and friendship.  Those whom I love--I always seem 
to love more in such an hour as this.'  His voice trembled, and he 
paused.

St. Aubert was silent; Emily perceived a warm tear fall upon the hand 
he held; she knew the object of his thoughts; hers too had, for some 
time, been occupied by the remembrance of her mother.  He seemed by 
an effort to rouse himself.  'Yes,' said he, with an half-suppressed 
sigh, 'the memory of those we love--of times for ever past! in such 
an hour as this steals upon the mind, like a strain of distant music 
in the stillness of night;--all tender and harmonious as this 
landscape, sleeping in the mellow moon-light.'  After the pause of a 
moment, St. Aubert added, 'I have always fancied, that I thought with 
more clearness, and precision, at such an hour than at any other, and 
that heart must be insensible in a great degree, that does not soften 
to its influence.  But many such there are.'

Valancourt sighed.

'Are there, indeed, many such?' said Emily.

'a few years hence, my Emily,' replied St. Aubert, 'and you may smile 
at the recollection of that question--if you do not weep to it.  But 
come, I am somewhat refreshed, let us proceed.'

Having emerged from the woods, they saw, upon a turfy hillock above, 
the convent of which they were in search.  A high wall, that 
surrounded it, led them to an ancient gate, at which they knocked; 
and the poor monk, who opened it, conducted them into a small 
adjoining room, where he desired they would wait while he informed 
the superior of their request.  In this interval, several friars came 
in separately to look at them; and at length the first monk returned, 
and they followed him to a room, where the superior was sitting in an 
arm-chair, with a large folio volume, printed in black letter, open 
on a desk before him.  He received them with courtesy, though he did 
not rise from his seat; and, having asked them a few questions, 
granted their request.  After a short conversation, formal and solemn 
on the part of the superior, they withdrew to the apartment where 
they were to sup, and Valancourt, whom one of the inferior friars 
civilly desired to accompany, went to seek Michael and his mules.  
They had not descended half way down the cliffs, before they heard 
the voice of the muleteer echoing far and wide.  Sometimes he called 
on St. Aubert, and sometimes on Valancourt; who having, at length, 
convinced him that he had nothing to fear either for himself, or his 
master; and having disposed of him, for the night, in a cottage on 
the skirts of the woods, returned to sup with his friends, on such 
sober fare as the monks thought it prudent to set before them.  While 
St. Aubert was too much indisposed to share it, Emily, in her anxiety 
for her father, forgot herself; and Valancourt, silent and 
thoughtful, yet never inattentive to them, appeared particularly 
solicitous to accommodate and relieve St. Aubert, who often observed, 
while his daughter was pressing him to eat, or adjusting the pillow 
she had placed in the back of his arm-chair, that Valancourt fixed on 
her a look of pensive tenderness, which he was not displeased to 
understand.

They separated at an early hour, and retired to their respective 
apartments.  Emily was shown to hers by a nun of the convent, whom 
she was glad to dismiss, for her heart was melancholy, and her 
attention so much abstracted, that conversation with a stranger was 
painful.  She thought her father daily declining, and attributed his 
present fatigue more to the feeble state of his frame, than to the 
difficulty of the journey.  A train of gloomy ideas haunted her mind, 
till she fell asleep.

In about two hours after, she was awakened by the chiming of a bell, 
and then heard quick steps pass along the gallery, into which her 
chamber opened.  She was so little accustomed to the manners of a 
convent, as to be alarmed by this circumstance; her fears, ever alive 
for her father, suggested that he was very ill, and she rose in haste 
to go to him.  Having paused, however, to let the persons in the 
gallery pass before she opened her door, her thoughts, in the mean 
time, recovered from the confusion of sleep, and she understood that 
the bell was the call of the monks to prayers.  It had now ceased, 
and, all being again still, she forbore to go to St. Aubert's room.  
Her mind was not disposed for immediate sleep, and the moon-light, 
that shone into her chamber, invited her to open the casement, and 
look out upon the country.

It was a still and beautiful night, the sky was unobscured by any 
cloud, and scarce a leaf of the woods beneath trembled in the air.  
As she listened, the mid-night hymn of the monks rose softly from a 
chapel, that stood on one of the lower cliffs, an holy strain, that 
seemed to ascend through the silence of night to heaven, and her 
thoughts ascended with it.  From the consideration of His works, her 
mind arose to the adoration of the Deity, in His goodness and power; 
wherever she turned her view, whether on the sleeping earth, or to 
the vast regions of space, glowing with worlds beyond the reach of 
human thought, the sublimity of God, and the majesty of His presence 
appeared.  Her eyes were filled with tears of awful love and 
admiration; and she felt that pure devotion, superior to all the 
distinctions of human system, which lifts the soul above this world, 
and seems to expand it into a nobler nature; such devotion as can, 
perhaps, only be experienced, when the mind, rescued, for a moment, 
from the humbleness of earthly considerations, aspires to contemplate 
His power in the sublimity of His works, and His goodness in the 
infinity of His blessings.

     Is it not now the hour,
 The holy hour, when to the cloudless height
 Of yon starred concave climbs the full-orbed moon,
 And to this nether world in solemn stillness,
 Gives sign, that, to the list'ning ear of Heaven
 Religion's voice should plead?  The very babe
 Knows this, and, chance awak'd, his little hands
 Lifts to the gods, and on his innocent couch
 Calls down a blessing.*
     *Caractacus


The midnight chant of the monks soon after dropped into silence; but 
Emily remained at the casement, watching the setting moon, and the 
valley sinking into deep shade, and willing to prolong her present 
state of mind.  At length she retired to her mattress, and sunk into 
tranquil slumber.



CHAPTER V


     While in the rosy vale
 Love breath'd his infant sighs, from anguish free.
     Thomson

St. Aubert, sufficiently restored by a night's repose to pursue his 
journey, set out in the morning, with his family and Valancourt, for 
Rousillon, which he hoped to reach before night-fall.  The scenes, 
through which they now passed, were as wild and romantic, as any they 
had yet observed, with this difference, that beauty, every now and 
then, softened the landscape into smiles.  Little woody recesses 
appeared among the mountains, covered with bright verdure and 
flowers; or a pastoral valley opened its grassy bosom in the shade of 
the cliffs, with flocks and herds loitering along the banks of a 
rivulet, that refreshed it with perpetual green.  St. Aubert could 
not repent the having taken this fatiguing road, though he was this 
day, also, frequently obliged to alight, to walk along the rugged 
precipice, and to climb the steep and flinty mountain.  The wonderful 
sublimity and variety of the prospects repaid him for all this, and 
the enthusiasm, with which they were viewed by his young companions, 
heightened his own, and awakened a remembrance of all the delightful 
emotions of his early days, when the sublime charms of nature were 
first unveiled to him.  He found great pleasure in conversing with 
Valancourt, and in listening to his ingenuous remarks.  The fire and 
simplicity of his manners seemed to render him a characteristic 
figure in the scenes around them; and St. Aubert discovered in his 
sentiments the justness and the dignity of an elevated mind, 
unbiassed by intercourse with the world.  He perceived, that his 
opinions were formed, rather than imbibed; were more the result of 
thought, than of learning.  Of the world he seemed to know nothing; 
for he believed well of all mankind, and this opinion gave him the 
reflected image of his own heart.

St. Aubert, as he sometimes lingered to examine the wild plants in 
his path, often looked forward with pleasure to Emily and Valancourt, 
as they strolled on together; he, with a countenance of animated 
delight, pointing to her attention some grand feature of the scene; 
and she, listening and observing with a look of tender seriousness, 
that spoke the elevation of her mind.  They appeared like two lovers 
who had never strayed beyond these their native mountains; whose 
situation had secluded them from the frivolities of common life, 
whose ideas were simple and grand, like the landscapes among which 
they moved, and who knew no other happiness, than in the union of 
pure and affectionate hearts.  St. Aubert smiled, and sighed at the 
romantic picture of felicity his fancy drew; and sighed again to 
think, that nature and simplicity were so little known to the world, 
as that their pleasures were thought romantic.

'The world,' said he, pursuing this train of thought, 'ridicules a 
passion which it seldom feels; its scenes, and its interests, 
distract the mind, deprave the taste, corrupt the heart, and love 
cannot exist in a heart that has lost the meek dignity of innocence.  
Virtue and taste are nearly the same, for virtue is little more than 
active taste, and the most delicate affections of each combine in 
real love.  How then are we to look for love in great cities, where 
selfishness, dissipation, and insincerity supply the place of 
tenderness, simplicity and truth?'

It was near noon, when the travellers, having arrived at a piece of 
steep and dangerous road, alighted to walk.  The road wound up an 
ascent, that was clothed with wood, and, instead of following the 
carriage, they entered the refreshing shade.  A dewy coolness was 
diffused upon the air, which, with the bright verdure of turf, that 
grew under the trees, the mingled fragrance of flowers and of balm, 
thyme, and lavender, that enriched it, and the grandeur of the pines, 
beech, and chestnuts, that overshadowed them, rendered this a most 
delicious retreat.  Sometimes, the thick foliage excluded all view of 
the country; at others, it admitted some partial catches of the 
distant scenery, which gave hints to the imagination to picture 
landscapes more interesting, more impressive, than any that had been 
presented to the eye.  The wanderers often lingered to indulge in 
these reveries of fancy.

The pauses of silence, such as had formerly interrupted the 
conversations of Valancourt and Emily, were more frequent today than 
ever.  Valancourt often dropped suddenly from the most animating 
vivacity into fits of deep musing, and there was, sometimes, an 
unaffected melancholy in his smile, which Emily could not avoid 
understanding, for her heart was interested in the sentiment it 
spoke.

St. Aubert was refreshed by the shades, and they continued to saunter 
under them, following, as nearly as they could guess, the direction 
of the road, till they perceived that they had totally lost it.  They 
had continued near the brow of the precipice, allured by the scenery 
it exhibited, while the road wound far away over the cliff above.  
Valancourt called loudly to Michael, but heard no voice, except his 
own, echoing among the rocks, and his various efforts to regain the 
road were equally unsuccessful.  While they were thus circumstanced, 
they perceived a shepherd's cabin, between the boles of the trees at 
some distance, and Valancourt bounded on first to ask assistance.  
When he reached it, he saw only two little children, at play, on the 
turf before the door.  He looked into the hut, but no person was 
there, and the eldest of the boys told him that their father was with 
his flocks, and their mother was gone down into the vale, but would 
be back presently.  As he stood, considering what was further to be 
done, on a sudden he heard Michael's voice roaring forth most 
manfully among the cliffs above, till he made their echoes ring.  
Valancourt immediately answered the call, and endeavoured to make his 
way through the thicket that clothed the steeps, following the 
direction of the sound.  After much struggle over brambles and 
precipices, he reached Michael, and at length prevailed with him to 
be silent, and to listen to him.  The road was at a considerable 
distance from the spot where St. Aubert and Emily were; the carriage 
could not easily return to the entrance of the wood, and, since it 
would be very fatiguing for St. Aubert to climb the long and steep 
road to the place where it now stood, Valancourt was anxious to find 
a more easy ascent, by the way he had himself passed.

Meanwhile St. Aubert and Emily approached the cottage, and rested 
themselves on a rustic bench, fastened between two pines, which 
overshadowed it, till Valancourt, whose steps they had observed, 
should return.

The eldest of the children desisted from his play, and stood still to 
observe the strangers, while the younger continued his little 
gambols, and teased his brother to join in them.  St. Aubert looked 
with pleasure upon this picture of infantine simplicity, till it 
brought to his remembrance his own boys, whom he had lost about the 
age of these, and their lamented mother; and he sunk into a 
thoughtfulness, which Emily observing, she immediately began to sing 
one of those simple and lively airs he was so fond of, and which she 
knew how to give with the most captivating sweetness.  St. Aubert 
smiled on her through his tears, took her hand and pressed it 
affectionately, and then tried to dissipate the melancholy 
reflections that lingered in his mind.

While she sung, Valancourt approached, who was unwilling to interrupt 
her, and paused at a little distance to listen.  When she had 
concluded, he joined the party, and told them, that he had found 
Michael, as well as a way, by which he thought they could ascend the 
cliff to the carriage.  He pointed to the woody steeps above, which 
St. Aubert surveyed with an anxious eye.  He was already wearied by 
his walk, and this ascent was formidable to him.  He thought, 
however, it would be less toilsome than the long and broken road, and 
he determined to attempt it; but Emily, ever watchful of his ease, 
proposing that he should rest, and dine before they proceeded 
further, Valancourt went to the carriage for the refreshments 
deposited there.

On his return, he proposed removing a little higher up the mountain, 
to where the woods opened upon a grand and extensive prospect; and 
thither they were preparing to go, when they saw a young woman join 
the children, and caress and weep over them.

The travellers, interested by her distress, stopped to observe her.  
She took the youngest of the children in her arms, and, perceiving 
the strangers, hastily dried her tears, and proceeded to the cottage.  
St. Aubert, on enquiring the occasion of her sorrow, learned that her 
husband, who was a shepherd, and lived here in the summer months to 
watch over the flocks he led to feed upon these mountains, had lost, 
on the preceding night, his little all.  A gang of gipsies, who had 
for some time infested the neighbourhood, had driven away several of 
his master's sheep.  'Jacques,' added the shepherd's wife, 'had saved 
a little money, and had bought a few sheep with it, and now they must 
go to his master for those that are stolen; and what is worse than 
all, his master, when he comes to know how it is, will trust him no 
longer with the care of his flocks, for he is a hard man! and then 
what is to become of our children!'

The innocent countenance of the woman, and the simplicity of her 
manner in relating her grievance, inclined St. Aubert to believe her 
story; and Valancourt, convinced that it was true, asked eagerly what 
was the value of the stolen sheep; on hearing which he turned away 
with a look of disappointment.  St. Aubert put some money into her 
hand, Emily too gave something from her little purse, and they walked 
towards the cliff; but Valancourt lingered behind, and spoke to the 
shepherd's wife, who was now weeping with gratitude and surprise.  He 
enquired how much money was yet wanting to replace the stolen sheep, 
and found, that it was a sum very little short of all he had about 
him.  He was perplexed and distressed.  'This sum then,' said he to 
himself, 'would make this poor family completely happy--it is in my 
power to give it--to make them completely happy!  But what is to 
become of me?--how shall I contrive to reach home with the little 
money that will remain?'  For a moment he stood, unwilling to forego 
the luxury of raising a family from ruin to happiness, yet 
considering the difficulties of pursuing his journey with so small a 
sum as would be left.

While he was in this state of perplexity, the shepherd himself 
appeared:  his children ran to meet him; he took one of them in his 
arms, and, with the other clinging to his coat, came forward with a 
loitering step.  His forlorn and melancholy look determined 
Valancourt at once; he threw down all the money he had, except a very 
few louis, and bounded away after St. Aubert and Emily, who were 
proceeding slowly up the steep.  Valancourt had seldom felt his heart 
so light as at this moment; his gay spirits danced with pleasure; 
every object around him appeared more interesting, or beautiful, than 
before.  St. Aubert observed the uncommon vivacity of his 
countenance:  'What has pleased you so much?' said he.  'O what a 
lovely day,' replied Valancourt, 'how brightly the sun shines, how 
pure is this air, what enchanting scenery!'  'It is indeed 
enchanting,' said St. Aubert, whom early experience had taught to 
understand the nature of Valancourt's present feelings.  'What pity 
that the wealthy, who can command such sunshine, should ever pass 
their days in gloom--in the cold shade of selfishness!  For you, my 
young friend, may the sun always shine as brightly as at this moment; 
may your own conduct always give you the sunshine of benevolence and 
reason united!'

Valancourt, highly flattered by this compliment, could make no reply 
but by a smile of gratitude.

They continued to wind under the woods, between the grassy knolls of 
the mountain, and, as they reached the shady summit, which he had 
pointed out, the whole party burst into an exclamation.  Behind the 
spot where they stood, the rock rose perpendicularly in a massy wall 
to a considerable height, and then branched out into overhanging 
crags.  Their grey tints were well contrasted by the bright hues of 
the plants and wild flowers, that grew in their fractured sides, and 
were deepened by the gloom of the pines and cedars, that waved above.  
The steeps below, over which the eye passed abruptly to the valley, 
were fringed with thickets of alpine shrubs; and, lower still, 
appeared the tufted tops of the chesnut woods, that clothed their 
base, among which peeped forth the shepherd's cottage, just left by 
the travellers, with its blueish smoke curling high in the air.  On 
every side appeared the majestic summits of the Pyrenees, some 
exhibiting tremendous crags of marble, whose appearance was changing 
every instant, as the varying lights fell upon their surface; others, 
still higher, displaying only snowy points, while their lower steeps 
were covered almost invariably with forests of pine, larch, and oak, 
that stretched down to the vale.  This was one of the narrow vallies, 
that open from the Pyrenees into the country of Rousillon, and whose 
green pastures, and cultivated beauty, form a decided and wonderful 
contrast to the romantic grandeur that environs it.  Through a vista 
of the mountains appeared the lowlands of Rousillon, tinted with the 
blue haze of distance, as they united with the waters of the 
Mediterranean; where, on a promontory, which marked the boundary of 
the shore, stood a lonely beacon, over which were seen circling 
flights of sea-fowl.  Beyond, appeared, now and then, a stealing 
sail, white with the sun-beam, and whose progress was perceivable by 
its approach to the light-house.  Sometimes, too, was seen a sail so 
distant, that it served only to mark the line of separation between 
the sky and the waves.

On the other side of the valley, immediately opposite to the spot 
where the travellers rested, a rocky pass opened toward Gascony.  
Here no sign of cultivation appeared.  The rocks of granite, that 
screened the glen, rose abruptly from their base, and stretched their 
barren points to the clouds, unvaried with woods, and uncheered even 
by a hunter's cabin.  Sometimes, indeed, a gigantic larch threw its 
long shade over the precipice, and here and there a cliff reared on 
its brow a monumental cross, to tell the traveller the fate of him 
who had ventured thither before.  This spot seemed the very haunt of 
banditti; and Emily, as she looked down upon it, almost expected to 
see them stealing out from some hollow cave to look for their prey.  
Soon after an object not less terrific struck her,--a gibbet standing 
on a point of rock near the entrance of the pass, and immediately 
over one of the crosses she had before observed.  These were 
hieroglyphics that told a plain and dreadful story.  She forbore to 
point it out to St. Aubert, but it threw a gloom over her spirits, 
and made her anxious to hasten forward, that they might with 
certainty reach Rousillon before night-fall.  It was necessary, 
however, that St. Aubert should take some refreshment, and, seating 
themselves on the short dry turf, they opened the basket of 
provisions, while

     by breezy murmurs cool'd,
 Broad o'er THEIR heads the verdant cedars wave,
 And high palmetos lift their graceful shade.
 -----THEY draw
 Ethereal soul, there drink reviving gales
 Profusely breathing from the piney groves,
 And vales of fragrance; there at a distance hear
 The roaring floods, and cataracts.*
     *Thomson


St. Aubert was revived by rest, and by the serene air of this summit; 
and Valancourt was so charmed with all around, and with the 
conversation of his companions, that he seemed to have forgotten he 
had any further to go.  Having concluded their simple repast, they 
gave a long farewell look to the scene, and again began to ascend.  
St. Aubert rejoiced when he reached the carriage, which Emily entered 
with him; but Valancourt, willing to take a more extensive view of 
the enchanting country, into which they were about to descend, than 
he could do from a carriage, loosened his dogs, and once more bounded 
with them along the banks of the road.  He often quitted it for 
points that promised a wider prospect, and the slow pace, at which 
the mules travelled, allowed him to overtake them with ease.  
Whenever a scene of uncommon magnificence appeared, he hastened to 
inform St. Aubert, who, though he was too much tired to walk himself, 
sometimes made the chaise wait, while Emily went to the neighbouring 
cliff.

It was evening when they descended the lower alps, that bind 
Rousillon, and form a majestic barrier round that charming country, 
leaving it open only on the east to the Mediterranean.  The gay tints 
of cultivation once more beautified the landscape; for the lowlands 
were coloured with the richest hues, which a luxuriant climate, and 
an industrious people can awaken into life.  Groves of orange and 
lemon perfumed the air, their ripe fruit glowing among the foliage; 
while, sloping to the plains, extensive vineyards spread their 
treasures.  Beyond these, woods and pastures, and mingled towns and 
hamlets stretched towards the sea, on whose bright surface gleamed 
many a distant sail; while, over the whole scene, was diffused the 
purple glow of evening.  This landscape with the surrounding alps 
did, indeed, present a perfect picture of the lovely and the sublime, 
of 'beauty sleeping in the lap of horror.'

The travellers, having reached the plains, proceeded, between hedges 
of flowering myrtle and pomegranate, to the town of Arles, where they 
proposed to rest for the night.  They met with simple, but neat 
accommodation, and would have passed a happy evening, after the toils 
and the delights of this day, had not the approaching separation 
thrown a gloom over their spirit.  It was St. Aubert's plan to 
proceed, on the morrow, to the borders of the Mediterranean, and 
travel along its shores into Languedoc; and Valancourt, since he was 
now nearly recovered, and had no longer a pretence for continuing 
with his new friends, resolved to leave them here.  St. Aubert, who 
was much pleased with him, invited him to go further, but did not 
repeat the invitation, and Valancourt had resolution enough to forego 
the temptation of accepting it, that he might prove himself not 
unworthy of the favour.  On the following morning, therefore, they 
were to part, St. Aubert to pursue his way to Languedoc, and 
Valancourt to explore new scenes among the mountains, on his return 
home.  During this evening he was often silent and thoughtful; St. 
Aubert's manner towards him was affectionate, though grave, and Emily 
was serious, though she made frequent efforts to appear cheerful.  
After one of the most melancholy evenings they had yet passed 
together, they separated for the night.



CHAPTER VI


 I care not, Fortune! what you me deny;
 You cannot rob me of free nature's grace;
 You cannot shut the windows of the sky,
 Through which Aurora shews her brightening face;
 You cannot bar my constant feet to trace
 The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve:
 Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
 And I their toys to the great children leave:
 Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave.
     THOMSON

In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St. Aubert and Emily, 
neither of whom seemed much refreshed by sleep.  The languor of 
illness still hung over St. Aubert, and to Emily's fears his disorder 
appeared to be increasing fast upon him.  She watched his looks with 
anxious affection, and their expression was always faithfully 
reflected in her own.

At the commencement of their acquaintance, Valancourt had made known 
his name and family.  St. Aubert was not a stranger to either, for 
the family estates, which were now in the possession of an elder 
brother of Valancourt, were little more than twenty miles distant 
from La Vallee, and he had sometimes met the elder Valancourt on 
visits in the neighbourhood.  This knowledge had made him more 
willingly receive his present companion; for, though his countenance 
and manners would have won him the acquaintance of St. Aubert, who 
was very apt to trust to the intelligence of his own eyes, with 
respect to countenances, he would not have accepted these, as 
sufficient introductions to that of his daughter.

The breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of the preceding 
night; but their musing was at length interrupted by the sound of the 
carriage wheels, which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily.  
Valancourt started from his chair, and went to the window; it was 
indeed the carriage, and he returned to his seat without speaking.  
The moment was now come when they must part.  St. Aubert told 
Valancourt, that he hoped he would never pass La Vallee without 
favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt, eagerly thanking him, 
assured him that he never would; as he said which he looked timidly 
at Emily, who tried to smile away the seriousness of her spirits.  
They passed a few minutes in interesting conversation, and St. Aubert 
then led the way to the carriage, Emily and Valancourt following in 
silence.  The latter lingered at the door several minutes after they 
were seated, and none of the party seemed to have courage enough to 
say--Farewell.  At length, St. Aubert pronounced the melancholy word, 
which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a dejected 
smile, and the carriage drove on.

The travellers remained, for some time, in a state of tranquil 
pensiveness, which is not unpleasing.  St. Aubert interrupted it by 
observing, 'This is a very promising young man; it is many years 
since I have been so much pleased with any person, on so short an 
acquaintance.  He brings back to my memory the days of my youth, when 
every scene was new and delightful!'  St. Aubert sighed, and sunk 
again into a reverie; and, as Emily looked back upon the road they 
had passed, Valancourt was seen, at the door of the little inn, 
following them with his eyes.  Her perceived her, and waved his hand; 
and she returned the adieu, till the winding road shut her from his 
sight.

'I remember when I was about his age,' resumed St. Aubert, 'and I 
thought, and felt exactly as he does.  The world was opening upon me 
then, now--it is closing.'

'My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,' said Emily in a trembling 
voice, 'I hope you have many, many years to live--for your own sake--
for MY sake.'

'Ah, my Emily!' replied St. Aubert, 'for thy sake!  Well- I hope it 
is so.'  He wiped away a tear, that was stealing down his cheek, 
threw a smile upon his countenance, and said in a cheering voice, 
'there is something in the ardour and ingenuousness of youth, which 
is particularly pleasing to the contemplation of an old man, if his 
feelings have not been entirely corroded by the world.  It is 
cheering and reviving, like the view of spring to a sick person; his 
mind catches somewhat of the spirit of the season, and his eyes are 
lighted up with a transient sunshine.  Valancourt is this spring to 
me.'

Emily, who pressed her father's hand affectionately, had never before 
listened with so much pleasure to the praises he bestowed; no, not 
even when he had bestowed them on herself.

They travelled on, among vineyards, woods, and pastures, delighted 
with the romantic beauty of the landscape, which was bounded, on one 
side, by the grandeur of the Pyrenees, and, on the other, by the 
ocean; and, soon after noon, they reached the town of Colioure, 
situated on the Mediterranean.  Here they dined, and rested till 
towards the cool of day, when they pursued their way along the 
shores--those enchanting shores!--which extend to Languedoc.  Emily 
gazed with enthusiasm on the vastness of the sea, its surface 
varying, as the lights and shadows fell, and on its woody banks, 
mellowed with autumnal tints.

St. Aubert was impatient to reach Perpignan, where he expected 
letters from M. Quesnel; and it was the expectation of these letters, 
that had induced him to leave Colioure, for his feeble frame had 
required immediate rest.  After travelling a few miles, he fell 
asleep; and Emily, who had put two or three books into the carriage, 
on leaving La Vallee, had now the leisure for looking into them.  She 
sought for one, in which Valancourt had been reading the day before, 
and hoped for the pleasure of re-tracing a page, over which the eyes 
of a beloved friend had lately passed, of dwelling on the passages, 
which he had admired, and of permitting them to speak to her in the 
language of his own mind, and to bring himself to her presence.  On 
searching for the book, she could find it no where, but in its stead 
perceived a volume of Petrarch's poems, that had belonged to 
Valancourt, whose name was written in it, and from which he had 
frequently read passages to her, with all the pathetic expression, 
that characterized the feelings of the author.  She hesitated in 
believing, what would have been sufficiently apparent to almost any 
other person, that he had purposely left this book, instead of the 
one she had lost, and that love had prompted the exchange; but, 
having opened it with impatient pleasure, and observed the lines of 
his pencil drawn along the various passages he had read aloud, and 
under others more descriptive of delicate tenderness than he had 
dared to trust his voice with, the conviction came, at length, to her 
mind.  For some moments she was conscious only of being beloved; 
then, a recollection of all the variations of tone and countenance, 
with which he had recited these sonnets, and of the soul, which spoke 
in their expression, pressed to her memory, and she wept over the 
memorial of his affection.

They arrived at Perpignan soon after sunset, where St. Aubert found, 
as he had expected, letters from M. Quesnel, the contents of which so 
evidently and grievously affected him, that Emily was alarmed, and 
pressed him, as far as her delicacy would permit, to disclose the 
occasion of his concern; but he answered her only by tears, and 
immediately began to talk on other topics.  Emily, though she forbore 
to press the one most interesting to her, was greatly affected by her 
father's manner, and passed a night of sleepless solicitude.

In the morning they pursued their journey along the coast towards 
Leucate, another town on the Mediterranean, situated on the borders 
of Languedoc and Rousillon.  On the way, Emily renewed the subject of 
the preceding night, and appeared so deeply affected by St. Aubert's 
silence and dejection, that he relaxed from his reserve.  'I was 
unwilling, my dear Emily,' said he, 'to throw a cloud over the 
pleasure you receive from these scenes, and meant, therefore, to 
conceal, for the present, some circumstances, with which, however, 
you must at length have been made acquainted.  But your anxiety has 
defeated my purpose; you suffer as much from this, perhaps, as you 
will do from a knowledge of the facts I have to relate.  M. Quesnel's 
visit proved an unhappy one to me; he came to tell me part of the 
news he has now confirmed.  You may have heard me mention a M. 
Motteville, of Paris, but you did not know that the chief of my 
personal property was invested in his hands.  I had great confidence 
in him, and I am yet willing to believe, that he is not wholly 
unworthy of my esteem.  A variety of circumstances have concurred to 
ruin him, and--I am ruined with him.'

St. Aubert paused to conceal his emotion.

'The letters I have just received from M. Quesnel,' resumed he, 
struggling to speak with firmness, 'enclosed others from Motteville, 
which confirmed all I dreaded.'

'Must we then quit La Vallee?' said Emily, after a long pause of 
silence.  'That is yet uncertain,' replied St. Aubert, 'it will 
depend upon the compromise Motteville is able to make with his 
creditors.  My income, you know, was never large, and now it will be 
reduced to little indeed!  It is for you, Emily, for you, my child, 
that I am most afflicted.'  His last words faltered; Emily smiled 
tenderly upon him through her tears, and then, endeavouring to 
overcome her emotion, 'My dear father,' said she, 'do not grieve for 
me, or for yourself; we may yet be happy;--if La Vallee remains for 
us, we must be happy.  We will retain only one servant, and you shall 
scarcely perceive the change in your income.  Be comforted, my dear 
sir; we shall not feel the want of those luxuries, which others value 
so highly, since we never had a taste for them; and poverty cannot 
deprive us of many consolations.  It cannot rob us of the affection 
we have for each other, or degrade us in our own opinion, or in that 
of any person, whose opinion we ought to value.'

St. Aubert concealed his face with his handkerchief, and was unable 
to speak; but Emily continued to urge to her father the truths, which 
himself had impressed upon her mind.

'Besides, my dear sir, poverty cannot deprive us of intellectual 
delights.  It cannot deprive you of the comfort of affording me 
examples of fortitude and benevolence; nor me of the delight of 
consoling a beloved parent.  It cannot deaden our taste for the 
grand, and the beautiful, or deny us the means of indulging it; for 
the scenes of nature--those sublime spectacles, so infinitely 
superior to all artificial luxuries! are open for the enjoyment of 
the poor, as well as of the rich.  Of what, then, have we to 
complain, so long as we are not in want of necessaries?  Pleasures, 
such as wealth cannot buy, will still be ours.  We retain, then, the 
sublime luxuries of nature, and lose only the frivolous ones of art.'

St. Aubert could not reply:  he caught Emily to his bosom, their 
tears flowed together, but--they were not tears of sorrow.  After 
this language of the heart, all other would have been feeble, and 
they remained silent for some time.  Then, St. Aubert conversed as 
before; for, if his mind had not recovered its natural tranquillity, 
it at least assumed the appearance of it.

They reached the romantic town of Leucate early in the day, but St. 
Aubert was weary, and they determined to pass the night there.  In 
the evening, he exerted himself so far as to walk with his daughter 
to view the environs that overlook the lake of Leucate, the 
Mediterranean, part of Rousillon, with the Pyrenees, and a wide 
extent of the luxuriant province of Languedoc, now blushing with the 
ripened vintage, which the peasants were beginning to gather.  St. 
Aubert and Emily saw the busy groups, caught the joyous song, that 
was wafted on the breeze, and anticipated, with apparent pleasure, 
their next day's journey over this gay region.  He designed, however, 
still to wind along the sea-shore.  To return home immediately was 
partly his wish, but from this he was withheld by a desire to 
lengthen the pleasure, which the journey gave his daughter, and to 
try the effect of the sea air on his own disorder.

On the following day, therefore, they recommenced their journey 
through Languedoc, winding the shores of the Mediterranean; the 
Pyrenees still forming the magnificent back-ground of their 
prospects, while on their right was the ocean, and, on their left, 
wide extended plains melting into the blue horizon.  St. Aubert was 
pleased, and conversed much with Emily, yet his cheerfulness was 
sometimes artificial, and sometimes a shade of melancholy would steal 
upon his countenance, and betray him.  This was soon chased away by 
Emily's smile; who smiled, however, with an aching heart, for she saw 
that his misfortunes preyed upon his mind, and upon his enfeebled 
frame.

It was evening when they reached a small village of Upper Languedoc, 
where they meant to pass the night, but the place could not afford 
them beds; for here, too, it was the time of the vintage, and they 
were obliged to proceed to the next post.  The languor of illness and 
of fatigue, which returned upon St. Aubert, required immediate 
repose, and the evening was now far advanced; but from necessity 
there was no appeal, and he ordered Michael to proceed.

The rich plains of Languedoc, which exhibited all the glories of the 
vintage, with the gaieties of a French festival, no longer awakened 
St. Aubert to pleasure, whose condition formed a mournful contrast to 
the hilarity and youthful beauty which surrounded him.  As his 
languid eyes moved over the scene, he considered, that they would 
soon, perhaps, be closed for ever on this world.  'Those distant and 
sublime mountains,' said he secretly, as he gazed on a chain of the 
Pyrenees that stretched towards the west, 'these luxuriant plains, 
this blue vault, the cheerful light of day, will be shut from my 
eyes!  The song of the peasant, the cheering voice of man--will no 
longer sound for me!'

The intelligent eyes of Emily seemed to read what passed in the mind 
of her father, and she fixed them on his face, with an expression of 
such tender pity, as recalled his thoughts from every desultory 
object of regret, and he remembered only, that he must leave his 
daughter without protection.  This reflection changed regret to 
agony; he sighed deeply, and remained silent, while she seemed to 
understand that sigh, for she pressed his hand affectionately, and 
then turned to the window to conceal her tears.  The sun now threw a 
last yellow gleam on the waves of the Mediterranean, and the gloom of 
twilight spread fast over the scene, till only a melancholy ray 
appeared on the western horizon, marking the point where the sun had 
set amid the vapours of an autumnal evening.  A cool breeze now came 
from the shore, and Emily let down the glass; but the air, which was 
refreshing to health, was as chilling to sickness, and St. Aubert 
desired, that the window might be drawn up.  Increasing illness made 
him now more anxious than ever to finish the day's journey, and he 
stopped the muleteer to enquire how far they had yet to go to the 
next post.  He replied, 'Nine miles.'  'I feel I am unable to proceed 
much further,' said St. Aubert; 'enquire, as you go, if there is any 
house on the road that would accommodate us for the night.'  He sunk 
back in the carriage, and Michael, cracking his whip in the air, set 
off, and continued on the full gallop, till St. Aubert, almost 
fainting, called to him to stop.  Emily looked anxiously from the 
window, and saw a peasant walking at some little distance on the 
road, for whom they waited, till he came up, when he was asked, if 
there was any house in the neighbourhood that accommodated 
travellers.  He replied, that he knew of none.  'There is a chateau, 
indeed, among those woods on the right,' added he, 'but I believe it 
receives nobody, and I cannot show you the way, for I am almost a 
stranger here.'  St. Aubert was going to ask him some further 
question concerning the chateau, but the man abruptly passed on.  
After some consideration, he ordered Michael to proceed slowly to the 
woods.  Every moment now deepened the twilight, and increased the 
difficulty of finding the road.  Another peasant soon after passed.  
'Which is the way to the chateau in the woods?' cried Michael.

'The chateau in the woods!' exclaimed the peasant--'Do you mean that 
with the turret, yonder?'

'I don't know as for the turret, as you call it,' said Michael, 'I 
mean that white piece of a building, that we see at a distance there, 
among the trees.'

'Yes, that is the turret; why, who are you, that you are going 
thither?' said the man with surprise.

St. Aubert, on hearing this odd question, and observing the peculiar 
tone in which it was delivered, looked out from the carriage.  'We 
are travellers,' said he, 'who are in search of a house of 
accommodation for the night; is there any hereabout?'

'None, Monsieur, unless you have a mind to try your luck yonder,' 
replied the peasant, pointing to the woods, 'but I would not advise 
you to go there.'

'To whom does the chateau belong?'

'I scarcely know myself, Monsieur.'

'It is uninhabited, then?'  'No, not uninhabited; the steward and 
housekeeper are there, I believe.'

On hearing this, St. Aubert determined to proceed to the chateau, and 
risque the refusal of being accommodated for the night; he therefore 
desired the countryman would shew Michael the way, and bade him 
expect reward for his trouble.  The man was for a moment silent, and 
then said, that he was going on other business, but that the road 
could not be missed, if they went up an avenue to the right, to which 
he pointed.  St. Aubert was going to speak, but the peasant wished 
him good night, and walked on.

The carriage now moved towards the avenue, which was guarded by a 
gate, and Michael having dismounted to open it, they entered between 
rows of ancient oak and chesnut, whose intermingled branches formed a 
lofty arch above.  There was something so gloomy and desolate in the 
appearance of this avenue, and its lonely silence, that Emily almost 
shuddered as she passed along; and, recollecting the manner in which 
the peasant had mentioned the chateau, she gave a mysterious meaning 
to his words, such as she had not suspected when he uttered them.  
These apprehensions, however, she tried to check, considering that 
they were probably the effect of a melancholy imagination, which her 
father's situation, and a consideration of her own circumstances, had 
made sensible to every impression.

They passed slowly on, for they were now almost in darkness, which, 
together with the unevenness of the ground, and the frequent roots of 
old trees, that shot up above the soil, made it necessary to proceed 
with caution.  On a sudden Michael stopped the carriage; and, as St. 
Aubert looked from the window to enquire the cause, he perceived a 
figure at some distance moving up the avenue.  The dusk would not 
permit him to distinguish what it was, but he bade Michael go on.

'This seems a wild place,' said Michael; 'there is no house 
hereabout, don't your honour think we had better turn back?'

'Go a little farther, and if we see no house then, we will return to 
the road,' replied St. Aubert.

Michael proceeded with reluctance, and the extreme slowness of his 
pace made St. Aubert look again from the window to hasten him, when 
again he saw the same figure.  He was somewhat startled:  probably 
the gloominess of the spot made him more liable to alarm than usual; 
however this might be, he now stopped Michael, and bade him call to 
the person in the avenue.

'Please your honour, he may be a robber,' said Michael.  'It does not 
please me,' replied St. Aubert, who could not forbear smiling at the 
simplicity of his phrase, 'and we will, therefore, return to the 
road, for I see no probability of meeting here with what we seek.'

Michael turned about immediately, and was retracing his way with 
alacrity, when a voice was heard from among the trees on the left.  
It was not the voice of command, or distress, but a deep hollow tone, 
which seemed to be scarcely human.  The man whipped his mules till 
they went as fast as possible, regardless of the darkness, the broken 
ground, and the necks of the whole party, nor once stopped till he 
reached the gate, which opened from the avenue into the high-road, 
where he went into a more moderate pace.

'I am very ill,' said St. Aubert, taking his daughter's hand.  'You 
are worse, then, sir!' said Emily, extremely alarmed by his manner, 
'you are worse, and here is no assistance.  Good God! what is to be 
done!'  He leaned his head on her shoulder, while she endeavoured to 
support him with her arm, and Michael was again ordered to stop.  
When the rattling of the wheels had ceased, music was heard on their 
air; it was to Emily the voice of Hope.  'Oh! we are near some human 
habitation!' said she, 'help may soon be had.'

She listened anxiously; the sounds were distant, and seemed to come 
from a remote part of the woods that bordered the road; and, as she 
looked towards the spot whence they issued, she perceived in the 
faint moon-light something like a chateau.  It was difficult, 
however, to reach this; St. Aubert was now too ill to bear the motion 
of the carriage; Michael could not quit his mules; and Emily, who 
still supported her father, feared to leave him, and also feared to 
venture alone to such a distance, she knew not whither, or to whom.  
Something, however, it was necessary to determine upon immediately; 
St. Aubert, therefore, told Michael to proceed slowly; but they had 
not gone far, when he fainted, and the carriage was again stopped.  
He lay quite senseless.--'My dear, dear father!' cried Emily in great 
agony, who began to fear that he was dying, 'speak, if it is only one 
word to let me hear the sound of your voice!'  But no voice spoke in 
reply.  In the agony of terror she bade Michael bring water from the 
rivulet, that flowed along the road; and, having received some in the 
man's hat, with trembling hands she sprinkled it over her father's 
face, which, as the moon's rays now fell upon it, seemed to bear the 
impression of death.  Every emotion of selfish fear now gave way to a 
stronger influence, and, committing St. Aubert to the care of 
Michael, who refused to go far from his mules, she stepped from the 
carriage in search of the chateau she had seen at a distance.  It was 
a still moon-light night, and the music, which yet sounded on the 
air, directed her steps from the high road, up a shadowy lane, that 
led to the woods.  Her mind was for some time so entirely occupied by 
anxiety and terror for her father, that she felt none for herself, 
till the deepening gloom of the overhanging foliage, which now wholly 
excluded the moon-light, and the wildness of the place, recalled her 
to a sense of her adventurous situation.  The music had ceased, and 
she had no guide but chance.  For a moment she paused in terrified 
perplexity, till a sense of her father's condition again overcoming 
every consideration for herself, she proceeded.  The lane terminated 
in the woods, but she looked round in vain for a house, or a human 
being, and as vainly listened for a sound to guide her.  She hurried 
on, however, not knowing whither, avoiding the recesses of the woods, 
and endeavouring to keep along their margin, till a rude kind of 
avenue, which opened upon a moon-light spot, arrested her attention.  
The wildness of this avenue brought to her recollection the one 
leading to the turreted chateau, and she was inclined to believe, 
that this was a part of the same domain, and probably led to the same 
point.  While she hesitated, whether to follow it or not, a sound of 
many voices in loud merriment burst upon her ear.  It seemed not the 
laugh of cheerfulness, but of riot, and she stood appalled.  While 
she paused, she heard a distant voice, calling from the way she had 
come, and not doubting but it was that of Michael, her first impulse 
was to hasten back; but a second thought changed her purpose; she 
believed that nothing less than the last extremity could have 
prevailed with Michael to quit his mules, and fearing that her father 
was now dying, she rushed forward, with a feeble hope of obtaining 
assistance from the people in the woods.  Her heart beat with fearful 
expectation, as she drew near the spot whence the voices issued, and 
she often startled when her steps disturbed the fallen leaves.  The 
sounds led her towards the moon-light glade she had before noticed; 
at a little distance from which she stopped, and saw, between the 
boles of the trees, a small circular level of green turf, surrounded 
by the woods, on which appeared a group of figures.  On drawing 
nearer, she distinguished these, by their dress, to be peasants, and 
perceived several cottages scattered round the edge of the woods, 
which waved loftily over this spot.  While she gazed, and endeavoured 
to overcome the apprehensions that withheld her steps, several 
peasant girls came out of a cottage; music instantly struck up, and 
the dance began.  It was the joyous music of the vintage! the same 
she had before heard upon the air.  Her heart, occupied with terror 
for her father, could not feel the contrast, which this gay scene 
offered to her own distress; she stepped hastily forward towards a 
group of elder peasants, who were seated at the door of a cottage, 
and, having explained her situation, entreated their assistance.  
Several of them rose with alacrity, and, offering any service in 
their power, followed Emily, who seemed to move on the wind, as fast 
as they could towards the road.

When she reached the carriage she found St. Aubert restored to 
animation.  On the recovery of his senses, having heard from Michael 
whither his daughter was gone, anxiety for her overcame every regard 
for himself, and he had sent him in search of her.  He was, however, 
still languid, and, perceiving himself unable to travel much farther, 
he renewed his enquiries for an inn, and concerning the chateau in 
the woods.  'The chateau cannot accommodate you, sir,' said a 
venerable peasant who had followed Emily from the woods, 'it is 
scarcely inhabited; but, if you will do me the honour to visit my 
cottage, you shall be welcome to the best bed it affords.'

St. Aubert was himself a Frenchman; he therefore was not surprised at 
French courtesy; but, ill as he was, he felt the value of the offer 
enhanced by the manner which accompanied it.  He had too much 
delicacy to apologize, or to appear to hesitate about availing 
himself of the peasant's hospitality, but immediately accepted it 
with the same frankness with which it was offered.

The carriage again moved slowly on; Michael following the peasants up 
the lane, which Emily had just quitted, till they came to the moon-
light glade.  St. Aubert's spirits were so far restored by the 
courtesy of his host, and the near prospect of repose, that he looked 
with a sweet complacency upon the moon-light scene, surrounded by the 
shadowy woods, through which, here and there, an opening admitted the 
streaming splendour, discovering a cottage, or a sparkling rivulet.  
He listened, with no painful emotion, to the merry notes of the 
guitar and tamborine; and, though tears came to his eyes, when he saw 
the debonnaire dance of the peasants, they were not merely tears of 
mournful regret.  With Emily it was otherwise; immediate terror for 
her father had now subsided into a gentle melancholy, which every 
note of joy, by awakening comparison, served to heighten.

The dance ceased on the approach of the carriage, which was a 
phenomenon in these sequestered woods, and the peasantry flocked 
round it with eager curiosity.  On learning that it brought a sick 
stranger, several girls ran across the turf, and returned with wine 
and baskets of grapes, which they presented to the travellers, each 
with kind contention pressing for a preference.  At length, the 
carriage stopped at a neat cottage, and his venerable conductor, 
having assisted St. Aubert to alight, led him and Emily to a small 
inner room, illuminated only by moon-beams, which the open casement 
admitted.  St. Aubert, rejoicing in rest, seated himself in an arm-
chair, and his senses were refreshed by the cool and balmy air, that 
lightly waved the embowering honeysuckles, and wafted their sweet 
breath into the apartment.  His host, who was called La Voisin, 
quitted the room, but soon returned with fruits, cream, and all the 
pastoral luxury his cottage afforded; having set down which, with a 
smile of unfeigned welcome, he retired behind the chair of his guest.  
St. Aubert insisted on his taking a seat at the table, and, when the 
fruit had allayed the fever of his palate, and he found himself 
somewhat revived, he began to converse with his host, who 
communicated several particulars concerning himself and his family, 
which were interesting, because they were spoken from the heart, and 
delineated a picture of the sweet courtesies of family kindness.  
Emily sat by her father, holding his hand, and, while she listened to 
the old man, her heart swelled with the affectionate sympathy he 
described, and her tears fell to the mournful consideration, that 
death would probably soon deprive her of the dearest blessing she 
then possessed.  The soft moon-light of an autumnal evening, and the 
distant music, which now sounded a plaintive strain, aided the 
melancholy of her mind.  The old man continued to talk of his family, 
and St. Aubert remained silent.  'I have only one daughter living,' 
said La Voisin, 'but she is happily married, and is every thing to 
me.  When I lost my wife,' he added with a sigh, 'I came to live with 
Agnes, and her family; she has several children, who are all dancing 
on the green yonder, as merry as grasshoppers--and long may they be 
so!  I hope to die among them, monsieur.  I am old now, and cannot 
expect to live long, but there is some comfort in dying surrounded by 
one's children.'

'My good friend,' said St. Aubert, while his voice trembled, 'I hope 
you will long live surrounded by them.'

'Ah, sir! at my age I must not expect that!' replied the old man, and 
he paused:  'I can scarcely wish it,' he resumed, 'for I trust that 
whenever I die I shall go to heaven, where my poor wife is gone 
before me.  I can sometimes almost fancy I see her of a still moon-
light night, walking among these shades she loved so well.  Do you 
believe, monsieur, that we shall be permitted to revisit the earth, 
after we have quitted the body?'

Emily could no longer stifle the anguish of her heart; her tears fell 
fast upon her father's hand, which she yet held.  He made an effort 
to speak, and at length said in a low voice, 'I hope we shall be 
permitted to look down on those we have left on the earth, but I can 
only hope it.  Futurity is much veiled from our eyes, and faith and 
hope are our only guides concerning it.  We are not enjoined to 
believe, that disembodied spirits watch over the friends they have 
loved, but we may innocently hope it.  It is a hope which I will 
never resign,' continued he, while he wiped the tears from his 
daughter's eyes, 'it will sweeten the bitter moments of death!'  
Tears fell slowly on his cheeks; La Voisin wept too, and there was a 
pause of silence.  Then, La Voisin, renewing the subject, said, 'But 
you believe, sir, that we shall meet in another world the relations 
we have loved in this; I must believe this.'  'Then do believe it,' 
replied St. Aubert, 'severe, indeed, would be the pangs of 
separation, if we believed it to be eternal.  Look up, my dear Emily, 
we shall meet again!'  He lifted his eyes towards heaven, and a gleam 
of moon-light, which fell upon his countenance, discovered peace and 
resignation, stealing on the lines of sorrow.

La Voisin felt that he had pursued the subject too far, and he 
dropped it, saying, 'We are in darkness, I forgot to bring a light.'

'No,' said St. Aubert, 'this is a light I love.  Sit down, my good 
friend.  Emily, my love, I find myself better than I have been all 
day; this air refreshes me.  I can enjoy this tranquil hour, and that 
music, which floats so sweetly at a distance.  Let me see you smile.  
Who touches that guitar so tastefully? are there two instruments, or 
is it an echo I hear?'

'It is an echo, monsieur, I fancy.  That guitar is often heard at 
night, when all is still, but nobody knows who touches it, and it is 
sometimes accompanied by a voice so sweet, and so sad, one would 
almost think the woods were haunted.'  'They certainly are haunted,' 
said St. Aubert with a smile, 'but I believe it is by mortals.'  'I 
have sometimes heard it at midnight, when I could not sleep,' 
rejoined La Voisin, not seeming to notice this remark, 'almost under 
my window, and I never heard any music like it.  It has often made me 
think of my poor wife till I cried.  I have sometimes got up to the 
window to look if I could see anybody, but as soon as I opened the 
casement all was hushed, and nobody to be seen; and I have listened, 
and listened till I have been so timorous, that even the trembling of 
the leaves in the breeze has made me start.  They say it often comes 
to warn people of their death, but I have heard it these many years, 
and outlived the warning.'

Emily, though she smiled at the mention of this ridiculous 
superstition, could not, in the present tone of her spirits, wholly 
resist its contagion.

'Well, but, my good friend,' said St. Aubert, 'has nobody had courage 
to follow the sounds?  If they had, they would probably have 
discovered who is the musician.'  'Yes, sir, they have followed them 
some way into the woods, but the music has still retreated, and 
seemed as distant as ever, and the people have at last been afraid of 
being led into harm, and would go no further.  It is very seldom that 
I have heard these sounds so early in the evening.  They usually come 
about midnight, when that bright planet, which is rising above the 
turret yonder, sets below the woods on the left.'

'What turret?' asked St. Aubert with quickness, 'I see none.'

'Your pardon, monsieur, you do see one indeed, for the moon shines 
full upon it;--up the avenue yonder, a long way off; the chateau it 
belongs to is hid among the trees.'

'Yes, my dear sir,' said Emily, pointing, 'don't you see something 
glitter above the dark woods?  It is a fane, I fancy, which the rays 
fall upon.'

'O yes, I see what you mean; and who does the chateau belong to?'

'The Marquis de Villeroi was its owner,' replied La Voisin, 
emphatically.

'Ah!' said St. Aubert, with a deep sigh, 'are we then so near Le-
Blanc!'  He appeared much agitated.

'It used to be the Marquis's favourite residence,' resumed La Voisin, 
'but he took a dislike to the place, and has not been there for many 
years.  We have heard lately that he is dead, and that it is fallen 
into other hands.'  St. Aubert, who had sat in deep musing, was 
roused by the last words.  'Dead!' he exclaimed, 'Good God! when did 
he die?'

'He is reported to have died about five weeks since,' replied La 
Voisin.  'Did you know the Marquis, sir?'

'This is very extraordinary!' said St. Aubert without attending to 
the question.  'Why is it so, my dear sir?' said Emily, in a voice of 
timid curiosity.  He made no reply, but sunk again into a reverie; 
and in a few moments, when he seemed to have recovered himself, asked 
who had succeeded to the estates.  'I have forgot his title, 
monsieur,' said La Voisin; 'but my lord resides at Paris chiefly; I 
hear no talk of his coming hither.'

'The chateau is shut up then, still?'

'Why, little better, sir; the old housekeeper, and her husband the 
steward, have the care of it, but they live generally in a cottage 
hard by.'

'The chateau is spacious, I suppose,' said Emily, 'and must be 
desolate for the residence of only two persons.'

'Desolate enough, mademoiselle,' replied La Voisin, 'I would not pass 
one night in the chateau, for the value of the whole domain.'

'What is that?' said St. Aubert, roused again from thoughtfulness.  
As his host repeated his last sentence, a groan escaped from St. 
Aubert, and then, as if anxious to prevent it from being noticed, he 
hastily asked La Voisin how long he had lived in this neighbourhood.  
'Almost from my childhood, sir,' replied his host.

'You remember the late marchioness, then?' said St. Aubert in an 
altered voice.

'Ah, monsieur!--that I do well.  There are many besides me who 
remember her.'

'Yes--' said St. Aubert, 'and I am one of those.'

'Alas, sir! you remember, then, a most beautiful and excellent lady.  
She deserved a better fate.'

Tears stood in St. Aubert's eyes; 'Enough,' said he, in a voice 
almost stifled by the violence of his emotions,--'it is enough, my 
friend.'

Emily, though extremely surprised by her father's manner, forbore to 
express her feelings by any question.  La Voisin began to apologize, 
but St. Aubert interrupted him; 'Apology is quite unnecessary,' said 
he, 'let us change the topic.  You was speaking of the music we just 
now heard.'

'I was, monsieur--but hark!--it comes again; listen to that voice!'  
They were all silent;

 At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound
 Rose, like a stream of rich distilled perfumes,
 And stole upon the air, that even Silence
 Was took ere she was 'ware, and wished she might
 Deny her nature, and be never more
 Still, to be so displaced.*
     *Milton.


In a few moments the voice died into air, and the instrument, which 
had been heard before, sounded in low symphony.  St. Aubert now 
observed, that it produced a tone much more full and melodious than 
that of a guitar, and still more melancholy and soft than the lute.  
They continued to listen, but the sounds returned no more.  'This is 
strange!' said St. Aubert, at length interrupting the silence.  'Very 
strange!' said Emily.  'It is so,' rejoined La Voisin, and they were 
again silent.

After a long pause, 'It is now about eighteen years since I first 
heard that music,' said La Voisin; 'I remember it was on a fine 
summer's night, much like this, but later, that I was walking in the 
woods, and alone.  I remember, too, that my spirits were very low, 
for one of my boys was ill, and we feared we should lose him.  I had 
been watching at his bed-side all the evening while his mother slept; 
for she had sat up with him the night before.  I had been watching, 
and went out for a little fresh air, the day had been very sultry.  
As I walked under the shades and mused, I heard music at a distance, 
and thought it was Claude playing upon his flute, as he often did of 
a fine evening, at the cottage door.  But, when I came to a place 
where the trees opened, (I shall never forget it!) and stood looking 
up at the north-lights, which shot up the heaven to a great height, I 
heard all of a sudden such sounds!--they came so as I cannot 
describe.  It was like the music of angels, and I looked up again 
almost expecting to see them in the sky.  When I came home, I told 
what I had heard, but they laughed at me, and said it must be some of 
the shepherds playing on their pipes, and I could not persuade them 
to the contrary.  A few nights after, however, my wife herself heard 
the same sounds, and was as much surprised as I was, and Father Denis 
frightened her sadly by saying, that it was music come to warn her of 
her child's death, and that music often came to houses where there 
was a dying person.'

Emily, on hearing this, shrunk with a superstitious dread entirely 
new to her, and could scarcely conceal her agitation from St. Aubert.

'But the boy lived, monsieur, in spite of Father Denis.'

'Father Denis!' said St. Aubert, who had listened to 'narrative old 
age' with patient attention, 'are we near a convent, then?'

'Yes, sir; the convent of St. Clair stands at no great distance, on 
the sea shore yonder.'

'Ah!' said St. Aubert, as if struck with some sudden remembrance, 
'the convent of St. Clair!'  Emily observed the clouds of grief, 
mingled with a faint expression of horror, gathering on his brow; his 
countenance became fixed, and, touched as it now was by the silver 
whiteness of the moon-light, he resembled one of those marble statues 
of a monument, which seem to bend, in hopeless sorrow, over the ashes 
of the dead, shewn

     by the blunted light
 That the dim moon through painted casements lends.*
     * The Emigrants.


'But, my dear sir,' said Emily, anxious to dissipate his thoughts, 
'you forget that repose is necessary to you.  If our kind host will 
give me leave, I will prepare your bed, for I know how you like it to 
be made.'  St. Aubert, recollecting himself, and smiling 
affectionately, desired she would not add to her fatigue by that 
attention; and La Voisin, whose consideration for his guest had been 
suspended by the interests which his own narrative had recalled, now 
started from his seat, and, apologizing for not having called Agnes 
from the green, hurried out of the room.

In a few moments he returned with his daughter, a young woman of 
pleasing countenance, and Emily learned from her, what she had not 
before suspected, that, for their accommodation, it was necessary 
part of La Voisin's family should leave their beds; she lamented this 
circumstance, but Agnes, by her reply, fully proved that she 
inherited, at least, a share of her father's courteous hospitality.  
It was settled, that some of her children and Michael should sleep in 
the neighbouring cottage.

'If I am better, to-morrow, my dear,' said St. Aubert when Emily 
returned to him, 'I mean to set out at an early hour, that we may 
rest, during the heat of the day, and will travel towards home.  In 
the present state of my health and spirits I cannot look on a longer 
journey with pleasure, and I am also very anxious to reach La 
Vallee.'  Emily, though she also desired to return, was grieved at 
her father's sudden wish to do so, which she thought indicated a 
greater degree of indisposition than he would acknowledge.  St. 
Aubert now retired to rest, and Emily to her little chamber, but not 
to immediate repose.  Her thoughts returned to the late conversation, 
concerning the state of departed spirits; a subject, at this time, 
particularly affecting to her, when she had every reason to believe 
that her dear father would ere long be numbered with them.  She 
leaned pensively on the little open casement, and in deep thought 
fixed her eyes on the heaven, whose blue unclouded concave was 
studded thick with stars, the worlds, perhaps, of spirits, unsphered 
of mortal mould.  As her eyes wandered along the boundless aether, 
her thoughts rose, as before, towards the sublimity of the Deity, and 
to the contemplation of futurity.  No busy note of this world 
interrupted the course of her mind; the merry dance had ceased, and 
every cottager had retired to his home.  The still air seemed 
scarcely to breathe upon the woods, and, now and then, the distant 
sound of a solitary sheep-bell, or of a closing casement, was all 
that broke on silence.  At length, even this hint of human being was 
heard no more.  Elevated and enwrapt, while her eyes were often wet 
with tears of sublime devotion and solemn awe, she continued at the 
casement, till the gloom of mid-night hung over the earth, and the 
planet, which La Voisin had pointed out, sunk below the woods.  She 
then recollected what he had said concerning this planet, and the 
mysterious music; and, as she lingered at the window, half hoping and 
half fearing that it would return, her mind was led to the 
remembrance of the extreme emotion her father had shewn on mention of 
the Marquis La Villeroi's death, and of the fate of the Marchioness, 
and she felt strongly interested concerning the remote cause of this 
emotion.  Her surprise and curiosity were indeed the greater, because 
she did not recollect ever to have heard him mention the name of 
Villeroi.

No music, however, stole on the silence of the night, and Emily, 
perceiving the lateness of the hour, returned to a scene of fatigue, 
remembered that she was to rise early in the morning, and withdrew 
from the window to repose.



CHAPTER VII


     Let those deplore their doom,
 Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn.
 But lofty souls can look beyond the tomb,
 Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn.
 Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return?
 Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed?--
 Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,
 And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed,
 Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead!
     BEATTIE

Emily, called, as she had requested, at an early hour, awoke, little 
refreshed by sleep, for uneasy dreams had pursued her, and marred the 
kindest blessing of the unhappy.  But, when she opened her casement, 
looked out upon the woods, bright with the morning sun, and inspired 
the pure air, her mind was soothed.  The scene was filled with that 
cheering freshness, which seems to breathe the very spirit of health, 
and she heard only sweet and PICTURESQUE sounds, if such an 
expression may be allowed--the matin-bell of a distant convent, the 
faint murmur of the sea-waves, the song of birds, and the far-off low 
of cattle, which she saw coming slowly on between the trunks of 
trees.  Struck with the circumstances of imagery around her, she 
indulged the pensive tranquillity which they inspired; and while she 
leaned on her window, waiting till St. Aubert should descend to 
breakfast, her ideas arranged themselves in the following lines:

THE FIRST HOUR OF MORNING

 How sweet to wind the forest's tangled shade,
  When early twilight, from the eastern bound,
 Dawns on the sleeping landscape in the glade,
  And fades as morning spreads her blush around!

 When ev'ry infant flower, that wept in night,
  Lifts its chill head soft glowing with a tear,
 Expands its tender blossom to the light,
  And gives its incense to the genial air.

 How fresh the breeze that wafts the rich perfume,
  And swells the melody of waking birds;
 The hum of bees, beneath the verdant gloom,
  And woodman's song, and low of distant herds!

 Then, doubtful gleams the mountain's hoary head,
  Seen through the parting foliage from afar;
 And, farther still, the ocean's misty bed,
  With flitting sails, that partial sun-beams share.

 But, vain the sylvan shade--the breath of May,
  The voice of music floating on the gale,
 And forms, that beam through morning's dewy veil,
 If health no longer bid the heart be gay!
 O balmy hour! 'tis thine her wealth to give,
 Here spread her blush, and bid the parent live!

Emily now heard persons moving below in the cottage, and presently 
the voice of Michael, who was talking to his mules, as he led them 
forth from a hut adjoining.  As she left her room, St. Aubert, who 
was now risen, met her at the door, apparently as little restored by 
sleep as herself.  She led him down stairs to the little parlour, in 
which they had supped on the preceding night, where they found a neat 
breakfast set out, while the host and his daughter waited to bid them 
good-morrow.

'I envy you this cottage, my good friends,' said St. Aubert, as he 
met them, 'it is so pleasant, so quiet, and so neat; and this air, 
that one breathes--if any thing could restore lost health, it would 
surely be this air.'

La Voisin bowed gratefully, and replied, with the gallantry of a 
Frenchman, 'Our cottage may be envied, sir, since you and 
Mademoiselle have honoured it with your presence.'  St. Aubert gave 
him a friendly smile for his compliment, and sat down to a table, 
spread with cream, fruit, new cheese, butter, and coffee.  Emily, who 
had observed her father with attention and thought he looked very 
ill, endeavoured to persuade him to defer travelling till the 
afternoon; but he seemed very anxious to be at home, and his anxiety 
he expressed repeatedly, and with an earnestness that was unusual 
with him.  He now said, he found himself as well as he had been of 
late, and that he could bear travelling better in the cool hour of 
the morning, than at any other time.  But, while he was talking with 
his venerable host, and thanking him for his kind attentions, Emily 
observed his countenance change, and, before she could reach him, he 
fell back in his chair.  In a few moments he recovered from the 
sudden faintness that had come over him, but felt so ill, that he 
perceived himself unable to set out, and, having remained a little 
while, struggling against the pressure of indisposition, he begged he 
might be helped up stairs to bed.  This request renewed all the 
terror which Emily had suffered on the preceding evening; but, though 
scarcely able to support herself, under the sudden shock it gave her, 
she tried to conceal her apprehensions from St. Aubert, and gave her 
trembling arm to assist him to the door of his chamber.

When he was once more in bed, he desired that Emily, who was then 
weeping in her own room, might be called; and, as she came, he waved 
his hand for every other person to quit the apartment.  When they 
were alone, he held out his hand to her, and fixed his eyes upon her 
countenance, with an expression so full of tenderness and grief, that 
all her fortitude forsook her, and she burst into an agony of tears.  
St. Aubert seemed struggling to acquire firmness, but was still 
unable to speak; he could only press her hand, and check the tears 
that stood trembling in his eyes.  At length he commanded his voice, 
'My dear child,' said he, trying to smile through his anguish, 'my 
dear Emily!'--and paused again.  He raised his eyes to heaven, as if 
in prayer, and then, in a firmer tone, and with a look, in which the 
tenderness of the father was dignified by the pious solemnity of the 
saint, he said, "My dear child, I would soften the painful truth I 
have to tell you, but I find myself quite unequal to the art.  Alas!  
I would, at this moment, conceal it from you, but that it would be 
most cruel to deceive you.  It cannot be long before we must part; 
let us talk of it, that our thoughts and our prayers may prepare us 
to bear it.'  His voice faltered, while Emily, still weeping, pressed 
his hand close to her heart, which swelled with a convulsive sigh, 
but she could not look up.

'Let me not waste these moments,' said St. Aubert, recovering 
himself, 'I have much to say.  There is a circumstance of solemn 
consequence, which I have to mention, and a solemn promise to obtain 
from you; when this is done I shall be easier.  You have observed, my 
dear, how anxious I am to reach home, but know not all my reasons for 
this.  Listen to what I am going to say.--Yet stay--before I say more 
give me this promise, a promise made to your dying father!'--St. 
Aubert was interrupted; Emily, struck by his last words, as if for 
the first time, with a conviction of his immediate danger, raised her 
head; her tears stopped, and, gazing at him for a moment with an 
expression of unutterable anguish, a slight convulsion seized her, 
and she sunk senseless in her chair.  St. Aubert's cries brought La 
Voisin and his daughter to the room, and they administered every 
means in their power to restore her, but, for a considerable time, 
without effect.  When she recovered, St. Aubert was so exhausted by 
the scene he had witnessed, that it was many minutes before he had 
strength to speak; he was, however, somewhat revived by a cordial, 
which Emily gave him; and, being again alone with her, he exerted 
himself to tranquilize her spirits, and to offer her all the comfort 
of which her situation admitted.  She threw herself into his arms, 
wept on his neck, and grief made her so insensible to all he said, 
that he ceased to offer the alleviations, which he himself could not, 
at this moment, feel, and mingled his silent tears with hers.  
Recalled, at length, to a sense of duty, she tried to spare her 
father from a farther view of her suffering; and, quitting his 
embrace, dried her tears, and said something, which she meant for 
consolation.  'My dear Emily,' replied St. Aubert, 'my dear child, we 
must look up with humble confidence to that Being, who has protected 
and comforted us in every danger, and in every affliction we have 
known; to whose eye every moment of our lives has been exposed; he 
will not, he does not, forsake us now; I feel his consolations in my 
heart.  I shall leave you, my child, still in his care; and, though I 
depart from this world, I shall be still in his presence.  Nay, weep 
not again, my Emily.  In death there is nothing new, or surprising, 
since we all know, that we are born to die; and nothing terrible to 
those, who can confide in an all-powerful God.  Had my life been 
spared now, after a very few years, in the course of nature, I must 
have resigned it; old age, with all its train of infirmity, its 
privations and its sorrows, would have been mine; and then, at last, 
death would have come, and called forth the tears you now shed.  
Rather, my child, rejoice, that I am saved from such suffering, and 
that I am permitted to die with a mind unimpaired, and sensible of 
the comforts of faith and resignation.'  St. Aubert paused, fatigued 
with speaking.  Emily again endeavoured to assume an air of 
composure; and, in replying to what he had said, tried to sooth him 
with a belief, that he had not spoken in vain.

When he had reposed a while, he resumed the conversation.  'Let me 
return,' said he, 'to a subject, which is very near my heart.  I said 
I had a solemn promise to receive from you; let me receive it now, 
before I explain the chief circumstance which it concerns; there are 
others, of which your peace requires that you should rest in 
ignorance.  Promise, then, that you will perform exactly what I shall 
enjoin.'

Emily, awed by the earnest solemnity of his manner, dried her tears, 
that had begun again to flow, in spite of her efforts to suppress 
them; and, looking eloquently at St. Aubert, bound herself to do 
whatever he should require by a vow, at which she shuddered, yet knew 
not why.

He proceeded:  'I know you too well, my Emily, to believe, that you 
would break any promise, much less one thus solemnly given; your 
assurance gives me peace, and the observance of it is of the utmost 
importance to your tranquillity.  Hear, then, what I am going to tell 
you.  The closet, which adjoins my chamber at La Vallee, has a 
sliding board in the floor.  You will know it by a remarkable knot in 
the wood, and by its being the next board, except one, to the 
wainscot, which fronts the door.  At the distance of about a yard 
from that end, nearer the window, you will perceive a line across it, 
as if the plank had been joined;--the way to open it is this:--Press 
your foot upon the line; the end of the board will then sink, and you 
may slide it with ease beneath the other.  Below, you will see a 
hollow place.'  St. Aubert paused for breath, and Emily sat fixed in 
deep attention.  'Do you understand these directions, my dear?' said 
he.  Emily, though scarcely able to speak, assured him that she did.

'When you return home, then,' he added with a deep sigh--

At the mention of her return home, all the melancholy circumstances, 
that must attend this return, rushed upon her fancy; she burst into 
convulsive grief, and St. Aubert himself, affected beyond the 
resistance of the fortitude which he had, at first, summoned, wept 
with her.  After some moments, he composed himself.  'My dear child,' 
said he, 'be comforted.  When I am gone, you will not be forsaken--I 
leave you only in the more immediate care of that Providence, which 
has never yet forsaken me.  Do not afflict me with this excess of 
grief; rather teach me by your example to bear my own.'  He stopped 
again, and Emily, the more she endeavoured to restrain her emotion, 
found it the less possible to do so.

St. Aubert, who now spoke with pain, resumed the subject.  'That 
closet, my dear,--when you return home, go to it; and, beneath the 
board I have described, you will find a packet of written papers.  
Attend to me now, for the promise you have given particularly relates 
to what I shall direct.  These papers you must burn--and, solemnly I 
command you, WITHOUT EXAMINING THEM.'

Emily's surprise, for a moment, overcame her grief, and she ventured 
to ask, why this must be?  St. Aubert replied, that, if it had been 
right for him to explain his reasons, her late promise would have 
been unnecessarily exacted.  'It is sufficient for you, my love, to 
have a deep sense of the importance of observing me in this 
instance.'  St. Aubert proceeded.  'Under that board you will also 
find about two hundred louis d'ors, wrapped in a silk purse; indeed, 
it was to secure whatever money might be in the chateau, that this 
secret place was contrived, at a time when the province was over-run 
by troops of men, who took advantage of the tumults, and became 
plunderers.

'But I have yet another promise to receive from you, which is--that 
you will never, whatever may be your future circumstances, SELL the 
chateau.'  St. Aubert even enjoined her, whenever she might marry, to 
make it an article in the contract, that the chateau should always be 
hers.  He then gave her a more minute account of his present 
circumstances than he had yet done, adding, 'The two hundred louis, 
with what money you will now find in my purse, is all the ready money 
I have to leave you.  I have told you how I am circumstanced with M. 
Motteville, at Paris.  Ah, my child!  I leave you poor--but not 
destitute,' he added, after a long pause.  Emily could make no reply 
to any thing he now said, but knelt at the bed-side, with her face 
upon the quilt, weeping over the hand she held there.

After this conversation, the mind of St. Aubert appeared to be much 
more at ease; but, exhausted by the effort of speaking, he sunk into 
a kind of doze, and Emily continued to watch and weep beside him, 
till a gentle tap at the chamber-door roused her.  It was La Voisin, 
come to say, that a confessor from the neighbouring convent was 
below, ready to attend St. Aubert.  Emily would not suffer her father 
to be disturbed, but desired, that the priest might not leave the 
cottage.  When St. Aubert awoke from this doze, his senses were 
confused, and it was some moments before he recovered them 
sufficiently to know, that it was Emily who sat beside him.  He then 
moved his lips, and stretched forth his hand to her; as she received 
which, she sunk back in her chair, overcome by the impression of 
death on his countenance.  In a few minutes he recovered his voice, 
and Emily then asked, if he wished to see the confessor; he replied, 
that he did; and, when the holy father appeared, she withdrew.  They 
remained alone together above half an hour; when Emily was called in, 
she found St. Aubert more agitated than when she had left him, and 
she gazed, with a slight degree of resentment, at the friar, as the 
cause of this; who, however, looked mildly and mournfully at her, and 
turned away.  St. Aubert, in a tremulous voice, said, he wished her 
to join in prayer with him, and asked if La Voisin would do so too.  
The old man and his daughter came; they both wept, and knelt with 
Emily round the bed, while the holy father read in a solemn voice the 
service for the dying.  St. Aubert lay with a serene countenance, and 
seemed to join fervently in the devotion, while tears often stole 
from beneath his closed eyelids, and Emily's sobs more than once 
interrupted the service.

When it was concluded, and extreme unction had been administered, the 
friar withdrew.  St. Aubert then made a sign for La Voisin to come 
nearer.  He gave him his hand, and was, for a moment, silent.  At 
length, he said, in a trembling voice, 'My good friend, our 
acquaintance has been short, but long enough to give you an 
opportunity of shewing me much kind attention.  I cannot doubt, that 
you will extend this kindness to my daughter, when I am gone; she 
will have need of it.  I entrust her to your care during the few days 
she will remain here.  I need say no more--you know the feelings of a 
father, for you have children; mine would be, indeed, severe if I had 
less confidence in you.'  He paused.  La Voisin assured him, and his 
tears bore testimony to his sincerity, that he would do all he could 
to soften her affliction, and that, if St. Aubert wished it, he would 
even attend her into Gascony; an offer so pleasing to St. Aubert, 
that he had scarcely words to acknowledge his sense of the old man's 
kindness, or to tell him, that he accepted it.  The scene, that 
followed between St. Aubert and Emily, affected La Voisin so much, 
that he quitted the chamber, and she was again left alone with her 
father, whose spirits seemed fainting fast, but neither his senses, 
or his voice, yet failed him; and, at intervals, he employed much of 
these last awful moments in advising his daughter, as to her future 
conduct.  Perhaps, he never had thought more justly, or expressed 
himself more clearly, than he did now.

'Above all, my dear Emily,' said he, 'do not indulge in the pride of 
fine feeling, the romantic error of amiable minds.  Those, who really 
possess sensibility, ought early to be taught, that it is a dangerous 
quality, which is continually extracting the excess of misery, or 
delight, from every surrounding circumstance.  And, since, in our 
passage through this world, painful circumstances occur more 
frequently than pleasing ones, and since our sense of evil is, I 
fear, more acute than our sense of good, we become the victims of our 
feelings, unless we can in some degree command them.  I know you will 
say, (for you are young, my Emily) I know you will say, that you are 
contented sometimes to suffer, rather than to give up your refined 
sense of happiness, at others; but, when your mind has been long 
harassed by vicissitude, you will be content to rest, and you will 
then recover from your delusion.  You will perceive, that the phantom 
of happiness is exchanged for the substance; for happiness arises in 
a state of peace, not of tumult.  It is of a temperate and uniform 
nature, and can no more exist in a heart, that is continually alive 
to minute circumstances, than in one that is dead to feeling.  You 
see, my dear, that, though I would guard you against the dangers of 
sensibility, I am not an advocate for apathy.  At your age I should 
have said THAT is a vice more hateful than all the errors of 
sensibility, and I say so still.  I call it a VICE, because it leads 
to positive evil; in this, however, it does no more than an ill-
governed sensibility, which, by such a rule, might also be called a 
vice; but the evil of the former is of more general consequence.  I 
have exhausted myself,' said St. Aubert, feebly, 'and have wearied 
you, my Emily; but, on a subject so important to your future comfort, 
I am anxious to be perfectly understood.'

Emily assured him, that his advice was most precious to her, and that 
she would never forget it, or cease from endeavouring to profit by 
it.  St. Aubert smiled affectionately and sorrowfully upon her.  'I 
repeat it,' said he, 'I would not teach you to become insensible, if 
I could; I would only warn you of the evils of susceptibility, and 
point out how you may avoid them.  Beware, my love, I conjure you, of 
that self-delusion, which has been fatal to the peace of so many 
persons; beware of priding yourself on the gracefulness of 
sensibility; if you yield to this vanity, your happiness is lost for 
ever.  Always remember how much more valuable is the strength of 
fortitude, than the grace of sensibility.  Do not, however, confound 
fortitude with apathy; apathy cannot know the virtue.  Remember, too, 
that one act of beneficence, one act of real usefulness, is worth all 
the abstract sentiment in the world.  Sentiment is a disgrace, 
instead of an ornament, unless it lead us to good actions.  The 
miser, who thinks himself respectable, merely because he possesses 
wealth, and thus mistakes the means of doing good, for the actual 
accomplishment of it, is not more blameable than the man of 
sentiment, without active virtue.  You may have observed persons, who 
delight so much in this sort of sensibility to sentiment, which 
excludes that to the calls of any practical virtue, that they turn 
from the distressed, and, because their sufferings are painful to be 
contemplated, do not endeavour to relieve them.  How despicable is 
that humanity, which can be contented to pity, where it might 
assuage!'

St. Aubert, some time after, spoke of Madame Cheron, his sister.  
'Let me inform you of a circumstance, that nearly affects your 
welfare,' he added.  'We have, you know, had little intercourse for 
some years, but, as she is now your only female relation, I have 
thought it proper to consign you to her care, as you will see in my 
will, till you are of age, and to recommend you to her protection 
afterwards.  She is not exactly the person, to whom I would have 
committed my Emily, but I had no alternative, and I believe her to be 
upon the whole--a good kind of woman.  I need not recommend it to 
your prudence, my love, to endeavour to conciliate her kindness; you 
will do this for his sake, who has often wished to do so for yours.'

Emily assured him, that, whatever he requested she would religiously 
perform to the utmost of her ability.  'Alas!' added she, in a voice 
interrupted by sighs, 'that will soon be all which remains for me; it 
will be almost my only consolation to fulfil your wishes.'

St. Aubert looked up silently in her face, as if would have spoken, 
but his spirit sunk a while, and his eyes became heavy and dull.  She 
felt that look at her heart.  'My dear father!' she exclaimed; and 
then, checking herself, pressed his hand closer, and hid her face 
with her handkerchief.  Her tears were concealed, but St. Aubert 
heard her convulsive sobs.  His spirits returned.  'O my child!' said 
he, faintly, 'let my consolations be yours.  I die in peace; for I 
know, that I am about to return to the bosom of my Father, who will 
still be your Father, when I am gone.  Always trust in him, my love, 
and he will support you in these moments, as he supports me.'

Emily could only listen, and weep; but the extreme composure of his 
manner, and the faith and hope he expressed, somewhat soothed her 
anguish.  Yet, whenever she looked upon his emaciated countenance, 
and saw the lines of death beginning to prevail over it--saw his sunk 
eyes, still bent on her, and their heavy lids pressing to a close, 
there was a pang in her heart, such as defied expression, though it 
required filial virtue, like hers, to forbear the attempt.

He desired once more to bless her; 'Where are you, my dear?' said he, 
as he stretched forth his hands.  Emily had turned to the window, 
that he might not perceive her anguish; she now understood, that his 
sight had failed him.  When he had given her his blessing, and it 
seemed to be the last effort of expiring life, he sunk back on his 
pillow.  She kissed his forehead; the damps of death had settled 
there, and, forgetting her fortitude for a moment, her tears mingled 
with them.  St. Aubert lifted up his eyes; the spirit of a father 
returned to them, but it quickly vanished, and he spoke no more.

St. Aubert lingered till about three o'clock in the afternoon, and, 
thus gradually sinking into death, he expired without a struggle, or 
a sigh.

Emily was led from the chamber by La Voisin and his daughter, who did 
what they could to comfort her.  The old man sat and wept with her.  
Agnes was more erroneously officious.



CHAPTER VIII


 O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve,
 Aerial forms shall sit at eve,
 and bend the pensive head.
     COLLINS

The monk, who had before appeared, returned in the evening to offer 
consolation to Emily, and brought a kind message from the lady 
abbess, inviting her to the convent.  Emily, though she did not 
accept the offer, returned an answer expressive of her gratitude.  
The holy conversation of the friar, whose mild benevolence of manners 
bore some resemblance to those of St. Aubert, soothed the violence of 
her grief, and lifted her heart to the Being, who, extending through 
all place and all eternity, looks on the events of this little world 
as on the shadows of a moment, and beholds equally, and in the same 
instant, the soul that has passed the gates of death, and that, which 
still lingers in the body.  'In the sight of God,' said Emily, 'my 
dear father now exists, as truly as he yesterday existed to me; it is 
to me only that he is dead; to God and to himself he yet lives!'

The good monk left her more tranquil than she had been since St. 
Aubert died; and, before she retired to her little cabin for the 
night, she trusted herself so far as to visit the corpse.  Silent, 
and without weeping, she stood by its side.  The features, placid and 
serene, told the nature of the last sensations, that had lingered in 
the now deserted frame.  For a moment she turned away, in horror of 
the stillness in which death had fixed that countenance, never till 
now seen otherwise than animated; then gazed on it with a mixture of 
doubt and awful astonishment.  Her reason could scarcely overcome an 
involuntary and unaccountable expectation of seeing that beloved 
countenance still susceptible.  She continued to gaze wildly; took up 
the cold hand; spoke; still gazed, and then burst into a transport of 
grief.  La Voisin, hearing her sobs, came into the room to lead her 
away, but she heard nothing, and only begged that he would leave her.

Again alone, she indulged her tears, and, when the gloom of evening 
obscured the chamber, and almost veiled from her eyes the object of 
her distress, she still hung over the body; till her spirits, at 
length, were exhausted, and she became tranquil.  La Voisin again 
knocked at the door, and entreated that she would come to the common 
apartment.  Before she went, she kissed the lips of St. Aubert, as 
she was wont to do when she bade him good night.  Again she kissed 
them; her heart felt as if it would break, a few tears of agony 
started to her eyes, she looked up to heaven, then at St. Aubert, and 
left the room.

Retired to her lonely cabin, her melancholy thoughts still hovered 
round the body of her deceased parent; and, when she sunk into a kind 
of slumber, the images of her waking mind still haunted her fancy.  
She thought she saw her father approaching her with a benign 
countenance; then, smiling mournfully and pointing upwards, his lips 
moved, but, instead of words, she heard sweet music borne on the 
distant air, and presently saw his features glow with the mild 
rapture of a superior being.  The strain seemed to swell louder, and 
she awoke.  The vision was gone, but music yet came to her ear in 
strains such as angels might breathe.  She doubted, listened, raised 
herself in the bed, and again listened.  It was music, and not an 
illusion of her imagination.  After a solemn steady harmony, it 
paused; then rose again, in mournful sweetness, and then died, in a 
cadence, that seemed to bear away the listening soul to heaven.  She 
instantly remembered the music of the preceding night, with the 
strange circumstances, related by La Voisin, and the affecting 
conversation it had led to, concerning the state of departed spirits.  
All that St. Aubert had said, on that subject, now pressed upon her 
heart, and overwhelmed it.  What a change in a few hours!  He, who 
then could only conjecture, was now made acquainted with truth; was 
himself become one of the departed!  As she listened, she was chilled 
with superstitious awe, her tears stopped; and she rose, and went to 
the window.  All without was obscured in shade; but Emily, turning 
her eyes from the massy darkness of the woods, whose waving outline 
appeared on the horizon, saw, on the left, that effulgent planet, 
which the old man had pointed out, setting over the woods.  She 
remembered what he had said concerning it, and, the music now coming 
at intervals on the air, she unclosed the casement to listen to the 
strains, that soon gradually sunk to a greater distance, and tried to 
discover whence they came.  The obscurity prevented her from 
distinguishing any object on the green platform below; and the sounds 
became fainter and fainter, till they softened into silence.  She 
listened, but they returned no more.  Soon after, she observed the 
planet trembling between the fringed tops of the woods, and, in the 
next moment, sink behind them.  Chilled with a melancholy awe, she 
retired once more to her bed, and, at length, forgot for a while her 
sorrows in sleep.

On the following morning, she was visited by a sister of the convent, 
who came, with kind offices and a second invitation from the lady 
abbess; and Emily, though she could not forsake the cottage, while 
the remains of her father were in it, consented, however painful such 
a visit must be, in the present state of her spirits, to pay her 
respects to the abbess, in the evening.

About an hour before sun-set, La Voisin shewed her the way through 
the woods to the convent, which stood in a small bay of the 
Mediterranean, crowned by a woody amphitheatre; and Emily, had she 
been less unhappy, would have admired the extensive sea view, that 
appeared from the green slope, in front of the edifice, and the rich 
shores, hung with woods and pastures, that extended on either hand.  
But her thoughts were now occupied by one sad idea, and the features 
of nature were to her colourless and without form.  The bell for 
vespers struck, as she passed the ancient gate of the convent, and 
seemed the funereal note for St. Aubert.  Little incidents affect a 
mind, enervated by sorrow; Emily struggled against the sickening 
faintness, that came over her, and was led into the presence of the 
abbess, who received her with an air of maternal tenderness; an air 
of such gentle solicitude and consideration, as touched her with an 
instantaneous gratitude; her eyes were filled with tears, and the 
words she would have spoken faltered on her lips.  The abbess led her 
to a seat, and sat down beside her, still holding her hand and 
regarding her in silence, as Emily dried her tears and attempted to 
speak.  'Be composed, my daughter,' said the abbess in a soothing 
voice, 'do not speak yet; I know all you would say.  Your spirits 
must be soothed.  We are going to prayers;--will you attend our 
evening service?  It is comfortable, my child, to look up in our 
afflictions to a father, who sees and pities us, and who chastens in 
his mercy.'

Emily's tears flowed again, but a thousand sweet emotions mingled 
with them.  The abbess suffered her to weep without interruption, and 
watched over her with a look of benignity, that might have 
characterized the countenance of a guardian angel.  Emily, when she 
became tranquil, was encouraged to speak without reserve, and to 
mention the motive, that made her unwilling to quit the cottage, 
which the abbess did not oppose even by a hint; but praised the 
filial piety of her conduct, and added a hope, that she would pass a 
few days at the convent, before she returned to La Vallee.  'You must 
allow yourself a little time to recover from your first shock, my 
daughter, before you encounter a second; I will not affect to conceal 
from you how much I know your heart must suffer, on returning to the 
scene of your former happiness.  Here, you will have all, that quiet 
and sympathy and religion can give, to restore your spirits.  But 
come,' added she, observing the tears swell in Emily's eyes, 'we will 
go to the chapel.'

Emily followed to the parlour, where the nuns were assembled, to whom 
the abbess committed her, saying, 'This is a daughter, for whom I 
have much esteem; be sisters to her.'

They passed on in a train to the chapel, where the solemn devotion, 
with which the service was performed, elevated her mind, and brought 
to it the comforts of faith and resignation.

Twilight came on, before the abbess's kindness would suffer Emily to 
depart, when she left the convent, with a heart much lighter than she 
had entered it, and was reconducted by La Voisin through the woods, 
the pensive gloom of which was in unison with the temper of her mind; 
and she pursued the little wild path, in musing silence, till her 
guide suddenly stopped, looked round, and then struck out of the path 
into the high grass, saying he had mistaken the road.  He now walked 
on quickly, and Emily, proceeding with difficulty over the obscured 
and uneven ground, was left at some distance, till her voice arrested 
him, who seemed unwilling to stop, and still hurried on.  'If you are 
in doubt about the way,' said Emily, 'had we not better enquire it at 
the chateau yonder, between the trees?'

'No,' replied La Voisin, 'there is no occasion.  When we reach that 
brook, ma'amselle, (you see the light upon the water there, beyond 
the woods) when we reach that brook, we shall be at home presently.  
I don't know how I happened to mistake the path; I seldom come this 
way after sun-set.'

'It is solitary enough,' said Emily, 'but you have no banditti here.'  
'No, ma'amselle--no banditti.'

'what are you afraid of then, my good friend? you are not 
superstitious?'  'No, not superstitious; but, to tell you the truth, 
lady, nobody likes to go near that chateau, after dusk.'  'By whom is 
it inhabited,' said Emily, 'that it is so formidable?'  'Why, 
ma'amselle, it is scarcely inhabited, for our lord the Marquis, and 
the lord of all these find woods, too, is dead.  He had not once been 
in it, for these many years, and his people, who have the care of it, 
live in a cottage close by.'  Emily now understood this to be the 
chateau, which La Voisin had formerly pointed out, as having belonged 
to the Marquis Villeroi, on the mention of which her father had 
appeared so much affected.

'Ah! it is a desolate place now,' continued La Voisin, 'and such a 
grand, fine place, as I remember it!'  Emily enquired what had 
occasioned this lamentable change; but the old man was silent, and 
Emily, whose interest was awakened by the fear he had expressed, and 
above all by a recollection of her father's agitation, repeated the 
question, and added, 'If you are neither afraid of the inhabitants, 
my good friend, nor are superstitious, how happens it, that you dread 
to pass near that chateau in the dark?'

'Perhaps, then, I am a little superstitious, ma'amselle; and, if you 
knew what I do, you might be so too.  Strange things have happened 
there.  Monsieur, your good father, appeared to have known the late 
Marchioness.' 'Pray inform me what did happen?' said Emily, with much 
emotion.

'Alas! ma'amselle,' answered La Voisin, 'enquire no further; it is 
not for me to lay open the domestic secrets of my lord.'--Emily, 
surprised by the old man's words, and his manner of delivering them, 
forbore to repeat her question; a nearer interest, the remembrance of 
St. Aubert, occupied her thoughts, and she was led to recollect the 
music she heard on the preceding night, which she mentioned to La 
Voisin.  'You was not alone, ma'amselle, in this,' he replied, 'I 
heard it too; but I have so often heard it, at the same hour, that I 
was scarcely surprised.'

'You doubtless believe this music to have some connection with the 
chateau,' said Emily suddenly, 'and are, therefore, superstitious.'  
'It may be so, ma'amselle, but there are other circumstances, 
belonging to that chateau, which I remember, and sadly too.'  A heavy 
sigh followed:  but Emily's delicacy restrained the curiosity these 
words revived, and she enquired no further.

On reaching the cottage, all the violence of her grief returned; it 
seemed as if she had escaped its heavy pressure only while she was 
removed from the object of it.  She passed immediately to the 
chamber, where the remains of her father were laid, and yielded to 
all the anguish of hopeless grief.  La Voisin, at length, persuaded 
her to leave the room, and she returned to her own, where, exhausted 
by the sufferings of the day, she soon fell into deep sleep, and 
awoke considerably refreshed.

When the dreadful hour arrived, in which the remains of St. Aubert 
were to be taken from her for ever, she went alone to the chamber to 
look upon his countenance yet once again, and La Voisin, who had 
waited patiently below stairs, till her despair should subside, with 
the respect due to grief, forbore to interrupt the indulgence of it, 
till surprise, at the length of her stay, and then apprehension 
overcame his delicacy, and he went to lead her from the chamber.  
Having tapped gently at the door, without receiving an answer, he 
listened attentively, but all was still; no sigh, no sob of anguish 
was heard.  Yet more alarmed by this silence, he opened the door, and 
found Emily lying senseless across the foot of the bed, near which 
stood the coffin.  His calls procured assistance, and she was carried 
to her room, where proper applications, at length, restored her.

During her state of insensibility, La Voisin had given directions for 
the coffin to be closed, and he succeeded in persuading Emily to 
forbear revisiting the chamber.  She, indeed, felt herself unequal to 
this, and also perceived the necessity of sparing her spirits, and 
recollecting fortitude sufficient to bear her through the approaching 
scene.  St. Aubert had given a particular injunction, that his 
remains should be interred in the church of the convent of St. Clair, 
and, in mentioning the north chancel, near the ancient tomb of the 
Villerois, had pointed out the exact spot, where he wished to be 
laid.  The superior had granted this place for the interment, and 
thither, therefore, the sad procession now moved, which was met, at 
the gates, by the venerable priest, followed by a train of friars.  
Every person, who heard the solemn chant of the anthem, and the peal 
of the organ, that struck up, when the body entered the church, and 
saw also the feeble steps, and the assumed tranquillity of Emily, 
gave her involuntary tears.  She shed none, but walked, her face 
partly shaded by a thin black veil, between two persons, who 
supported her, preceded by the abbess, and followed by nuns, whose 
plaintive voices mellowed the swelling harmony of the dirge.  When 
the procession came to the grave the music ceased.  Emily drew the 
veil entirely over her face, and, in a momentary pause, between the 
anthem and the rest of the service, her sobs were distinctly audible.  
The holy father began the service, and Emily again commanded her 
feelings, till the coffin was let down, and she heard the earth 
rattle on its lid.  Then, as she shuddered, a groan burst from her 
heart, and she leaned for support on the person who stood next to 
her.  In a few moments she recovered; and, when she heard those 
affecting and sublime words:  'His body is buried in peace, and his 
soul returns to Him that gave it,' her anguish softened into tears.

The abbess led her from the church into her own parlour, and there 
administered all the consolations, that religion and gentle sympathy 
can give.  Emily struggled against the pressure of grief; but the 
abbess, observing her attentively, ordered a bed to be prepared, and 
recommended her to retire to repose.  She also kindly claimed her 
promise to remain a few days at the convent; and Emily, who had no 
wish to return to the cottage, the scene of all her sufferings, had 
leisure, now that no immediate care pressed upon her attention, to 
feel the indisposition, which disabled her from immediately 
travelling.

Meanwhile, the maternal kindness of the abbess, and the gentle 
attentions of the nuns did all, that was possible, towards soothing 
her spirits and restoring her health.  But the latter was too deeply 
wounded, through the medium of her mind, to be quickly revived.  She 
lingered for some weeks at the convent, under the influence of a slow 
fever, wishing to return home, yet unable to go thither; often even 
reluctant to leave the spot where her father's relics were deposited, 
and sometimes soothing herself with the consideration, that, if she 
died here, her remains would repose beside those of St. Aubert.  In 
the meanwhile, she sent letters to Madame Cheron and to the old 
housekeeper, informing them of the sad event, that had taken place, 
and of her own situation.  From her aunt she received an answer, 
abounding more in common-place condolement, than in traits of real 
sorrow, which assured her, that a servant should be sent to conduct 
her to La Vallee, for that her own time was so much occupied by 
company, that she had no leisure to undertake so long a journey.  
However Emily might prefer La Vallee to Tholouse, she could not be 
insensible to the indecorous and unkind conduct of her aunt, in 
suffering her to return thither, where she had no longer a relation 
to console and protect her; a conduct, which was the more culpable, 
since St. Aubert had appointed Madame Cheron the guardian of his 
orphan daughter.

Madame Cheron's servant made the attendance of the good La Voisin 
unnecessary; and Emily, who felt sensibly her obligations to him, for 
all his kind attention to her late father, as well as to herself, was 
glad to spare him a long, and what, at his time of life, must have 
been a troublesome journey.

During her stay at the convent, the peace and sanctity that reigned 
within, the tranquil beauty of the scenery without, and the delicate 
attentions of the abbess and the nuns, were circumstances so soothing 
to her mind, that they almost tempted her to leave a world, where she 
had lost her dearest friends, and devote herself to the cloister, in 
a spot, rendered sacred to her by containing the tomb of St. Aubert.  
The pensive enthusiasm, too, so natural to her temper, had spread a 
beautiful illusion over the sanctified retirement of a nun, that 
almost hid from her view the selfishness of its security.  But the 
touches, which a melancholy fancy, slightly tinctured with 
superstition, gave to the monastic scene, began to fade, as her 
spirits revived, and brought once more to her heart an image, which 
had only transiently been banished thence.  By this she was silently 
awakened to hope and comfort and sweet affections; visions of 
happiness gleamed faintly at a distance, and, though she knew them to 
be illusions, she could not resolve to shut them out for ever.  It 
was the remembrance of Valancourt, of his taste, his genius, and of 
the countenance which glowed with both, that, perhaps, alone 
determined her to return to the world.  The grandeur and sublimity of 
the scenes, amidst which they had first met, had fascinated her 
fancy, and had imperceptibly contributed to render Valancourt more 
interesting by seeming to communicate to him somewhat of their own 
character.  The esteem, too, which St. Aubert had repeatedly 
expressed for him, sanctioned this kindness; but, though his 
countenance and manner had continually expressed his admiration of 
her, he had not otherwise declared it; and even the hope of seeing 
him again was so distant, that she was scarcely conscious of it, 
still less that it influenced her conduct on this occasion.

It was several days after the arrival of Madame Cheron's servant 
before Emily was sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey to 
La Vallee.  On the evening preceding her departure, she went to the 
cottage to take leave of La Voisin and his family, and to make them a 
return for their kindness.  The old man she found sitting on a bench 
at his door, between his daughter, and his son-in-law, who was just 
returned from his daily labour, and who was playing upon a pipe, 
that, in tone, resembled an oboe.  A flask of wine stood beside the 
old man, and, before him, a small table with fruit and bread, round 
which stood several of his grandsons, fine rosy children, who were 
taking their supper, as their mother distributed it.  On the edge of 
the little green, that spread before the cottage, were cattle and a 
few sheep reposing under the trees.  The landscape was touched with 
the mellow light of the evening sun, whose long slanting beams played 
through a vista of the woods, and lighted up the distant turrets of 
the chateau.  She paused a moment, before she emerged from the shade, 
to gaze upon the happy group before her--on the complacency and ease 
of healthy age, depictured on the countenance of La Voisin; the 
maternal tenderness of Agnes, as she looked upon her children, and 
the innocency of infantine pleasures, reflected in their smiles.  
Emily looked again at the venerable old man, and at the cottage; the 
memory of her father rose with full force upon her mind, and she 
hastily stepped forward, afraid to trust herself with a longer pause.  
She took an affectionate and affecting leave of La Voisin and his 
family; he seemed to love her as his daughter, and shed tears; Emily 
shed many.  She avoided going into the cottage, since she knew it 
would revive emotions, such as she could not now endure.

One painful scene yet awaited her, for she determined to visit again 
her father's grave; and that she might not be interrupted, or 
observed in the indulgence of her melancholy tenderness, she deferred 
her visit, till every inhabitant of the convent, except the nun who 
promised to bring her the key of the church, should be retired to 
rest.  Emily remained in her chamber, till she heard the convent bell 
strike twelve, when the nun came, as she had appointed, with the key 
of a private door, that opened into the church, and they descended 
together the narrow winding stair-case, that led thither.  The nun 
offered to accompany Emily to the grave, adding, 'It is melancholy to 
go alone at this hour;' but the former, thanking her for the 
consideration, could not consent to have any witness of her sorrow; 
and the sister, having unlocked the door, gave her the lamp.  'You 
will remember, sister,' said she, 'that in the east aisle, which you 
must pass, is a newly opened grave; hold the light to the ground, 
that you may not stumble over the loose earth.'  Emily, thanking her 
again, took the lamp, and, stepping into the church, sister Mariette 
departed.  But Emily paused a moment at the door; a sudden fear came 
over her, and she returned to the foot of the stair-case, where, as 
she heard the steps of the nun ascending, and, while she held up the 
lamp, saw her black veil waving over the spiral balusters, she was 
tempted to call her back.  While she hesitated, the veil disappeared, 
and, in the next moment, ashamed of her fears, she returned to the 
church.  The cold air of the aisles chilled her, and their deep 
silence and extent, feebly shone upon by the moon-light, that 
streamed through a distant gothic window, would at any other time 
have awed her into superstition; now, grief occupied all her 
attention.  She scarcely heard the whispering echoes of her own 
steps, or thought of the open grave, till she found herself almost on 
its brink.  A friar of the convent had been buried there on the 
preceding evening, and, as she had sat alone in her chamber at 
twilight, she heard, at distance, the monks chanting the requiem for 
his soul.  This brought freshly to her memory the circumstances of 
her father's death; and, as the voices, mingling with a low querulous 
peal of the organ, swelled faintly, gloomy and affecting visions had 
arisen upon her mind.  Now she remembered them, and, turning aside to 
avoid the broken ground, these recollections made her pass on with 
quicker steps to the grave of St. Aubert, when in the moon-light, 
that fell athwart a remote part of the aisle, she thought she saw a 
shadow gliding between the pillars.  She stopped to listen, and, not 
hearing any footstep, believed that her fancy had deceived her, and, 
no longer apprehensive of being observed, proceeded.  St. Aubert was 
buried beneath a plain marble, bearing little more than his name and 
the date of his birth and death, near the foot of the stately 
monument of the Villerois.  Emily remained at his grave, till a 
chime, that called the monks to early prayers, warned her to retire; 
then, she wept over it a last farewel, and forced herself from the 
spot.  After this hour of melancholy indulgence, she was refreshed by 
a deeper sleep, than she had experienced for a long time, and, on 
awakening, her mind was more tranquil and resigned, than it had been 
since St. Aubert's death.

But, when the moment of her departure from the convent arrived, all 
her grief returned; the memory of the dead, and the kindness of the 
living attached her to the place; and for the sacred spot, where her 
father's remains were interred, she seemed to feel all those tender 
affections which we conceive for home.  The abbess repeated many kind 
assurances of regard at their parting, and pressed her to return, if 
ever she should find her condition elsewhere unpleasant; many of the 
nuns also expressed unaffected regret at her departure, and Emily 
left the convent with many tears, and followed by sincere wishes for 
her happiness.

She had travelled several leagues, before the scenes of the country, 
through which she passed, had power to rouse her for a moment from 
the deep melancholy, into which she was sunk, and, when they did, it 
was only to remind her, that, on her last view of them, St. Aubert 
was at her side, and to call up to her remembrance the remarks he had 
delivered on similar scenery.  Thus, without any particular 
occurrence, passed the day in languor and dejection.  She slept that 
night in a town on the skirts of Languedoc, and, on the following 
morning, entered Gascony.

Towards the close of this day, Emily came within view of the plains 
in the neighbourhood of La Vallee, and the well-known objects of 
former times began to press upon her notice, and with them 
recollections, that awakened all her tenderness and grief.  Often, 
while she looked through her tears upon the wild grandeur of the 
Pyrenees, now varied with the rich lights and shadows of evening, she 
remembered, that, when last she saw them, her father partook with her 
of the pleasure they inspired.  Suddenly some scene, which he had 
particularly pointed out to her, would present itself, and the sick 
languor of despair would steal upon her heart.  'There!' she would 
exclaim, 'there are the very cliffs, there the wood of pines, which 
he looked at with such delight, as we passed this road together for 
the last time.  There, too, under the crag of that mountain, is the 
cottage, peeping from among the cedars, which he bade me remember, 
and copy with my pencil.  O my father, shall I never see you more!'

As she drew near the chateau, these melancholy memorials of past 
times multiplied.  At length, the chateau itself appeared, amid the 
glowing beauty of St. Aubert's favourite landscape.  This was an 
object, which called for fortitude, not for tears; Emily dried hers, 
and prepared to meet with calmness the trying moment of her return to 
that home, where there was no longer a parent to welcome her.  'Yes,' 
said she, 'let me not forget the lessons he has taught me!  How often 
he has pointed out the necessity of resisting even virtuous sorrow; 
how often we have admired together the greatness of a mind, that can 
at once suffer and reason!  O my father! if you are permitted to look 
down upon your child, it will please you to see, that she remembers, 
and endeavours to practise, the precepts you have given her.'

A turn on the road now allowed a nearer view of the chateau, the 
chimneys, tipped with light, rising from behind St. Aubert's 
favourite oaks, whose foliage partly concealed the lower part of the 
building.  Emily could not suppress a heavy sigh.  'This, too, was 
his favourite hour,' said she, as she gazed upon the long evening 
shadows, stretched athwart the landscape.  'How deep the repose, how 
lovely the scene! lovely and tranquil as in former days!'

Again she resisted the pressure of sorrow, till her ear caught the 
gay melody of the dance, which she had so often listened to, as she 
walked with St. Aubert, on the margin of the Garonne, when all her 
fortitude forsook her, and she continued to weep, till the carriage 
stopped at the little gate, that opened upon what was now her own 
territory.  She raised her eyes on the sudden stopping of the 
carriage, and saw her father's old housekeeper coming to open the 
gate.  Manchon also came running, and barking before her; and when 
his young mistress alighted, fawned, and played round her, gasping 
with joy.

'Dear ma'amselle!' said Theresa, and paused, and looked as if she 
would have offered something of condolement to Emily, whose tears now 
prevented reply.  The dog still fawned and ran round her, and then 
flew towards the carriage, with a short quick bark.  'Ah, 
ma'amselle!--my poor master!' said Theresa, whose feelings were more 
awakened than her delicacy, 'Manchon's gone to look for him.'  Emily 
sobbed aloud; and, on looking towards the carriage, which still stood 
with the door open, saw the animal spring into it, and instantly leap 
out, and then with his nose on the ground run round the horses.

'Don't cry so, ma'amselle,' said Theresa, 'it breaks my heart to see 
you.'  The dog now came running to Emily, then returned to the 
carriage, and then back again to her, whining and discontented.  
'Poor rogue!' said Theresa, 'thou hast lost thy master, thou mayst 
well cry!  But come, my dear young lady, be comforted.  What shall I 
get to refresh you?'  Emily gave her hand to the old servant, and 
tried to restrain her grief, while she made some kind enquiries 
concerning her health.  But she still lingered in the walk which led 
to the chateau, for within was no person to meet her with the kiss of 
affection; her own heart no longer palpitated with impatient joy to 
meet again the well-known smile, and she dreaded to see objects, 
which would recall the full remembrance of her former happiness.  She 
moved slowly towards the door, paused, went on, and paused again.  
How silent, how forsaken, how forlorn did the chateau appear!  
Trembling to enter it, yet blaming herself for delaying what she 
could not avoid, she, at length, passed into the hall; crossed it 
with a hurried step, as if afraid to look round, and opened the door 
of that room, which she was wont to call her own.  The gloom of 
evening gave solemnity to its silent and deserted air.  The chairs, 
the tables, every article of furniture, so familiar to her in happier 
times, spoke eloquently to her heart.  She seated herself, without 
immediately observing it, in a window, which opened upon the garden, 
and where St. Aubert had often sat with her, watching the sun retire 
from the rich and extensive prospect, that appeared beyond the 
groves.

Having indulged her tears for some time, she became more composed; 
and, when Theresa, after seeing the baggage deposited in her lady's 
room, again appeared, she had so far recovered her spirits, as to be 
able to converse with her.

'I have made up the green bed for you, ma'amselle,' said Theresa, as 
she set the coffee upon the table.  'I thought you would like it 
better than your own now; but I little thought this day month, that 
you would come back alone.  A-well-a-day! the news almost broke my 
heart, when it did come.  Who would have believed, that my poor 
master, when he went from home, would never return again!'  Emily hid 
her face with her handkerchief, and waved her hand.

'Do taste the coffee,' said Theresa.  'My dear young lady, be 
comforted--we must all die.  My dear master is a saint above.'  Emily 
took the handkerchief from her face, and raised her eyes full of 
tears towards heaven; soon after she dried them, and, in a calm, but 
tremulous voice, began to enquire concerning some of her late 
father's pensioners.

'Alas-a-day!' said Theresa, as she poured out the coffee, and handed 
it to her mistress, 'all that could come, have been here every day to 
enquire after you and my master.'  She then proceeded to tell, that 
some were dead whom they had left well; and others, who were ill, had 
recovered.  'And see, ma'amselle,' added Theresa, 'there is old Mary 
coming up the garden now; she has looked every day these three years 
as if she would die, yet she is alive still.  She has seen the chaise 
at the door, and knows you are come home.'

The sight of this poor old woman would have been too much for Emily, 
and she begged Theresa would go and tell her, that she was too ill to 
see any person that night.  'To-morrow I shall be better, perhaps; 
but give her this token of my remembrance.'

Emily sat for some time, given up to sorrow.  Not an object, on which 
her eye glanced, but awakened some remembrance, that led immediately 
to the subject of her grief.  Her favourite plants, which St. Aubert 
had taught her to nurse; the little drawings, that adorned the room, 
which his taste had instructed her to execute; the books, that he had 
selected for her use, and which they had read together; her musical 
instruments, whose sounds he loved so well, and which he sometimes 
awakened himself--every object gave new force to sorrow.  At length, 
she roused herself from this melancholy indulgence, and, summoning 
all her resolution, stepped forward to go into those forlorn rooms, 
which, though she dreaded to enter, she knew would yet more 
powerfully affect her, if she delayed to visit them.

Having passed through the green-house, her courage for a moment 
forsook her, when she opened the door of the library; and, perhaps, 
the shade, which evening and the foliage of the trees near the 
windows threw across the room, heightened the solemnity of her 
feelings on entering that apartment, where every thing spoke of her 
father.  There was an arm chair, in which he used to sit; she shrunk 
when she observed it, for she had so often seen him seated there, and 
the idea of him rose so distinctly to her mind, that she almost 
fancied she saw him before her.  But she checked the illusions of a 
distempered imagination, though she could not subdue a certain degree 
of awe, which now mingled with her emotions.  She walked slowly to 
the chair, and seated herself in it; there was a reading-desk before 
it, on which lay a book open, as it had been left by her father.  It 
was some moments before she recovered courage enough to examine it; 
and, when she looked at the open page, she immediately recollected, 
that St. Aubert, on the evening before his departure from the 
chateau, had read to her some passages from this his favourite 
author.  The circumstance now affected her extremely; she looked at 
the page, wept, and looked again.  To her the book appeared sacred 
and invaluable, and she would not have moved it, or closed the page, 
which he had left open, for the treasures of the Indies.  Still she 
sat before the desk, and could not resolve to quit it, though the 
increasing gloom, and the profound silence of the apartment, revived 
a degree of painful awe.  Her thoughts dwelt on the probable state of 
departed spirits, and she remembered the affecting conversation, 
which had passed between St. Aubert and La Voisin, on the night 
preceding his death.

As she mused she saw the door slowly open, and a rustling sound in a 
remote part of the room startled her.  Through the dusk she thought 
she perceived something move.  The subject she had been considering, 
and the present tone of her spirits, which made her imagination 
respond to every impression of her senses, gave her a sudden terror 
of something supernatural.  She sat for a moment motionless, and 
then, her dissipated reason returning, 'What should I fear?' said 
she.  'If the spirits of those we love ever return to us, it is in 
kindness.'

The silence, which again reigned, made her ashamed of her late fears, 
and she believed, that her imagination had deluded her, or that she 
had heard one of those unaccountable noises, which sometimes occur in 
old houses.  The same sound, however, returned; and, distinguishing 
something moving towards her, and in the next instant press beside 
her into the chair, she shrieked; but her fleeting senses were 
instantly recalled, on perceiving that it was Manchon who sat by her, 
and who now licked her hands affectionately.

Perceiving her spirits unequal to the task she had assigned herself 
of visiting the deserted rooms of the chateau this night, when she 
left the library, she walked into the garden, and down to the 
terrace, that overhung the river.  The sun was now set; but, under 
the dark branches of the almond trees, was seen the saffron glow of 
the west, spreading beyond the twilight of middle air.  The bat 
flitted silently by; and, now and then, the mourning note of the 
nightingale was heard.  The circumstances of the hour brought to her 
recollection some lines, which she had once heard St. Aubert recite 
on this very spot, and she had now a melancholy pleasure in repeating 
them.

     SONNET

 Now the bat circles on the breeze of eve,
 That creeps, in shudd'ring fits, along the wave,
 And trembles 'mid the woods, and through the cave
 Whose lonely sighs the wanderer deceive;
 For oft, when melancholy charms his mind,
 He thinks the Spirit of the rock he hears,
 Nor listens, but with sweetly-thrilling fears,
 To the low, mystic murmurs of the wind!
 Now the bat circles, and the twilight-dew
 Falls silent round, and, o'er the mountain-cliff,
 The gleaming wave, and far-discover'd skiff,
 Spreads the gray veil of soft, harmonious hue.
 So falls o'er Grief the dew of pity's tear
 Dimming her lonely visions of despair.

Emily, wandering on, came to St. Aubert's favourite plane-tree, where 
so often, at this hour, they had sat beneath the shade together, and 
with her dear mother so often had conversed on the subject of a 
future state.  How often, too, had her father expressed the comfort 
he derived from believing, that they should meet in another world!  
Emily, overcome by these recollections, left the plane-tree, and, as 
she leaned pensively on the wall of the terrace, she observed a group 
of peasants dancing gaily on the banks of the Garonne, which spread 
in broad expanse below, and reflected the evening light.  What a 
contrast they formed to the desolate, unhappy Emily!  They were gay 
and debonnaire, as they were wont to be when she, too, was gay--when 
St. Aubert used to listen to their merry music, with a countenance 
beaming pleasure and benevolence.  Emily, having looked for a moment 
on this sprightly band, turned away, unable to bear the remembrances 
it excited; but where, alas! could she turn, and not meet new objects 
to give acuteness to grief?

As she walked slowly towards the house, she was met by Theresa.  
'Dear ma'amselle,' said she, 'I have been seeking you up and down 
this half hour, and was afraid some accident had happened to you.  
How can you like to wander about so in this night air!  Do come into 
the house.  Think what my poor master would have said, if he could 
see you.  I am sure, when my dear lady died, no gentleman could take 
it more to heart than he did, yet you know he seldom shed a tear.'

'Pray, Theresa, cease,' said Emily, wishing to interrupt this ill-
judged, but well-meaning harangue; Theresa's loquacity, however, was 
not to be silenced so easily.  'And when you used to grieve so,' she 
added, 'he often told you how wrong it was--for that my mistress was 
happy.  And, if she was happy, I am sure he is so too; for the 
prayers of the poor, they say, reach heaven.'  During this speech, 
Emily had walked silently into the chateau, and Theresa lighted her 
across the hall into the common sitting parlour, where she had laid 
the cloth, with one solitary knife and fork, for supper.  Emily was 
in the room before she perceived that it was not her own apartment, 
but she checked the emotion which inclined her to leave it, and 
seated herself quietly by the little supper table.  Her father's hat 
hung upon the opposite wall; while she gazed at it, a faintness came 
over her.  Theresa looked at her, and then at the object, on which 
her eyes were settled, and went to remove it; but Emily waved her 
hand--'No,' said she, 'let it remain.  I am going to my chamber.'  
'Nay, ma'amselle, supper is ready.'  'I cannot take it,' replied 
Emily, 'I will go to my room, and try to sleep.  Tomorrow I shall be 
better.'

'This is poor doings!' said Theresa.  'Dear lady! do take some food!  
I have dressed a pheasant, and a fine one it is.  Old Monsieur 
Barreaux sent it this morning, for I saw him yesterday, and told him 
you were coming.  And I know nobody that seemed more concerned, when 
he heard the sad news, then he.'

'Did he?' said Emily, in a tender voice, while she felt her poor 
heart warmed for a moment by a ray of sympathy.

At length, her spirits were entirely overcome, and she retired to her 
room.



CHAPTER IX


  Can Music's voice, can Beauty's eye,
  Can Painting's glowing hand supply
  A charm so suited to my mind,
  As blows this hollow gust of wind?
  As drops this little weeping rill,
  Soft tinkling down the moss-grown hill;
 While, through the west, where sinks the crimson day,
 Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners gray?
     MASON

Emily, some time after her return to La Vallee, received letters from 
her aunt, Madame Cheron, in which, after some common-place 
condolement and advice, she invited her to Tholouse, and added, that, 
as her late brother had entrusted Emily's EDUCATION to her, she 
should consider herself bound to overlook her conduct.  Emily, at 
this time, wished only to remain at La Vallee, in the scenes of her 
early happiness, now rendered infinitely dear to her, as the late 
residence of those, whom she had lost for ever, where she could weep 
unobserved, retrace their steps, and remember each minute particular 
of their manners.  But she was equally anxious to avoid the 
displeasure of Madame Cheron.

Though her affection would not suffer her to question, even a moment, 
the propriety of St. Aubert's conduct in appointing Madame Cheron for 
her guardian, she was sensible, that this step had made her happiness 
depend, in a great degree, on the humour of her aunt.  In her reply, 
she begged permission to remain, at present, at La Vallee, mentioning 
the extreme dejection of her spirits, and the necessity she felt for 
quiet and retirement to restore them.  These she knew were not to be 
found at Madame Cheron's, whose inclinations led her into a life of 
dissipation, which her ample fortune encouraged; and, having given 
her answer, she felt somewhat more at ease.

In the first days of her affliction, she was visited by Monsieur 
Barreaux, a sincere mourner for St. Aubert.  'I may well lament my 
friend,' said he, 'for I shall never meet with his resemblance.  If I 
could have found such a man in what is called society, I should not 
have left it.'

M. Barreaux's admiration of her father endeared him extremely to 
Emily, whose heart found almost its first relief in conversing of her 
parents, with a man, whom she so much revered, and who, though with 
such an ungracious appearance, possessed to much goodness of heart 
and delicacy of mind.

Several weeks passed away in quiet retirement, and Emily's affliction 
began to soften into melancholy.  She could bear to read the books 
she had before read with her father; to sit in his chair in the 
library--to watch the flowers his hand had planted--to awaken the 
tones of that instrument his fingers had pressed, and sometimes even 
to play his favourite air.

When her mind had recovered from the first shock of affliction, 
perceiving the danger of yielding to indolence, and that activity 
alone could restore its tone, she scrupulously endeavoured to pass 
all her hours in employment.  And it was now that she understood the 
full value of the education she had received from St. Aubert, for in 
cultivating her understanding he had secured her an asylum from 
indolence, without recourse to dissipation, and rich and varied 
amusement and information, independent of the society, from which her 
situation secluded her.  Nor were the good effects of this education 
confined to selfish advantages, since, St. Aubert having nourished 
every amiable qualify of her heart, it now expanded in benevolence to 
all around her, and taught her, when she could not remove the 
misfortunes of others, at least to soften them by sympathy and 
tenderness;--a benevolence that taught her to feel for all, that 
could suffer.

Madame Cheron returned no answer to Emily's letter, who began to 
hope, that she should be permitted to remain some time longer in her 
retirement, and her mind had now so far recovered its strength, that 
she ventured to view the scenes, which most powerfully recalled the 
images of past times.  Among these was the fishing-house; and, to 
indulge still more the affectionate melancholy of the visit, she took 
thither her lute, that she might again hear there the tones, to which 
St. Aubert and her mother had so often delighted to listen.  She went 
alone, and at that still hour of the evening which is so soothing to 
fancy and to grief.  The last time she had been here she was in 
company with Monsieur and Madame St. Aubert, a few days preceding 
that, on which the latter was seized with a fatal illness.  Now, when 
Emily again entered the woods, that surrounded the building, they 
awakened so forcibly the memory of former times, that her resolution 
yielded for a moment to excess of grief.  She stopped, leaned for 
support against a tree, and wept for some minutes, before she had 
recovered herself sufficiently to proceed.  The little path, that led 
to the building, was overgrown with grass and the flowers which St. 
Aubert had scattered carelessly along the border were almost choked 
with weeds--the tall thistle--the fox-glove, and the nettle.  She 
often paused to look on the desolate spot, now so silent and 
forsaken, and when, with a trembling hand, she opened the door of the 
fishing-house, 'Ah!' said she, 'every thing--every thing remains as 
when I left it last--left it with those who never must return!'  She 
went to a window, that overhung the rivulet, and, leaning over it, 
with her eyes fixed on the current, was soon lost in melancholy 
reverie.  The lute she had brought lay forgotten beside her; the 
mournful sighing of the breeze, as it waved the high pines above, and 
its softer whispers among the osiers, that bowed upon the banks 
below, was a kind of music more in unison with her feelings.  It did 
not vibrate on the chords of unhappy memory, but was soothing to the 
heart as the voice of Pity.  She continued to muse, unconscious of 
the gloom of evening, and that the sun's last light trembled on the 
heights above, and would probably have remained so much longer, if a 
sudden footstep, without the building, had not alarmed her attention, 
and first made her recollect that she was unprotected.  In the next 
moment, a door opened, and a stranger appeared, who stopped on 
perceiving Emily, and then began to apologize for his intrusion.  But 
Emily, at the sound of his voice, lost her fear in a stronger 
emotion:  its tones were familiar to her ear, and, though she could 
not readily distinguish through the dusk the features of the person 
who spoke, she felt a remembrance too strong to be distrusted.

He repeated his apology, and Emily then said something in reply, when 
the stranger eagerly advancing, exclaimed, 'Good God! can it be--
surely I am not mistaken--ma'amselle St. Aubert?--is it not?'

'It is indeed,' said Emily, who was confirmed in her first 
conjecture, for she now distinguished the countenance of Valancourt, 
lighted up with still more than its usual animation.  A thousand 
painful recollections crowded to her mind, and the effort, which she 
made to support herself, only served to increase her agitation.  
Valancourt, meanwhile, having enquired anxiously after her health, 
and expressed his hopes, that M. St. Aubert had found benefit from 
travelling, learned from the flood of tears, which she could no 
longer repress, the fatal truth.  He led her to a seat, and sat down 
by her, while Emily continued to weep, and Valancourt to hold the 
hand, which she was unconscious he had taken, till it was wet with 
the tears, which grief for St. Aubert and sympathy for herself had 
called forth.

'I feel,' said he at length, 'I feel how insufficient all attempt at 
consolation must be on this subject.  I can only mourn with you, for 
I cannot doubt the source of your tears.  Would to God I were 
mistaken!'

Emily could still answer only by tears, till she rose, and begged 
they might leave the melancholy spot, when Valancourt, though he saw 
her feebleness, could not offer to detain her, but took her arm 
within his, and led her from the fishing-house.  They walked silently 
through the woods, Valancourt anxious to know, yet fearing to ask any 
particulars concerning St. Aubert; and Emily too much distressed to 
converse.  After some time, however, she acquired fortitude enough to 
speak of her father, and to give a brief account of the manner of his 
death; during which recital Valancourt's countenance betrayed strong 
emotion, and, when he heard that St. Aubert had died on the road, and 
that Emily had been left among strangers, he pressed her hand between 
his, and involuntarily exclaimed, 'Why was I not there!' but in the 
next moment recollected himself, for he immediately returned to the 
mention of her father; till, perceiving that her spirits were 
exhausted, he gradually changed the subject, and spoke of himself.  
Emily thus learned that, after they had parted, he had wandered, for 
some time, along the shores of the Mediterranean, and had then 
returned through Languedoc into Gascony, which was his native 
province, and where he usually resided.

When he had concluded his little narrative, he sunk into a silence, 
which Emily was not disposed to interrupt, and it continued, till 
they reached the gate of the chateau, when he stopped, as if he had 
known this to be the limit of his walk.  Here, saying, that it was 
his intention to return to Estuviere on the following day, he asked 
her if she would permit him to take leave of her in the morning; and 
Emily, perceiving that she could not reject an ordinary civility, 
without expressing by her refusal an expectation of something more, 
was compelled to answer, that she should be at home.

She passed a melancholy evening, during which the retrospect of all 
that had happened, since she had seen Valancourt, would rise to her 
imagination; and the scene of her father's death appeared in tints as 
fresh, as if it had passed on the preceding day.  She remembered 
particularly the earnest and solemn manner, in which he had required 
her to destroy the manuscript papers, and, awakening from the 
lethargy, in which sorrow had held her, she was shocked to think she 
had not yet obeyed him, and determined, that another day should not 
reproach her with the neglect.



CHAPTER X


     Can such things be,
 And overcome us like a summer's cloud,
 Without our special wonder?
     MACBETH

On the next morning, Emily ordered a fire to be lighted in the stove 
of the chamber, where St. Aubert used to sleep; and, as soon as she 
had breakfasted, went thither to burn the papers.  Having fastened 
the door to prevent interruption, she opened the closet where they 
were concealed, as she entered which, she felt an emotion of unusual 
awe, and stood for some moments surveying it, trembling, and almost 
afraid to remove the board.  There was a great chair in one corner of 
the closet, and, opposite to it, stood the table, at which she had 
seen her father sit, on the evening that preceded his departure, 
looking over, with so much emotion, what she believed to be these 
very papers.

The solitary life, which Emily had led of late, and the melancholy 
subjects, on which she had suffered her thoughts to dwell, had 
rendered her at times sensible to the 'thick-coming fancies' of a 
mind greatly enervated.  It was lamentable, that her excellent 
understanding should have yielded, even for a moment, to the reveries 
of superstition, or rather to those starts of imagination, which 
deceive the senses into what can be called nothing less than 
momentary madness.  Instances of this temporary failure of mind had 
more than once occurred since her return home; particularly when, 
wandering through this lonely mansion in the evening twilight, she 
had been alarmed by appearances, which would have been unseen in her 
more cheerful days.  To this infirm state of her nerves may be 
attributed what she imagined, when, her eyes glancing a second time 
on the arm-chair, which stood in an obscure part of the closet, the 
countenance of her dead father appeared there.  Emily stood fixed for 
a moment to the floor, after which she left the closet.  Her spirits, 
however, soon returned; she reproached herself with the weakness of 
thus suffering interruption in an act of serious importance, and 
again opened the door.  By the directions which St. Aubert had given 
her, she readily found the board he had described in an opposite 
corner of the closet, near the window; she distinguished also the 
line he had mentioned, and, pressing it as he had bade her, it slid 
down, and disclosed the bundle of papers, together with some 
scattered ones, and the purse of louis.  With a trembling hand she 
removed them, replaced the board, paused a moment, and was rising 
from the floor, when, on looking up, there appeared to her alarmed 
fancy the same countenance in the chair.  The illusion, another 
instance of the unhappy effect which solitude and grief had gradually 
produced upon her mind, subdued her spirits; she rushed forward into 
the chamber, and sunk almost senseless into a chair.  Returning 
reason soon overcame the dreadful, but pitiable attack of 
imagination, and she turned to the papers, though still with so 
little recollection, that her eyes involuntarily settled on the 
writing of some loose sheets, which lay open; and she was 
unconscious, that she was transgressing her father's strict 
injunction, till a sentence of dreadful import awakened her attention 
and her memory together.  She hastily put the papers from her; but 
the words, which had roused equally her curiosity and terror, she 
could not dismiss from her thoughts.  So powerfully had they affected 
her, that she even could not resolve to destroy the papers 
immediately; and the more she dwelt on the circumstance, the more it 
inflamed her imagination.  Urged by the most forcible, and apparently 
the most necessary, curiosity to enquire farther, concerning the 
terrible and mysterious subject, to which she had seen an allusion, 
she began to lament her promise to destroy the papers.  For a moment, 
she even doubted, whether it could justly be obeyed, in contradiction 
to such reasons as there appeared to be for further information.  But 
the delusion was momentary.

'I have given a solemn promise,' said she, 'to observe a solemn 
injunction, and it is not my business to argue, but to obey.  Let me 
hasten to remove the temptation, that would destroy my innocence, and 
embitter my life with the consciousness of irremediable guilt, while 
I have strength to reject it.'

Thus re-animated with a sense of her duty, she completed the triumph 
of her integrity over temptation, more forcible than any she had ever 
known, and consigned the papers to the flames.  Her eyes watched them 
as they slowly consumed, she shuddered at the recollection of the 
sentence she had just seen, and at the certainty, that the only 
opportunity of explaining it was then passing away for ever.

It was long after this, that she recollected the purse; and as she 
was depositing it, unopened, in a cabinet, perceiving that it 
contained something of a size larger than coin, she examined it.  
'His hand deposited them here,' said she, as she kissed some pieces 
of the coin, and wetted them with her tears, 'his hand--which is now 
dust!'  At the bottom of the purse was a small packet, having taken 
out which, and unfolded paper after paper, she found to be an ivory 
case, containing the miniature of a--lady!  She started--'The same,' 
said she, 'my father wept over!'  On examining the countenance she 
could recollect no person that it resembled.  It was of uncommon 
beauty, and was characterized by an expression of sweetness, shaded 
with sorrow, and tempered by resignation.

St. Aubert had given no directions concerning this picture, nor had 
even named it; she, therefore, thought herself justified in 
preserving it.  More than once remembering his manner, when he had 
spoken of the Marchioness of Villeroi, she felt inclined to believe 
that this was her resemblance; yet there appeared no reason why he 
should have preserved a picture of that lady, or, having preserved 
it, why he should lament over it in a manner so striking and 
affecting as she had witnessed on the night preceding his departure.

Emily still gazed on the countenance, examining its features, but she 
knew not where to detect the charm that captivated her attention, and 
inspired sentiments of such love and pity.  Dark brown hair played 
carelessly along the open forehead; the nose was rather inclined to 
aquiline; the lips spoke in a smile, but it was a melancholy one; the 
eyes were blue, and were directed upwards with an expression of 
peculiar meekness, while the soft cloud of the brow spoke of the fine 
sensibility of the temper.

Emily was roused from the musing mood into which the picture had 
thrown her, by the closing of the garden gate; and, on turning her 
eyes to the window, she saw Valancourt coming towards the chateau.  
Her spirits agitated by the subjects that had lately occupied her 
mind, she felt unprepared to see him, and remained a few moments in 
the chamber to recover herself.

When she met him in the parlour, she was struck with the change that 
appeared in his air and countenance since they had parted in 
Rousillon, which twilight and the distress she suffered on the 
preceding evening had prevented her from observing.  But dejection 
and languor disappeared, for a moment, in the smile that now 
enlightened his countenance, on perceiving her.  'You see,' said he, 
'I have availed myself of the permission with which you honoured me--
of bidding YOU farewell, whom I had the happiness of meeting only 
yesterday.'

Emily smiled faintly, and, anxious to say something, asked if he had 
been long in Gascony.  'A few days only,' replied Valancourt, while a 
blush passed over his cheek.  'I engaged in a long ramble after I had 
the misfortune of parting with the friends who had made my wanderings 
among the Pyrenees so delightful.'

A tear came to Emily's eye, as Valancourt said this, which he 
observed; and, anxious to draw off her attention from the remembrance 
that had occasioned it, as well as shocked at his own 
thoughtlessness, he began to speak on other subjects, expressing his 
admiration of the chateau, and its prospects.  Emily, who felt 
somewhat embarrassed how to support a conversation, was glad of such 
an opportunity to continue it on indifferent topics.  They walked 
down to the terrace, where Valancourt was charmed with the river 
scenery, and the views over the opposite shores of Guienne.

As he leaned on the wall of the terrace, watching the rapid current 
of the Garonne, 'I was a few weeks ago,' said he, 'at the source of 
this noble river; I had not then the happiness of knowing you, or I 
should have regretted your absence--it was a scene so exactly suited 
to your taste.  It rises in a part of the Pyrenees, still wilder and 
more sublime, I think, than any we passed in the way to Rousillon.'  
He then described its fall among the precipices of the mountains, 
where its waters, augmented by the streams that descend from the 
snowy summits around, rush into the Vallee d'Aran, between whose 
romantic heights it foams along, pursuing its way to the north west 
till it emerges upon the plains of Languedoc.  Then, washing the 
walls of Tholouse, and turning again to the north west, it assumes a 
milder character, as it fertilizes the pastures of Gascony and 
Guienne, in its progress to the Bay of Biscay.

Emily and Valancourt talked of the scenes they had passed among the 
Pyrenean Alps; as he spoke of which there was often a tremulous 
tenderness in his voice, and sometimes he expatiated on them with all 
the fire of genius, sometimes would appear scarcely conscious of the 
topic, though he continued to speak.  This subject recalled forcibly 
to Emily the idea of her father, whose image appeared in every 
landscape, which Valancourt particularized, whose remarks dwelt upon 
her memory, and whose enthusiasm still glowed in her heart.  Her 
silence, at length, reminded Valancourt how nearly his conversation 
approached to the occasion of her grief, and he changed the subject, 
though for one scarcely less affecting to Emily.  When he admired the 
grandeur of the plane-tree, that spread its wide branches over the 
terrace, and under whose shade they now sat, she remembered how often 
she had sat thus with St. Aubert, and heard him express the same 
admiration.

'This was a favourite tree with my dear father,' said she; 'he used 
to love to sit under its foliage with his family about him, in the 
fine evenings of summer.'

Valancourt understood her feelings, and was silent; had she raised 
her eyes from the ground she would have seen tears in his.  He rose, 
and leaned on the wall of the terrace, from which, in a few moments, 
he returned to his seat, then rose again, and appeared to be greatly 
agitated; while Emily found her spirits so much depressed, that 
several of her attempts to renew the conversation were ineffectual.  
Valancourt again sat down, but was still silent, and trembled.  At 
length he said, with a hesitating voice, 'This lovely scene!--I am 
going to leave--to leave you--perhaps for ever!  These moments may 
never return; I cannot resolve to neglect, though I scarcely dare to 
avail myself of them.  Let me, however, without offending the 
delicacy of your sorrow, venture to declare the admiration I must 
always feel of your goodness--O! that at some future period I might 
be permitted to call it love!'

Emily's emotion would not suffer her to reply; and Valancourt, who 
now ventured to look up, observing her countenance change, expected 
to see her faint, and made an involuntary effort to support her, 
which recalled Emily to a sense of her situation, and to an exertion 
of her spirits.  Valancourt did not appear to notice her 
indisposition, but, when he spoke again, his voice told the tenderest 
love.  'I will not presume,' he added, 'to intrude this subject 
longer upon your attention at this time, but I may, perhaps, be 
permitted to mention, that these parting moments would lose much of 
their bitterness if I might be allowed to hope the declaration I have 
made would not exclude me from your presence in future.'

Emily made another effort to overcome the confusion of her thoughts, 
and to speak.  She feared to trust the preference her heart 
acknowledged towards Valancourt, and to give him any encouragement 
for hope, on so short an acquaintance.  For though in this narrow 
period she had observed much that was admirable in his taste and 
disposition, and though these observations had been sanctioned by the 
opinion of her father, they were not sufficient testimonies of his 
general worth to determine her upon a subject so infinitely important 
to her future happiness as that, which now solicited her attention.  
Yet, though the thought of dismissing Valancourt was so very painful 
to her, that she could scarcely endure to pause upon it, the 
consciousness of this made her fear the partiality of her judgment, 
and hesitate still more to encourage that suit, for which her own 
heart too tenderly pleaded.  The family of Valancourt, if not his 
circumstances, had been known to her father, and known to be 
unexceptionable.  Of his circumstances, Valancourt himself hinted as 
far as delicacy would permit, when he said he had at present little 
else to offer but an heart, that adored her.  He had solicited only 
for a distant hope, and she could not resolve to forbid, though she 
scarcely dared to permit it; at length, she acquired courage to say, 
that she must think herself honoured by the good opinion of any 
person, whom her father had esteemed.

'And was I, then, thought worthy of his esteem?' said Valancourt, in 
a voice trembling with anxiety; then checking himself, he added, 'But 
pardon the question; I scarcely know what I say.  If I might dare to 
hope, that you think me not unworthy such honour, and might be 
permitted sometimes to enquire after your health, I should now leave 
you with comparative tranquillity.'

Emily, after a moment's silence, said, 'I will be ingenuous with you, 
for I know you will understand, and allow for my situation; you will 
consider it as a proof of my--my esteem that I am so.  Though I live 
here in what was my father's house, I live here alone.  I have, alas! 
no longer a parent--a parent, whose presence might sanction your 
visits.  It is unnecessary for me to point out the impropriety of my 
receiving them.'

'Nor will I affect to be insensible of this,' replied Valancourt, 
adding mournfully--'but what is to console me for my candour?  I 
distress you, and would now leave the subject, if I might carry with 
me a hope of being some time permitted to renew it, of being allowed 
to make myself known to your family.'

Emily was again confused, and again hesitated what to reply; she felt 
most acutely the difficulty--the forlornness of her situation, which 
did not allow her a single relative, or friend, to whom she could 
turn for even a look, that might support and guide her in the present 
embarrassing circumstances.  Madame Cheron, who was her only 
relative, and ought to have been this friend, was either occupied by 
her own amusements, or so resentful of the reluctance her niece had 
shewn to quit La Vallee, that she seemed totally to have abandoned 
her.

'Ah! I see,' said Valancourt, after a long pause, during which Emily 
had begun, and left unfinished two or three sentences, 'I see that I 
have nothing to hope; my fears were too just, you think me unworthy 
of your esteem.  That fatal journey! which I considered as the 
happiest period of my life--those delightful days were to embitter 
all my future ones.  How often I have looked back to them with hope 
and fear--yet never till this moment could I prevail with myself to 
regret their enchanting influence.'

His voice faltered, and he abruptly quitted his seat and walked on 
the terrace.  There was an expression of despair on his countenance, 
that affected Emily.  The pleadings of her heart overcame, in some 
degree, her extreme timidity, and, when he resumed his seat, she 
said, in an accent that betrayed her tenderness, 'You do both 
yourself and me injustice when you say I think you unworthy of my 
esteem; I will acknowledge that you have long possessed it, and--and-
-'

Valancourt waited impatiently for the conclusion of the sentence, but 
the words died on her lips.  Her eyes, however, reflected all the 
emotions of her heart.  Valancourt passed, in an instant, from the 
impatience of despair, to that of joy and tenderness.  'O Emily!' he 
exclaimed, 'my own Emily--teach me to sustain this moment!  Let me 
seal it as the most sacred of my life!'

He pressed her hand to his lips, it was cold and trembling; and, 
raising her eyes, he saw the paleness of her countenance.  Tears came 
to her relief, and Valancourt watched in anxious silence over her.  
In a few moments, she recovered herself, and smiling faintly through 
her tears, said, 'Can you excuse this weakness?  My spirits have not 
yet, I believe, recovered from the shock they lately received.'

'I cannot excuse myself,' said Valancourt, 'but I will forbear to 
renew the subject, which may have contributed to agitate them, now 
that I can leave you with the sweet certainty of possessing your 
esteem.'

Then, forgetting his resolution, he again spoke of himself.  'You 
know not,' said he, 'the many anxious hours I have passed near you 
lately, when you believed me, if indeed you honoured me with a 
thought, far away.  I have wandered, near the chateau, in the still 
hours of the night, when no eye could observe me.  It was delightful 
to know I was so near you, and there was something particularly 
soothing in the thought, that I watched round your habitation, while 
you slept.  These grounds are not entirely new to me.  Once I 
ventured within the fence, and spent one of the happiest, and yet 
most melancholy hours of my life in walking under what I believed to 
be your window.'

Emily enquired how long Valancourt had been in the neighbourhood.  
'Several days,' he replied.  'It was my design to avail myself of the 
permission M. St. Aubert had given me.  I scarcely know how to 
account for it; but, though I anxiously wished to do this, my 
resolution always failed, when the moment approached, and I 
constantly deferred my visit.  I lodged in a village at some 
distance, and wandered with my dogs, among the scenes of this 
charming country, wishing continually to meet you, yet not daring to 
visit you.'

Having thus continued to converse, without perceiving the flight of 
time, Valancourt, at length, seemed to recollect himself.  'I must 
go,' said he mournfully, 'but it is with the hope of seeing you 
again, of being permitted to pay my respects to your family; let me 
hear this hope confirmed by your voice.'  'My family will be happy to 
see any friend of my dear father,' said Emily.  Valancourt kissed her 
hand, and still lingered, unable to depart, while Emily sat silently, 
with her eyes bent on the ground; and Valancourt, as he gazed on her, 
considered that it would soon be impossible for him to recall, even 
to his memory, the exact resemblance of the beautiful countenance he 
then beheld; at this moment an hasty footstep approached from behind 
the plane-tree, and, turning her eyes, Emily saw Madame Cheron.  She 
felt a blush steal upon her cheek, and her frame trembled with the 
emotion of her mind; but she instantly rose to meet her visitor.  
'So, niece!' said Madame Cheron, casting a look of surprise and 
enquiry on Valancourt, 'so niece, how do you do?  But I need not ask, 
your looks tell me you have already recovered your loss.'

'My looks do me injustice then, Madame, my loss I know can never be 
recovered.'

'Well--well!  I will not argue with you;  I see you have exactly your 
father's disposition; and let me tell you it would have been much 
happier for him, poor man! if it had been a different one.'

A look of dignified displeasure, with which Emily regarded Madame 
Cheron, while she spoke, would have touched almost any other heart; 
she made no other reply, but introduced Valancourt, who could 
scarcely stifle the resentment he felt, and whose bow Madame Cheron 
returned with a slight curtsy, and a look of supercilious 
examination.  After a few moments he took leave of Emily, in a 
manner, that hastily expressed his pain both at his own departure, 
and at leaving her to the society of Madame Cheron.

'Who is that young man?' said her aunt, in an accent which equally 
implied inquisitiveness and censure.  'Some idle admirer of yours I 
suppose; but I believed niece you had a greater sense of propriety, 
than to have received the visits of any young man in your present 
unfriended situation.  Let me tell you the world will observe those 
things, and it will talk, aye and very freely too.'

Emily, extremely shocked at this coarse speech, attempted to 
interrupt it; but Madame Cheron would proceed, with all the self-
importance of a person, to whom power is new.

'It is very necessary you should be under the eye of some person more 
able to guide you than yourself.  I, indeed, have not much leisure 
for such a task; however, since your poor father made it his last 
request, that I should overlook your conduct--I must even take you 
under my care.  But this let me tell you niece, that, unless you will 
determine to be very conformable to my direction, I shall not trouble 
myself longer about you.'

Emily made no attempt to interrupt Madame Cheron a second time, grief 
and the pride of conscious innocence kept her silent, till her aunt 
said, 'I am now come to take you with me to Tholouse; I am sorry to 
find, that your poor father died, after all, in such indifferent 
circumstances; however, I shall take you home with me.  Ah! poor man, 
he was always more generous than provident, or he would not have left 
his daughter dependent on his relations.'

'Nor has he done so, I hope, madam,' said Emily calmly, 'nor did his 
pecuniary misfortunes arise from that noble generosity, which always 
distinguished him.  The affairs of M. de Motteville may, I trust, yet 
be settled without deeply injuring his creditors, and in the meantime 
I should be very happy to remain at La Vallee.'

'No doubt you would,' replied Madame Cheron, with a smile of irony, 
'and I shall no doubt consent to this, since I see how necessary 
tranquillity and retirement are to restore your spirits.  I did not 
think you capable of so much duplicity, niece; when you pleaded this 
excuse for remaining here, I foolishly believed it to be a just one, 
nor expected to have found with you so agreeable a companion as this 
M. La Val--, I forget his name.'

Emily could no longer endure these cruel indignities.  'It was a just 
one, madam,' said she; 'and now, indeed, I feel more than ever the 
value of the retirement I then solicited; and, if the purport of your 
visit is only to add insult to the sorrows of your brother's child, 
she could well have spared it.'

'I see that I have undertaken a very troublesome task,' said Madame 
Cheron, colouring highly.  'I am sure, madam,' said Emily mildly, and 
endeavouring to restrain her tears, 'I am sure my father did not mean 
it should be such.  I have the happiness to reflect, that my conduct 
under his eye was such as he often delighted to approve.  It would be 
very painful to me to disobey the sister of such a parent, and, if 
you believe the task will really be so troublesome, I must lament, 
that it is yours.'

'Well! niece, fine speaking signifies little.  I am willing, in 
consideration of my poor brother, to overlook the impropriety of your 
late conduct, and to try what your future will be.'

Emily interrupted her, to beg she would explain what was the 
impropriety she alluded to.

'What impropriety! why that of receiving the visits of a lover 
unknown to your family,' replied Madame Cheron, not considering the 
impropriety of which she had herself been guilty, in exposing her 
niece to the possibility of conduct so erroneous.

A faint blush passed over Emily's countenance; pride and anxiety 
struggled in her breast; and, till she recollected, that appearances 
did, in some degree, justify her aunt's suspicions, she could not 
resolve to humble herself so far as to enter into the defence of a 
conduct, which had been so innocent and undesigning on her part.  She 
mentioned the manner of Valancourt's introduction to her father; the 
circumstances of his receiving the pistol-shot, and of their 
afterwards travelling together; with the accidental way, in which she 
had met him, on the preceding evening.  She owned he had declared a 
partiality for her, and that he had asked permission to address her 
family.

'And who is this young adventurer, pray?' said Madame Cheron, 'and 
what are his pretensions?'  'These he must himself explain, madam,' 
replied Emily.  'Of his family my father was not ignorant, and I 
believe it is unexceptionable.'  She then proceeded to mention what 
she knew concerning it.

'Oh, then, this it seems is a younger brother,' exclaimed her aunt, 
'and of course a beggar.  A very fine tale indeed!  And so my brother 
took a fancy to this young man after only a few days acquaintance!--
but that was so like him!  In his youth he was always taking these 
likes and dislikes, when no other person saw any reason for them at 
all; nay, indeed, I have often thought the people he disapproved were 
much more agreeable than those he admired;--but there is no 
accounting for tastes.  He was always so much influenced by people's 
countenances; now I, for my part, have no notion of this, it is all 
ridiculous enthusiasm.  What has a man's face to do with his 
character?  Can a man of good character help having a disagreeable 
face?'--which last sentence Madame Cheron delivered with the decisive 
air of a person who congratulates herself on having made a grand 
discovery, and believes the question to be unanswerably settled.

Emily, desirous of concluding the conversation, enquired if her aunt 
would accept some refreshment, and Madame Cheron accompanied her to 
the chateau, but without desisting from a topic, which she discussed 
with so much complacency to herself, and severity to her niece.

'I am sorry to perceive, niece,' said she, in allusion to somewhat 
that Emily had said, concerning physiognomy, 'that you have a great 
many of your father's prejudices, and among them those sudden 
predilections for people from their looks.  I can perceive, that you 
imagine yourself to be violently in love with this young adventurer, 
after an acquaintance of only a few days.  There was something, too, 
so charmingly romantic in the manner of your meeting!'

Emily checked the tears, that trembled in her eyes, while she said, 
'When my conduct shall deserve this severity, madam, you will do well 
to exercise it; till then justice, if not tenderness, should surely 
restrain it.  I have never willingly offended you; now I have lost my 
parents, you are the only person to whom I can look for kindness.  
Let me not lament more than ever the loss of such parents.'  The last 
words were almost stifled by her emotions, and she burst into tears.  
Remembering the delicacy and the tenderness of St. Aubert, the happy, 
happy days she had passed in these scenes, and contrasting them with 
the coarse and unfeeling behaviour of Madame Cheron, and from the 
future hours of mortification she must submit to in her presence--a 
degree of grief seized her, that almost reached despair.  Madame 
Cheron, more offended by the reproof which Emily's words conveyed, 
than touched by the sorrow they expressed, said nothing, that might 
soften her grief; but, notwithstanding an apparent reluctance to 
receive her niece, she desired her company.  The love of sway was her 
ruling passion, and she knew it would be highly gratified by taking 
into her house a young orphan, who had no appeal from her decisions, 
and on whom she could exercise without controul the capricious humour 
of the moment.

On entering the chateau, Madame Cheron expressed a desire, that she 
would put up what she thought necessary to take to Tholouse, as she 
meant to set off immediately.  Emily now tried to persuade her to 
defer the journey, at least till the next day, and, at length, with 
much difficulty, prevailed.

The day passed in the exercise of petty tyranny on the part of Madame 
Cheron, and in mournful regret and melancholy anticipation on that of 
Emily, who, when her aunt retired to her apartment for the night, 
went to take leave of every other room in this her dear native home, 
which she was now quitting for she knew not how long, and for a 
world, to which she was wholly a stranger.  She could not conquer a 
presentiment, which frequently occurred to her, this night--that she 
should never more return to La Vallee.  Having passed a considerable 
time in what had been her father's study, having selected some of his 
favourite authors, to put up with her clothes, and shed many tears, 
as she wiped the dust from their covers, she seated herself in his 
chair before the reading desk, and sat lost in melancholy reflection, 
till Theresa opened the door to examine, as was her custom before she 
went to bed, if was all safe.  She started, on observing her young 
lady, who bade her come in, and then gave her some directions for 
keeping the chateau in readiness for her reception at all times.

'Alas-a-day! that you should leave it!' said Theresa, 'I think you 
would be happier here than where you are going, if one may judge.'  
Emily made no reply to this remark; the sorrow Theresa proceeded to 
express at her departure affected her, but she found some comfort in 
the simple affection of this poor old servant, to whom she gave such 
directions as might best conduce to her comfort during her own 
absence.

Having dismissed Theresa to bed, Emily wandered through every lonely 
apartment of the chateau, lingering long in what had been her 
father's bed-room, indulging melancholy, yet not unpleasing, 
emotions, and, having often returned within the door to take another 
look at it, she withdrew to her own chamber.  From her window she 
gazed upon the garden below, shewn faintly by the moon, rising over 
the tops of the palm-trees, and, at length, the calm beauty of the 
night increased a desire of indulging the mournful sweetness of 
bidding farewel to the beloved shades of her childhood, till she was 
tempted to descend.  Throwing over her the light veil, in which she 
usually walked, she silently passed into the garden, and, hastening 
towards the distant groves, was glad to breathe once more the air of 
liberty, and to sigh unobserved.  The deep repose of the scene, the 
rich scents, that floated on the breeze, the grandeur of the wide 
horizon and of the clear blue arch, soothed and gradually elevated 
her mind to that sublime complacency, which renders the vexations of 
this world so insignificant and mean in our eyes, that we wonder they 
have had power for a moment to disturb us.  Emily forgot Madame 
Cheron and all the circumstances of her conduct, while her thoughts 
ascended to the contemplation of those unnumbered worlds, that lie 
scattered in the depths of aether, thousands of them hid from human 
eyes, and almost beyond the flight of human fancy.  As her 
imagination soared through the regions of space, and aspired to that 
Great First Cause, which pervades and governs all being, the idea of 
her father scarcely ever left her; but it was a pleasing idea, since 
she resigned him to God in the full confidence of a pure and holy 
faith.  She pursued her way through the groves to the terrace, often 
pausing as memory awakened the pang of affection, and as reason 
anticipated the exile, into which she was going.

And now the moon was high over the woods, touching their summits with 
yellow light, and darting between the foliage long level beams; while 
on the rapid Garonne below the trembling radiance was faintly 
obscured by the lightest vapour.  Emily long watched the playing 
lustre, listened to the soothing murmur of the current, and the yet 
lighter sounds of the air, as it stirred, at intervals, the lofty 
palm-trees.  'How delightful is the sweet breath of these groves,' 
said she.  'This lovely scene!--how often shall I remember and regret 
it, when I am far away.  Alas! what events may occur before I see it 
again!  O, peaceful, happy shades!--scenes of my infant delights, of 
parental tenderness now lost for ever!--why must I leave ye!--In your 
retreats I should still find safety and repose.  Sweet hours of my 
childhood--I am now to leave even your last memorials!  No objects, 
that would revive your impressions, will remain for me!'

Then drying her tears and looking up, her thoughts rose again to the 
sublime subject she had contemplated; the same divine complacency 
stole over her heart, and, hushing its throbs, inspired hope and 
confidence and resignation to the will of the Deity, whose works 
filled her mind with adoration.

Emily gazed long on the plane-tree, and then seated herself, for the 
last time, on the bench under its shade, where she had so often sat 
with her parents, and where, only a few hours before, she had 
conversed with Valancourt, at the remembrance of whom, thus revived, 
a mingled sensation of esteem, tenderness and anxiety rose in her 
breast.  With this remembrance occurred a recollection of his late 
confession--that he had often wandered near her habitation in the 
night, having even passed the boundary of the garden, and it 
immediately occurred to her, that he might be at this moment in the 
grounds.  The fear of meeting him, particularly after the declaration 
he had made, and of incurring a censure, which her aunt might so 
reasonably bestow, if it was known, that she was met by her lover, at 
this hour, made her instantly leave her beloved plane-tree, and walk 
towards the chateau.  She cast an anxious eye around, and often 
stopped for a moment to examine the shadowy scene before she ventured 
to proceed, but she passed on without perceiving any person, till, 
having reached a clump of almond trees, not far from the house, she 
rested to take a retrospect of the garden, and to sigh forth another 
adieu.  As her eyes wandered over the landscape she thought she 
perceived a person emerge from the groves, and pass slowly along a 
moon-light alley that led between them; but the distance, and the 
imperfect light would not suffer her to judge with any degree of 
certainty whether this was fancy or reality.  She continued to gaze 
for some time on the spot, till on the dead stillness of the air she 
heard a sudden sound, and in the next instant fancied she 
distinguished footsteps near her.  Wasting not another moment in 
conjecture, she hurried to the chateau, and, having reached it, 
retired to her chamber, where, as she closed her window she looked 
upon the garden, and then again thought she distinguished a figure, 
gliding between the almond trees she had just left.  She immediately 
withdrew from the casement, and, though much agitated, sought in 
sleep the refreshment of a short oblivion.



CHAPTER XI


     I leave that flowery path for eye
 Of childhood, where I sported many a day,
 Warbling and sauntering carelessly along;
 Where every face was innocent and gay,
 Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue,
 Sweet, wild, and artless all.
     THE MINSTREL

At an early hour, the carriage, which was to take Emily and Madame 
Cheron to Tholouse, appeared at the door of the chateau, and Madame 
was already in the breakfast-room, when her niece entered it.  The 
repast was silent and melancholy on the part of Emily; and Madame 
Cheron, whose vanity was piqued on observing her dejection, reproved 
her in a manner that did not contribute to remove it.  It was with 
much reluctance, that Emily's request to take with her the dog, which 
had been a favourite of her father, was granted.  Her aunt, impatient 
to be gone, ordered the carriage to draw up; and, while she passed to 
the hall door, Emily gave another look into the library, and another 
farewell glance over the garden, and then followed.  Old Theresa 
stood at the door to take leave of her young lady.  'God for ever 
keep you, ma'amselle!' said she, while Emily gave her hand in 
silence, and could answer only with a pressure of her hand, and a 
forced smile.

At the gate, which led out of the grounds, several of her father's 
pensioners were assembled to bid her farewell, to whom she would have 
spoken, if her aunt would have suffered the driver to stop; and, 
having distributed to them almost all the money she had about her, 
she sunk back in the carriage, yielding to the melancholy of her 
heart.  Soon after, she caught, between the steep banks of the road, 
another view of the chateau, peeping from among the high trees, and 
surrounded by green slopes and tufted groves, the Garonne winding its 
way beneath their shades, sometimes lost among the vineyards, and 
then rising in greater majesty in the distant pastures.  The towering 
precipices of the Pyrenees, that rose to the south, gave Emily a 
thousand interesting recollections of her late journey; and these 
objects of her former enthusiastic admiration, now excited only 
sorrow and regret.  Having gazed on the chateau and its lovely 
scenery, till the banks again closed upon them, her mind became too 
much occupied by mournful reflections, to permit her to attend to the 
conversation, which Madame Cheron had begun on some trivial topic, so 
that they soon travelled in profound silence.

Valancourt, mean while, was returned to Estuviere, his heart occupied 
with the image of Emily; sometimes indulging in reveries of future 
happiness, but more frequently shrinking with dread of the opposition 
he might encounter from her family.  He was the younger son of an 
ancient family of Gascony; and, having lost his parents at an early 
period of his life, the care of his education and of his small 
portion had devolved to his brother, the Count de Duvarney, his 
senior by nearly twenty years.  Valancourt had been educated in all 
the accomplishments of his age, and had an ardour of spirit, and a 
certain grandeur of mind, that gave him particular excellence in the 
exercises then thought heroic.  His little fortune had been 
diminished by the necessary expences of his education; but M. La 
Valancourt, the elder, seemed to think that his genius and 
accomplishments would amply supply the deficiency of his inheritance.  
They offered flattering hopes of promotion in the military 
profession, in those times almost the only one in which a gentleman 
could engage without incurring a stain on his name; and La Valancourt 
was of course enrolled in the army.  The general genius of his mind 
was but little understood by his brother.  That ardour for whatever 
is great and good in the moral world, as well as in the natural one, 
displayed itself in his infant years; and the strong indignation, 
which he felt and expressed at a criminal, or a mean action, 
sometimes drew upon him the displeasure of his tutor; who reprobated 
it under the general term of violence of temper; and who, when 
haranguing on the virtues of mildness and moderation, seemed to 
forget the gentleness and compassion, which always appeared in his 
pupil towards objects of misfortune.

He had now obtained leave of absence from his regiment when he made 
the excursion into the Pyrenees, which was the means of introducing 
him to St. Aubert; and, as this permission was nearly expired, he was 
the more anxious to declare himself to Emily's family, from whom he 
reasonably apprehended opposition, since his fortune, though, with a 
moderate addition from hers, it would be sufficient to support them, 
would not satisfy the views, either of vanity, or ambition.  
Valancourt was not without the latter, but he saw golden visions of 
promotion in the army; and believed, that with Emily he could, in the 
mean time, be delighted to live within the limits of his humble 
income.  His thoughts were now occupied in considering the means of 
making himself known to her family, to whom, however, he had yet no 
address, for he was entirely ignorant of Emily's precipitate 
departure from La Vallee, of whom he hoped to obtain it.

Meanwhile, the travellers pursued their journey; Emily making 
frequent efforts to appear cheerful, and too often relapsing into 
silence and dejection.  Madame Cheron, attributing her melancholy 
solely to the circumstance of her being removed to a distance from 
her lover, and believing, that the sorrow, which her niece still 
expressed for the loss of St. Aubert, proceeded partly from an 
affectation of sensibility, endeavoured to make it appear ridiculous 
to her, that such deep regret should continue to be felt so long 
after the period usually allowed for grief.

At length, these unpleasant lectures were interrupted by the arrival 
of the travellers at Tholouse; and Emily, who had not been there for 
many years, and had only a very faint recollection of it, was 
surprised at the ostentatious style exhibited in her aunt's house and 
furniture; the more so, perhaps, because it was so totally different 
from the modest elegance, to which she had been accustomed.  She 
followed Madame Cheron through a large hall, where several servants 
in rich liveries appeared, to a kind of saloon, fitted up with more 
shew than taste; and her aunt, complaining of fatigue, ordered supper 
immediately.  'I am glad to find myself in my own house again,' said 
she, throwing herself on a large settee, 'and to have my own people 
about me.  I detest travelling; though, indeed, I ought to like it, 
for what I see abroad always makes me delighted to return to my own 
chateau.  what makes you so silent, child?--What is it that disturbs 
you now?'

Emily suppressed a starting tear, and tried to smile away the 
expression of an oppressed heart; she was thinking of HER home, and 
felt too sensibly the arrogance and ostentatious vanity of Madame 
Cheron's conversation.  'Can this be my father's sister!' said she to 
herself; and then the conviction that she was so, warming her heart 
with something like kindness towards her, she felt anxious to soften 
the harsh impression her mind had received of her aunt's character, 
and to shew a willingness to oblige her.  The effort did not entirely 
fail; she listened with apparent chearfulness, while Madame Cheron 
expatiated on the splendour of her house, told of the numerous 
parties she entertained, and what she should expect of Emily, whose 
diffidence assumed the air of a reserve, which her aunt, believing it 
to be that of pride and ignorance united, now took occasion to 
reprehend.  She knew nothing of the conduct of a mind, that fears to 
trust its own powers; which, possessing a nice judgment, and 
inclining to believe, that every other person perceives still more 
critically, fears to commit itself to censure, and seeks shelter in 
the obscurity of silence.  Emily had frequently blushed at the 
fearless manners, which she had seen admired, and the brilliant 
nothings, which she had heard applauded; yet this applause, so far 
from encouraging her to imitate the conduct that had won it, rather 
made her shrink into the reserve, that would protect her from such 
absurdity.

Madame Cheron looked on her niece's diffidence with a feeling very 
near to contempt, and endeavoured to overcome it by reproof, rather 
than to encourage it by gentleness.

The entrance of supper somewhat interrupted the complacent discourse 
of Madame Cheron and the painful considerations, which it had forced 
upon Emily.  When the repast, which was rendered ostentatious by the 
attendance of a great number of servants, and by a profusion of 
plate, was over, Madame Cheron retired to her chamber, and a female 
servant came to shew Emily to hers.  Having passed up a large stair-
case, and through several galleries, they came to a flight of back 
stairs, which led into a short passage in a remote part of the 
chateau, and there the servant opened the door of a small chamber, 
which she said was Ma'amselle Emily's, who, once more alone, indulged 
the tears she had long tried to restrain.

Those, who know, from experience, how much the heart becomes attached 
even to inanimate objects, to which it has been long accustomed, how 
unwillingly it resigns them; how with the sensations of an old friend 
it meets them, after temporary absence, will understand the 
forlornness of Emily's feelings, of Emily shut out from the only home 
she had known from her infancy, and thrown upon a scene, and among 
persons, disagreeable for more qualities than their novelty.  Her 
father's favourite dog, now in the chamber, thus seemed to acquire 
the character and importance of a friend; and, as the animal fawned 
over her when she wept, and licked her hands, 'Ah, poor Manchon!' 
said she, 'I have nobody now to love me--but you!' and she wept the 
more.  After some time, her thoughts returning to her father's 
injunctions, she remembered how often he had blamed her for indulging 
useless sorrow; how often he had pointed out to her the necessity of 
fortitude and patience, assuring her, that the faculties of the mind 
strengthen by exertion, till they finally unnerve affliction, and 
triumph over it.  These recollections dried her tears, gradually 
soothed her spirits, and inspired her with the sweet emulation of 
practising precepts, which her father had so frequently inculcated.



CHAPTER XII


 Some pow'r impart the spear and shield,
 At which the wizard passions fly,
 By which the giant follies die.
     COLLINS

Madame Cheron's house stood at a little distance from the city of 
Tholouse, and was surrounded by extensive gardens, in which Emily, 
who had risen early, amused herself with wandering before breakfast.  
From a terrace, that extended along the highest part of them, was a 
wide view over Languedoc.  On the distant horizon to the south, she 
discovered the wild summits of the Pyrenees, and her fancy 
immediately painted the green pastures of Gascony at their feet.  Her 
heart pointed to her peaceful home--to the neighbourhood where 
Valancourt was--where St. Aubert had been; and her imagination, 
piercing the veil of distance, brought that home to her eyes in all 
its interesting and romantic beauty.  She experienced an 
inexpressible pleasure in believing, that she beheld the country 
around it, though no feature could be distinguished, except the 
retiring chain of the Pyrenees; and, inattentive to the scene 
immediately before her, and to the flight of time, she continued to 
lean on the window of a pavilion, that terminated the terrace, with 
her eyes fixed on Gascony, and her mind occupied with the interesting 
ideas which the view of it awakened, till a servant came to tell her 
breakfast was ready.  Her thoughts thus recalled to the surrounding 
objects, the straight walks, square parterres, and artificial 
fountains of the garden, could not fail, as she passed through it, to 
appear the worse, opposed to the negligent graces, and natural 
beauties of the grounds of La Vallee, upon which her recollection had 
been so intensely employed.

'Whither have you been rambling so early?' said Madame Cheron, as her 
niece entered the breakfast-room.  'I don't approve of these solitary 
walks;' and Emily was surprised, when, having informed her aunt, that 
she had been no further than the gardens, she understood these to be 
included in the reproof.  'I desire you will not walk there again at 
so early an hour unattended,' said Madame Cheron; 'my gardens are 
very extensive; and a young woman, who can make assignations by moon-
light, at La Vallee, is not to be trusted to her own inclinations 
elsewhere.'

Emily, extremely surprised and shocked, had scarcely power to beg an 
explanation of these words, and, when she did, her aunt absolutely 
refused to give it, though, by her severe looks, and half sentences, 
she appeared anxious to impress Emily with a belief, that she was 
well informed of some degrading circumstances of her conduct.  
Conscious innocence could not prevent a blush from stealing over 
Emily's cheek; she trembled, and looked confusedly under the bold eye 
of Madame Cheron, who blushed also; but hers was the blush of 
triumph, such as sometimes stains the countenance of a person, 
congratulating himself on the penetration which had taught him to 
suspect another, and who loses both pity for the supposed criminal, 
and indignation of his guilt, in the gratification of his own vanity.

Emily, not doubting that her aunt's mistake arose from the having 
observed her ramble in the garden on the night preceding her 
departure from La Vallee, now mentioned the motive of it, at which 
Madame Cheron smiled contemptuously, refusing either to accept this 
explanation, or to give her reasons for refusing it; and, soon after, 
she concluded the subject by saying, 'I never trust people's 
assertions, I always judge of them by their actions; but I am willing 
to try what will be your behaviour in future.'

Emily, less surprised by her aunt's moderation and mysterious 
silence, than by the accusation she had received, deeply considered 
the latter, and scarcely doubted, that it was Valancourt whom she had 
seen at night in the gardens of La Vallee, and that he had been 
observed there by Madame Cheron; who now passing from one painful 
topic only to revive another almost equally so, spoke of the 
situation of her niece's property, in the hands of M. Motteville.  
While she thus talked with ostentatious pity of Emily's misfortunes, 
she failed not to inculcate the duties of humility and gratitude, or 
to render Emily fully sensible of every cruel mortification, who soon 
perceived, that she was to be considered as a dependant, not only by 
her aunt, but by her aunt's servants.

She was now informed, that a large party were expected to dinner, on 
which account Madame Cheron repeated the lesson of the preceding 
night, concerning her conduct in company, and Emily wished, that she 
might have courage enough to practise it.  Her aunt then proceeded to 
examine the simplicity of her dress, adding, that she expected to see 
her attired with gaiety and taste; after which she condescended to 
shew Emily the splendour of her chateau, and to point out the 
particular beauty, or elegance, which she thought distinguished each 
of her numerous suites of apartments.  she then withdrew to her 
toilet, the throne of her homage, and Emily to her chamber, to unpack 
her books, and to try to charm her mind by reading, till the hour of 
dressing.

When the company arrived, Emily entered the saloon with an air of 
timidity, which all her efforts could not overcome, and which was 
increased by the consciousness of Madame Cheron's severe observation.  
Her mourning dress, the mild dejection of her beautiful countenance, 
and the retiring diffidence of her manner, rendered her a very 
interesting object to many of the company; among whom she 
distinguished Signor Montoni, and his friend Cavigni, the late 
visitors at M. Quesnel's, who now seemed to converse with Madame 
Cheron with the familiarity of old acquaintance, and she to attend to 
them with particular pleasure.

This Signor Montoni had an air of conscious superiority, animated by 
spirit, and strengthened by talents, to which every person seemed 
involuntarily to yield.  The quickness of his perceptions was 
strikingly expressed on his countenance, yet that countenance could 
submit implicitly to occasion; and, more than once in this day, the 
triumph of art over nature might have been discerned in it.  His 
visage was long, and rather narrow, yet he was called handsome; and 
it was, perhaps, the spirit and vigour of his soul, sparkling through 
his features, that triumphed for him.  Emily felt admiration, but not 
the admiration that leads to esteem; for it was mixed with a degree 
of fear she knew not exactly wherefore.

Cavigni was gay and insinuating as formerly; and, though he paid 
almost incessant attention to Madame Cheron, he found some 
opportunities of conversing with Emily, to whom he directed, at 
first, the sallies of his wit, but now and then assumed an air of 
tenderness, which she observed, and shrunk from.  Though she replied 
but little, the gentleness and sweetness of her manners encouraged 
him to talk, and she felt relieved when a young lady of the party, 
who spoke incessantly, obtruded herself on his notice.  This lady, 
who possessed all the sprightliness of a Frenchwoman, with all her 
coquetry, affected to understand every subject, or rather there was 
no affectation in the case; for, never looking beyond the limits of 
her own ignorance, she believed she had nothing to learn.  She 
attracted notice from all; amused some, disgusted others for a 
moment, and was then forgotten.

This day passed without any material occurrence; and Emily, though 
amused by the characters she had seen, was glad when she could retire 
to the recollections, which had acquired with her the character of 
duties.

A fortnight passed in a round of dissipation and company, and Emily, 
who attended Madame Cheron in all her visits, was sometimes 
entertained, but oftener wearied.  She was struck by the apparent 
talents and knowledge displayed in the various conversations she 
listened to, and it was long before she discovered, that the talents 
were for the most part those of imposture, and the knowledge nothing 
more than was necessary to assist them.  But what deceived her most, 
was the air of constant gaiety and good spirits, displayed by every 
visitor, and which she supposed to arise from content as constant, 
and from benevolence as ready.  At length, from the over-acting of 
some, less accomplished than the others, she could perceive, that, 
though contentment and benevolence are the only sure sources of 
cheerfulness, the immoderate and feverish animation, usually 
exhibited in large parties, results partly from an insensibility to 
the cares, which benevolence must sometimes derive from the 
sufferings of others, and partly from a desire to display the 
appearance of that prosperity, which they know will command 
submission and attention to themselves.

Emily's pleasantest hours were passed in the pavilion of the terrace, 
to which she retired, when she could steal from observation, with a 
book to overcome, or a lute to indulge, her melancholy.  There, as 
she sat with her eyes fixed on the far-distant Pyrenees, and her 
thoughts on Valancourt and the beloved scenes of Gascony, she would 
play the sweet and melancholy songs of her native province--the 
popular songs she had listened to from her childhood.

One evening, having excused herself from accompanying her aunt 
abroad, she thus withdrew to the pavilion, with books and her lute.  
It was the mild and beautiful evening of a sultry day, and the 
windows, which fronted the west, opened upon all the glory of a 
setting sun.  Its rays illuminated, with strong splendour, the cliffs 
of the Pyrenees, and touched their snowy tops with a roseate hue, 
that remained, long after the sun had sunk below the horizon, and the 
shades of twilight had stolen over the landscape.  Emily touched her 
lute with that fine melancholy expression, which came from her heart.  
The pensive hour and the scene, the evening light on the Garonne, 
that flowed at no great distance, and whose waves, as they passed 
towards La Vallee, she often viewed with a sigh,--these united 
circumstances disposed her mind to tenderness, and her thoughts were 
with Valancourt, of whom she had heard nothing since her arrival at 
Tholouse, and now that she was removed from him, and in uncertainty, 
she perceived all the interest he held in her heart.  Before she saw 
Valancourt she had never met a mind and taste so accordant with her 
own, and, though Madame Cheron told her much of the arts of 
dissimulation, and that the elegance and propriety of thought, which 
she so much admired in her lover, were assumed for the purpose of 
pleasing her, she could scarcely doubt their truth.  This 
possibility, however, faint as it was, was sufficient to harass her 
mind with anxiety, and she found, that few conditions are more 
painful than that of uncertainty, as to the merit of a beloved 
object; an uncertainty, which she would not have suffered, had her 
confidence in her own opinions been greater.

She was awakened from her musing by the sound of horses' feet along a 
road, that wound under the windows of the pavilion, and a gentleman 
passed on horseback, whose resemblance to Valancourt, in air and 
figure, for the twilight did not permit a view of his features, 
immediately struck her.  She retired hastily from the lattice, 
fearing to be seen, yet wishing to observe further, while the 
stranger passed on without looking up, and, when she returned to the 
lattice, she saw him faintly through the twilight, winding under the 
high trees, that led to Tholouse.  This little incident so much 
disturbed her spirits, that the temple and its scenery were no longer 
interesting to her, and, after walking awhile on the terrace, she 
returned to the chateau.

Madame Cheron, whether she had seen a rival admired, had lost at 
play, or had witnessed an entertainment more splendid than her own, 
was returned from her visit with a temper more than usually 
discomposed; and Emily was glad, when the hour arrived, in which she 
could retire to the solitude of her own apartment.

On the following morning, she was summoned to Madame Cheron, whose 
countenance was inflamed with resentment, and, as Emily advanced, she 
held out a letter to her.

'Do you know this hand?' said she, in a severe tone, and with a look 
that was intended to search her heart, while Emily examined the 
letter attentively, and assured her, that she did not.

'Do not provoke me,' said her aunt; 'you do know it, confess the 
truth immediately.  I insist upon your confessing the truth 
instantly.'

Emily was silent, and turned to leave the room, but Madame called her 
back.  'O you are guilty, then,' said she, 'you do know the hand.'  
'If you was before in doubt of this, madam,' replied Emily calmly, 
'why did you accuse me of having told a falsehood.'  Madame Cheron 
did not blush; but her niece did, a moment after, when she heard the 
name of Valancourt.  It was not, however, with the consciousness of 
deserving reproof, for, if she ever had seen his hand-writing, the 
present characters did not bring it to her recollection.

'It is useless to deny it,' said Madame Cheron, 'I see in your 
countenance, that you are no stranger to this letter; and, I dare 
say, you have received many such from this impertinent young man, 
without my knowledge, in my own house.'

Emily, shocked at the indelicacy of this accusation, still more than 
by the vulgarity of the former, instantly forgot the pride, that had 
imposed silence, and endeavoured to vindicate herself from the 
aspersion, but Madame Cheron was not to be convinced.

'I cannot suppose,' she resumed, 'that this young man would have 
taken the liberty of writing to me, if you had not encouraged him to 
do so, and I must now'--'You will allow me to remind you, madam,' 
said Emily timidly, 'of some particulars of a conversation we had at 
La Vallee.  I then told you truly, that I had only not forbade 
Monsieur Valancourt from addressing my family.'

'I will not be interrupted,' said Madame Cheron, interrupting her 
niece, 'I was going to say--I--I-have forgot what I was going to say.  
But how happened it that you did not forbid him?'  Emily was silent.  
'How happened it that you encouraged him to trouble me with this 
letter?--A young man that nobody knows;--an utter stranger in the 
place,--a young adventurer, no doubt, who is looking out for a good 
fortune.  However, on that point he has mistaken his aim.'

'His family was known to my father,' said Emily modestly, and without 
appearing to be sensible of the last sentence.

'O! that is no recommendation at all,' replied her aunt, with her 
usual readiness upon this topic; 'he took such strange fancies to 
people!  He was always judging persons by their countenances, and was 
continually deceived.'  'Yet it was but now, madam, that you judged 
me guilty by my countenance,' said Emily, with a design of reproving 
Madame Cheron, to which she was induced by this disrespectful mention 
of her father.

'I called you here,' resumed her aunt, colouring, 'to tell you, that 
I will not be disturbed in my own house by any letters, or visits 
from young men, who may take a fancy to flatter you.  This M. de 
Valantine--I think you call him, has the impertinence to beg I will 
permit him to pay his respects to me!  I shall send him a proper 
answer.  And for you, Emily, I repeat it once for all--if you are not 
contented to conform to my directions, and to my way of live, I shall 
give up the task of overlooking your conduct--I shall no longer 
trouble myself with your education, but shall send you to board in a 
convent.'

'Dear madam,' said Emily, bursting into tears, and overcome by the 
rude suspicions her aunt had expressed, 'how have I deserved these 
reproofs?'  She could say no more; and so very fearful was she of 
acting with any degree of impropriety in the affair itself, that, at 
the present moment, Madame Cheron might perhaps have prevailed with 
her to bind herself by a promise to renounce Valancourt for ever.  
Her mind, weakened by her terrors, would no longer suffer her to view 
him as she had formerly done; she feared the error of her own 
judgment, not that of Madame Cheron, and feared also, that, in her 
former conversation with him, at La Vallee, she had not conducted 
herself with sufficient reserve.  She knew, that she did not deserve 
the coarse suspicions, which her aunt had thrown out, but a thousand 
scruples rose to torment her, such as would never have disturbed the 
peace of Madame Cheron.  Thus rendered anxious to avoid every 
opportunity of erring, and willing to submit to any restrictions, 
that her aunt should think proper, she expressed an obedience, to 
which Madame Cheron did not give much confidence, and which she 
seemed to consider as the consequence of either fear, or artifice.

'Well, then,' said she, 'promise me that you will neither see this 
young man, nor write to him without my consent.'  'Dear madam,' 
replied Emily, 'can you suppose I would do either, unknown to you!'  
'I don't know what to suppose; there is no knowing how young women 
will act.  It is difficult to place any confidence in them, for they 
have seldom sense enough to wish for the respect of the world.'

'Alas, madam!' said Emily, 'I am anxious for my own respect; my 
father taught me the value of that; he said if I deserved my own 
esteem, that the world would follow of course.'

'My brother was a good kind of a man,' replied Madame Cheron, 'but he 
did not know the world.  I am sure I have always felt a proper 
respect for myself, yet--'  she stopped, but she might have added, 
that the world had not always shewn respect to her, and this without 
impeaching its judgment.

'Well!' resumed Madame Cheron, 'you have not give me the promise, 
though, that I demand.'  Emily readily gave it, and, being then 
suffered to withdraw, she walked in the garden; tried to compose her 
spirits, and, at length, arrived at her favourite pavilion at the end 
of the terrace, where, seating herself at one of the embowered 
windows, that opened upon a balcony, the stillness and seclusion of 
the scene allowed her to recollect her thoughts, and to arrange them 
so as to form a clearer judgment of her former conduct.  She 
endeavoured to review with exactness all the particulars of her 
conversation with Valancourt at La Vallee, had the satisfaction to 
observe nothing, that could alarm her delicate pride, and thus to be 
confirmed in the self-esteem, which was so necessary to her peace.  
Her mind then became tranquil, and she saw Valancourt amiable and 
intelligent, as he had formerly appeared, and Madame Cheron neither 
the one, or the other.  The remembrance of her lover, however, 
brought with it many very painful emotions, for it by no means 
reconciled her to the thought of resigning him; and, Madame Cheron 
having already shewn how highly she disapproved of the attachment, 
she foresaw much suffering from the opposition of interests; yet with 
all this was mingled a degree of delight, which, in spite of reason, 
partook of hope.  She determined, however, that no consideration 
should induce her to permit a clandestine correspondence, and to 
observe in her conversation with Valancourt, should they ever meet 
again, the same nicety of reserve, which had hitherto marked her 
conduct.  As she repeated the words--'should we ever meet again!' she 
shrunk as if this was a circumstance, which had never before occurred 
to her, and tears came to her eyes, which she hastily dried, for she 
heard footsteps approaching, and then the door of the pavilion open, 
and, on turning, she saw--Valancourt.  An emotion of mingled 
pleasure, surprise and apprehension pressed so suddenly upon her 
heart as almost to overcome her spirits; the colour left her cheeks, 
then returned brighter than before, and she was for a moment unable 
to speak, or to rise from her chair.  His countenance was the mirror, 
in which she saw her own emotions reflected, and it roused her to 
self-command.  The joy, which had animated his features, when he 
entered the pavilion, was suddenly repressed, as, approaching, he 
perceived her agitation, and, in a tremulous voice, enquired after 
her health.  Recovered from her first surprise, she answered him with 
a tempered smile; but a variety of opposite emotions still assailed 
her heart, and struggled to subdue the mild dignity of her manner.  
It was difficult to tell which predominated--the joy of seeing 
Valancourt, or the terror of her aunt's displeasure, when she should 
hear of this meeting.  After some short and embarrassed conversation, 
she led him into the gardens, and enquired if he had seen Madame 
Cheron.  'No,' said he, 'I have not yet seen her, for they told me 
she was engaged, and as soon as I learned that you were in the 
gardens, I came hither.'  He paused a moment, in great agitation, and 
then added, 'May I venture to tell you the purport of my visit, 
without incurring your displeasure, and to hope, that you will not 
accuse me of precipitation in now availing myself of the permission 
you once gave me of addressing your family?'  Emily, who knew not 
what to reply, was spared from further perplexity, and was sensible 
only of fear, when on raising her eyes, she saw Madame Cheron turn 
into the avenue.  As the consciousness of innocence returned, this 
fear was so far dissipated as to permit her to appear tranquil, and, 
instead of avoiding her aunt, she advanced with Valancourt to meet 
her.  The look of haughty and impatient displeasure, with which 
Madame Cheron regarded them, made Emily shrink, who understood from a 
single glance, that this meeting was believed to have been more than 
accidental:  having mentioned Valancourt's name, she became again too 
much agitated to remain with them, and returned into the chateau; 
where she awaited long, in a state of trembling anxiety, the 
conclusion of the conference.  She knew not how to account for 
Valancourt's visit to her aunt, before he had received the permission 
he solicited, since she was ignorant of a circumstance, which would 
have rendered the request useless, even if Madame Cheron had been 
inclined to grant it.  Valancourt, in the agitation of his spirits, 
had forgotten to date his letter, so that it was impossible for 
Madame Cheron to return an answer; and, when he recollected this 
circumstance, he was, perhaps, not so sorry for the omission as glad 
of the excuse it allowed him for waiting on her before she could send 
a refusal.

Madame Cheron had a long conversation with Valancourt, and, when she 
returned to the chateau, her countenance expressed ill-humour, but 
not the degree of severity, which Emily had apprehended.  'I have 
dismissed this young man, at last,' said she, 'and I hope my house 
will never again be disturbed with similar visits.  He assures me, 
that your interview was not preconcerted.'

'Dear madam!' said Emily in extreme emotion, 'you surely did not ask 
him the question!'  'Most certainly I did; you could not suppose I 
should be so imprudent as to neglect it.'

'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, 'what an opinion must he form of me, 
since you, Madam, could express a suspicion of such ill conduct!'

'It is of very little consequence what opinion he may form of you,' 
replied her aunt, 'for I have put an end to the affair; but I believe 
he will not form a worse opinion of me for my prudent conduct.  I let 
him see, that I was not to be trifled with, and that I had more 
delicacy, than to permit any clandestine correspondence to be carried 
on in my house.'

Emily had frequently heard Madame Cheron use the word delicacy, but 
she was now more than usually perplexed to understand how she meant 
to apply it in this instance, in which her whole conduct appeared to 
merit the very reverse of the term.

'It was very inconsiderate of my brother,' resumed Madame Cheron, 'to 
leave the trouble of overlooking your conduct to me; I wish you was 
well settled in life.  But if I find, that I am to be further 
troubled with such visitors as this M. Valancourt, I shall place you 
in a convent at once;--so remember the alternative.  This young man 
has the impertinence to own to me,--he owns it! that his fortune is 
very small, and that he is chiefly dependent on an elder brother and 
on the profession he has chosen!  He should have concealed these 
circumstances, at least, if he expected to succeed with me.  Had he 
the presumption to suppose I would marry my niece to a person such as 
he describes himself!'

Emily dried her tears when she heard of the candid confession of 
Valancourt; and, though the circumstances it discovered were 
afflicting to her hopes, his artless conduct gave her a degree of 
pleasure, that overcame every other emotion.  But she was compelled, 
even thus early in life, to observe, that good sense and noble 
integrity are not always sufficient to cope with folly and narrow 
cunning; and her heart was pure enough to allow her, even at this 
trying moment, to look with more pride on the defeat of the former, 
than with mortification on the conquests of the latter.

Madame Cheron pursued her triumph.  'He has also thought proper to 
tell me, that he will receive his dismission from no person but 
yourself; this favour, however, I have absolutely refused him.  He 
shall learn, that it is quite sufficient, that I disapprove him.  And 
I take this opportunity of repeating,--that if you concert any means 
of interview unknown to me, you shall leave my house immediately.'

'How little do you know me, madam, that you should think such an 
injunction necessary!' said Emily, trying to suppress her emotion, 
'how little of the dear parents, who educated me!'

Madame Cheron now went to dress for an engagement, which she had made 
for the evening; and Emily, who would gladly have been excused from 
attending her aunt, did not ask to remain at home lest her request 
should be attributed to an improper motive.  When she retired to her 
own room, the little fortitude, which had supported her in the 
presence of her relation, forsook her; she remembered only that 
Valancourt, whose character appeared more amiable from every 
circumstance, that unfolded it, was banished from her presence, 
perhaps, for ever, and she passed the time in weeping, which, 
according to her aunt's direction, she ought to have employed in 
dressing.  This important duty was, however, quickly dispatched; 
though, when she joined Madame Cheron at table, her eyes betrayed, 
that she had been in tears, and drew upon her a severe reproof.

Her efforts to appear cheerful did not entirely fail when she joined 
the company at the house of Madame Clairval, an elderly widow lady, 
who had lately come to reside at Tholouse, on an estate of her late 
husband.  She had lived many years at Paris in a splendid style; had 
naturally a gay temper, and, since her residence at Tholouse, had 
given some of the most magnificent entertainments, that had been seen 
in that neighbourhood.

These excited not only the envy, but the trifling ambition of Madame 
Cheron, who, since she could not rival the splendour of her 
festivities, was desirous of being ranked in the number of her most 
intimate friends.  For this purpose she paid her the most obsequious 
attention, and made a point of being disengaged, whenever she 
received an invitation from Madame Clairval, of whom she talked, 
wherever she went, and derived much self-consequence from impressing 
a belief on her general acquaintance, that they were on the most 
familiar footing.

The entertainments of this evening consisted of a ball and supper; it 
was a fancy ball, and the company danced in groups in the gardens, 
which were very extensive.  The high and luxuriant trees, under which 
the groups assembled, were illuminated with a profusion of lamps, 
disposed with taste and fancy.  The gay and various dresses of the 
company, some of whom were seated on the turf, conversing at their 
ease, observing the cotillons, taking refreshments, and sometimes 
touching sportively a guitar; the gallant manners of the gentlemen, 
the exquisitely capricious air of the ladies; the light fantastic 
steps of their dances; the musicians, with the lute, the hautboy, and 
the tabor, seated at the foot of an elm, and the sylvan scenery of 
woods around were circumstances, that unitedly formed a 
characteristic and striking picture of French festivity.  Emily 
surveyed the gaiety of the scene with a melancholy kind of pleasure, 
and her emotion may be imagined when, as she stood with her aunt, 
looking at one of the groups, she perceived Valancourt; saw him 
dancing with a young and beautiful lady, saw him conversing with her 
with a mixture of attention and familiarity, such as she had seldom 
observed in his manner.  She turned hastily from the scene, and 
attempted to draw away Madame Cheron, who was conversing with Signor 
Cavigni, and neither perceived Valancourt, or was willing to be 
interrupted.  A faintness suddenly came over Emily, and, unable to 
support herself, she sat down on a turf bank beneath the trees, where 
several other persons were seated.  One of these, observing the 
extreme paleness of her countenance, enquired if she was ill, and 
begged she would allow him to fetch her a glass of water, for which 
politeness she thanked him, but did not accept it.  Her apprehension 
lest Valancourt should observe her emotion made her anxious to 
overcome it, and she succeeded so far as to re-compose her 
countenance.  Madame Cheron was still conversing with Cavigni; and 
the Count Bauvillers, who had addressed Emily, made some observations 
upon the scene, to which she answered almost unconsciously, for her 
mind was still occupied with the idea of Valancourt, to whom it was 
with extreme uneasiness that she remained so near.  Some remarks, 
however, which the Count made upon the dance obliged her to turn her 
eyes towards it, and, at that moment, Valancourt's met hers.  Her 
colour faded again, she felt, that she was relapsing into faintness, 
and instantly averted her looks, but not before she had observed the 
altered countenance of Valancourt, on perceiving her.  She would have 
left the spot immediately, had she not been conscious, that this 
conduct would have shewn him more obviously the interest he held in 
her heart; and, having tried to attend to the Count's conversation, 
and to join in it, she, at length, recovered her spirits.  But, when 
he made some observation on Valancourt's partner, the fear of shewing 
that she was interested in the remark, would have betrayed it to him, 
had not the Count, while he spoke, looked towards the person of whom 
he was speaking.  'The lady,' said he, 'dancing with that young 
Chevalier, who appears to be accomplished in every thing, but in 
dancing, is ranked among the beauties of Tholouse.  She is handsome, 
and her fortune will be very large.  I hope she will make a better 
choice in a partner for life than she has done in a partner for the 
dance, for I observe he has just put the set into great confusion; he 
does nothing but commit blunders.  I am surprised, that, with his air 
and figure, he has not taken more care to accomplish himself in 
dancing.'

Emily, whose heart trembled at every word, that was now uttered, 
endeavoured to turn the conversation from Valancourt, by enquiring 
the name of the lady, with whom he danced; but, before the Count 
could reply, the dance concluded, and Emily, perceiving that 
Valancourt was coming towards her, rose and joined Madame Cheron.

'Here is the Chevalier Valancourt, madam,' said she in a whisper, 
'pray let us go.'  Her aunt immediately moved on, but not before 
Valancourt had reached them, who bowed lowly to Madame Cheron, and 
with an earnest and dejected look to Emily, with whom, 
notwithstanding all her effort, an air of more than common reserve 
prevailed.  The presence of Madame Cheron prevented Valancourt from 
remaining, and he passed on with a countenance, whose melancholy 
reproached her for having increased it.  Emily was called from the 
musing fit, into which she had fallen, by the Count Bauvillers, who 
was known to her aunt.

'I have your pardon to beg, ma'amselle,' said he, 'for a rudeness, 
which you will readily believe was quite unintentional.  I did not 
know, that the Chevalier was your acquaintance, when I so freely 
criticised his dancing.'  Emily blushed and smiled, and Madame Cheron 
spared her the difficulty of replying.  'If you mean the person, who 
has just passed us,' said she, 'I can assure you he is no 
acquaintance of either mine, or ma'amselle St. Aubert's:  I know 
nothing of him.'

'O! that is the Chevalier Valancourt,' said Cavigni carelessly, and 
looking back.  'You know him then?' said Madame Cheron.  'I am not 
acquainted with him,' replied Cavigni.  'You don't know, then, the 
reason I have to call him impertinent;--he has had the presumption to 
admire my niece!'

'If every man deserves the title of impertinent, who admires 
ma'amselle St. Aubert,' replied Cavigni, 'I fear there are a great 
many impertinents, and I am willing to acknowledge myself one of the 
number.'

'O Signor!' said Madame Cheron, with an affected smile, 'I perceive 
you have learnt the art of complimenting, since you came into France.  
But it is cruel to compliment children, since they mistake flattery 
for truth.'

Cavigni turned away his face for a moment, and then said with a 
studied air, 'Whom then are we to compliment, madam? for it would be 
absurd to compliment a woman of refined understanding; SHE is above 
all praise.'  As he finished the sentence he gave Emily a sly look, 
and the smile, that had lurked in his eye, stole forth.  She 
perfectly understood it, and blushed for Madame Cheron, who replied, 
'You are perfectly right, signor, no woman of understanding can 
endure compliment.'

'I have heard Signor Montoni say,' rejoined Cavigni, 'that he never 
knew but one woman who deserved it.'

'Well!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, with a short laugh, and a smile of 
unutterable complacency, 'and who could she be?'

'O!' replied Cavigni, 'it is impossible to mistake her, for certainly 
there is not more than one woman in the world, who has both the merit 
to deserve compliment and the wit to refuse it.  Most women reverse 
the case entirely.'  He looked again at Emily, who blushed deeper 
than before for her aunt, and turned from him with displeasure.

'Well, signor!' said Madame Cheron, 'I protest you are a Frenchman; I 
never heard a foreigner say any thing half so gallant as that!'

'True, madam,' said the Count, who had been some time silent, and 
with a low bow, 'but the gallantry of the compliment had been utterly 
lost, but for the ingenuity that discovered the application.'

Madame Cheron did not perceive the meaning of this too satirical 
sentence, and she, therefore, escaped the pain, which Emily felt on 
her account.  'O! here comes Signor Montoni himself,' said her aunt, 
'I protest I will tell him all the fine things you have been saying 
to me.'  The Signor, however, passed at this moment into another 
walk.  'Pray, who is it, that has so much engaged your friend this 
evening?' asked Madame Cheron, with an air of chagrin, 'I have not 
seen him once.'

'He had a very particular engagement with the Marquis La Riviere,' 
replied Cavigni, 'which has detained him, I perceive, till this 
moment, or he would have done himself the honour of paying his 
respects to you, madam, sooner, as he commissioned me to say.  But, I 
know not how it is--your conversation is so fascinating--that it can 
charm even memory, I think, or I should certainly have delivered my 
friend's apology before.'

'The apology, sir, would have been more satisfactory from himself,' 
said Madame Cheron, whose vanity was more mortified by Montoni's 
neglect, than flattered by Cavigni's compliment.  Her manner, at this 
moment, and Cavigni's late conversation, now awakened a suspicion in 
Emily's mind, which, notwithstanding that some recollections served 
to confirm it, appeared preposterous.  She thought she perceived, 
that Montoni was paying serious addresses to her aunt, and that she 
not only accepted them, but was jealously watchful of any appearance 
of neglect on his part.--That Madame Cheron at her years should elect 
a second husband was ridiculous, though her vanity made it not 
impossible; but that Montoni, with his discernment, his figure, and 
pretensions, should make a choice of Madame Cheron--appeared most 
wonderful.  Her thoughts, however, did not dwell long on the subject; 
nearer interests pressed upon them; Valancourt, rejected of her aunt, 
and Valancourt dancing with a gay and beautiful partner, alternately 
tormented her mind.  As she passed along the gardens she looked 
timidly forward, half fearing and half hoping that he might appear in 
the crowd; and the disappointment she felt on not seeing him, told 
her, that she had hoped more than she had feared.

Montoni soon after joined the party.  He muttered over some short 
speech about regret for having been so long detained elsewhere, when 
he knew he should have the pleasure of seeing Madame Cheron here; and 
she, receiving the apology with the air of a pettish girl, addressed 
herself entirely to Cavigni, who looked archly at Montoni, as if he 
would have said, 'I will not triumph over you too much; I will have 
the goodness to bear my honours meekly; but look sharp, Signor, or I 
shall certainly run away with your prize.'

The supper was served in different pavilions in the gardens, as well 
as in one large saloon of the chateau, and with more of taste, than 
either of splendour, or even of plenty.  Madame Cheron and her party 
supped with Madame Clairval in the saloon, and Emily, with 
difficulty, disguised her emotion, when she saw Valancourt placed at 
the same table with herself.  There, Madame Cheron having surveyed 
him with high displeasure, said to some person who sat next to her, 
'Pray, who IS that young man?'  'It is the Chevalier Valancourt,' was 
the answer.  'Yes, I am not ignorant of his name, but who is this 
Chevalier Valancourt that thus intrudes himself at this table?'  The 
attention of the person, who whom she spoke, was called off before 
she received a second reply.  The table, at which they sat, was very 
long, and, Valancourt being seated, with his partner, near the 
bottom, and Emily near the top, the distance between them may account 
for his not immediately perceiving her.  She avoided looking to that 
end of the table, but whenever her eyes happened to glance towards 
it, she observed him conversing with his beautiful companion, and the 
observation did not contribute to restore her peace, any more than 
the accounts she heard of the fortune and accomplishments of this 
same lady.

Madame Cheron, to whom these remarks were sometimes addressed, 
because they supported topics for trivial conversation, seemed 
indefatigable in her attempts to depreciate Valancourt, towards whom 
she felt all the petty resentment of a narrow pride.  'I admire the 
lady,' said she, 'but I must condemn her choice of a partner.'  'Oh, 
the Chevalier Valancourt is one of the most accomplished young men we 
have,' replied the lady, to whom this remark was addressed:  'it is 
whispered, that Mademoiselle D'Emery, and her large fortune, are to 
be his.'

'Impossible!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, reddening with vexation, 'it 
is impossible that she can be so destitute of taste; he has so little 
the air of a person of condition, that, if I did not see him at the 
table of Madame Clairval, I should never have suspected him to be 
one.  I have besides particular reasons for believing the report to 
be erroneous.'

'I cannot doubt the truth of it,' replied the lady gravely, disgusted 
by the abrupt contradiction she had received, concerning her opinion 
of Valancourt's merit.  'You will, perhaps, doubt it,' said Madame 
Cheron, 'when I assure you, that it was only this morning that I 
rejected his suit.'  This was said without any intention of imposing 
the meaning it conveyed, but simply from a habit of considering 
herself to be the most important person in every affair that 
concerned her niece, and because literally she had rejected 
Valancourt.  'Your reasons are indeed such as cannot be doubted,' 
replied the lady, with an ironical smile.  'Any more than the 
discernment of the Chevalier Valancourt,' added Cavigni, who stood by 
the chair of Madame Cheron, and had heard her arrogate to herself, as 
he thought, a distinction which had been paid to her niece.  'His 
discernment MAY be justly questioned, Signor,' said Madame Cheron, 
who was not flattered by what she understood to be an encomium on 
Emily.

'Alas!' exclaimed Cavigni, surveying Madame Cheron with affected 
ecstasy, 'how vain is that assertion, while that face--that shape--
that air--combine to refute it!  Unhappy Valancourt! his discernment 
has been his destruction.'

Emily looked surprised and embarrassed; the lady, who had lately 
spoke, astonished, and Madame Cheron, who, though she did not 
perfectly understand this speech, was very ready to believe herself 
complimented by it, said smilingly, 'O Signor! you are very gallant; 
but those, who hear you vindicate the Chevalier's discernment, will 
suppose that I am the object of it.'

'They cannot doubt it,' replied Cavigni, bowing low.

'And would not that be very mortifying, Signor?'

'Unquestionably it would,' said Cavigni.

'I cannot endure the thought,' said Madame Cheron.

'It is not to be endured,' replied Cavigni.

'What can be done to prevent so humiliating a mistake?' rejoined 
Madame Cheron.

'Alas! I cannot assist you,' replied Cavigni, with a deliberating 
air.  'Your only chance of refuting the calumny, and of making people 
understand what you wish them to believe, is to persist in your first 
assertion; for, when they are told of the Chevalier's want of 
discernment, it is possible they may suppose he never presumed to 
distress you with his admiration.--But then again--that diffidence, 
which renders you so insensible to your own perfections--they will 
consider this, and Valancourt's taste will not be doubted, though you 
arraign it.  In short, they will, in spite of your endeavours, 
continue to believe, what might very naturally have occurred to them 
without any hint of mine--that the Chevalier has taste enough to 
admire a beautiful woman.'

'All this is very distressing!' said Madame Cheron, with a profound 
sigh.

'May I be allowed to ask what is so distressing?' said Madame 
Clairval, who was struck with the rueful countenance and doleful 
accent, with which this was delivered.

'It is a delicate subject,' replied Madame Cheron, 'a very mortifying 
one to me.'  'I am concerned to hear it,' said Madame Clairval, 'I 
hope nothing has occurred, this evening, particularly to distress 
you?'  'Alas, yes! within this half hour; and I know not where the 
report may end;--my pride was never so shocked before, but I assure 
you the report is totally void of foundation.'  'Good God!' exclaimed 
Madame Clairval,' what can be done?  Can you point out any way, by 
which I can assist, or console you?'

'The only way, by which you can do either,' replied Madame Cheron, 
'is to contradict the report wherever you go.'

'Well! but pray inform me what I am to contradict.'

'It is so very humiliating, that I know not how to mention it,' 
continued Madame Cheron, 'but you shall judge.  Do you observe that 
young man seated near the bottom of the table, who is conversing with 
Mademoiselle D'Emery?'  'Yes, I perceive whom you mean.'  'You 
observe how little he has the air of a person of condition; I was 
saying just now, that I should not have thought him a gentleman, if I 
had not seen him at this table.'  'Well! but the report,' said Madame 
Clairval, 'let me understand the subject of your distress.'  'Ah! the 
subject of my distress,' replied Madame Cheron; 'this person, whom 
nobody knows--(I beg pardon, madam, I did not consider what I said)--
this impertinent young man, having had the presumption to address my 
niece, has, I fear, given rise to a report, that he had declared 
himself my admirer.  Now only consider how very mortifying such a 
report must be!  You, I know, will feel for my situation.  A woman of 
my condition!--think how degrading even the rumour of such an 
alliance must be.'

'Degrading indeed, my poor friend!' said Madame Clairval.  'You may 
rely upon it I will contradict the report wherever I go;' as she said 
which, she turned her attention upon another part of the company; and 
Cavigni, who had hitherto appeared a grave spectator of the scene, 
now fearing he should be unable to smother the laugh, that convulsed 
him, walked abruptly away.

'I perceive you do not know,' said the lady who sat near Madame 
Cheron, 'that the gentleman you have been speaking of is Madame 
Clairval's nephew!'  'Impossible!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, who now 
began to perceive, that she had been totally mistaken in her judgment 
of Valancourt, and to praise him aloud with as much servility, as she 
had before censured him with frivolous malignity.

Emily, who, during the greater part of this conversation, had been so 
absorbed in thought as to be spared the pain of hearing it, was now 
extremely surprised by her aunt's praise of Valancourt, with whose 
relationship to Madame Clairval she was unacquainted; but she was not 
sorry when Madame Cheron, who, though she now tried to appear 
unconcerned, was really much embarrassed, prepared to withdraw 
immediately after supper.  Montoni then came to hand Madame Cheron to 
her carriage, and Cavigni, with an arch solemnity of countenance, 
followed with Emily, who, as she wished them good night, and drew up 
the glass, saw Valancourt among the crowd at the gates.  Before the 
carriage drove off, he disappeared.  Madame Cheron forbore to mention 
him to Emily, and, as soon as they reached the chateau, they 
separated for the night.

On the following morning, as Emily sat at breakfast with her aunt, a 
letter was brought to her, of which she knew the handwriting upon the 
cover; and, as she received it with a trembling hand, Madame Cheron 
hastily enquired from whom it came.  Emily, with her leave, broke the 
seal, and, observing the signature of Valancourt, gave it unread to 
her aunt, who received it with impatience; and, as she looked it 
over, Emily endeavoured to read on her countenance its contents.  
Having returned the letter to her niece, whose eyes asked if she 
might examine it, 'Yes, read it, child,' said Madame Cheron, in a 
manner less severe than she had expected, and Emily had, perhaps, 
never before so willingly obeyed her aunt.  In this letter Valancourt 
said little of the interview of the preceding day, but concluded with 
declaring, that he would accept his dismission from Emily only, and 
with entreating, that she would allow him to wait upon her, on the 
approaching evening.  When she read this, she was astonished at the 
moderation of Madame Cheron, and looked at her with timid 
expectation, as she said sorrowfully--'What am I to say, madam?'

'Why--we must see the young man, I believe,' replied her aunt, 'and 
hear what he has further to say for himself.  You may tell him he may 
come.'  Emily dared scarcely credit what she heard.  'Yet, stay,' 
added Madame Cheron, 'I will tell him so myself.'  She called for pen 
and ink; Emily still not daring to trust the emotions she felt, and 
almost sinking beneath them.  Her surprise would have been less had 
she overheard, on the preceding evening, what Madame Cheron had not 
forgotten--that Valancourt was the nephew of Madame Clairval.

What were the particulars of her aunt's note Emily did not learn, but 
the result was a visit from Valancourt in the evening, whom Madame 
Cheron received alone, and they had a long conversation before Emily 
was called down.  When she entered the room, her aunt was conversing 
with complacency, and she saw the eyes of Valancourt, as he 
impatiently rose, animated with hope.

'We have been talking over this affair,' said Madame Cheron, 'the 
chevalier has been telling me, that the late Monsieur Clairval was 
the brother of the Countess de Duvarney, his mother.  I only wish he 
had mentioned his relationship to Madame Clairval before; I certainly 
should have considered that circumstance as a sufficient introduction 
to my house.'  Valancourt bowed, and was going to address Emily, but 
her aunt prevented him.  'I have, therefore, consented that you shall 
receive his visits; and, though I will not bind myself by any 
promise, or say, that I shall consider him as my nephew, yet I shall 
permit the intercourse, and shall look forward to any further 
connection as an event, which may possibly take place in a course of 
years, provided the chevalier rises in his profession, or any 
circumstance occurs, which may make it prudent for him to take a 
wife.  But Mons. Valancourt will observe, and you too, Emily, that, 
till that happens, I positively forbid any thoughts of marrying.'

Emily's countenance, during this coarse speech, varied every instant, 
and, towards its conclusion, her distress had so much increased, that 
she was on the point of leaving the room.  Valancourt, meanwhile, 
scarcely less embarrassed, did not dare to look at her, for whom he 
was thus distressed; but, when Madame Cheron was silent, he said, 
'Flattering, madam, as your approbation is to me--highly as I am 
honoured by it--I have yet so much to fear, that I scarcely dare to 
hope.'  'Pray, sir, explain yourself,' said Madame Cheron; an 
unexpected requisition, which embarrassed Valancourt again, and 
almost overcame him with confusion, at circumstances, on which, had 
he been only a spectator of the scene, he would have smiled.

'Till I receive Mademoiselle St. Aubert's permission to accept your 
indulgence,' said he, falteringly--'till she allows me to hope--'

'O! is that all?' interrupted Madame Cheron.  'Well, I will take upon 
me to answer for her.  But at the same time, sir, give me leave to 
observe to you, that I am her guardian, and that I expect, in every 
instance, that my will is hers.'

As she said this, she rose and quitted the room, leaving Emily and 
Valancourt in a state of mutual embarrassment; and, when Valancourt's 
hopes enabled him to overcome his fears, and to address her with the 
zeal and sincerity so natural to him, it was a considerable time 
before she was sufficiently recovered to hear with distinctness his 
solicitations and inquiries.

The conduct of Madame Cheron in this affair had been entirely 
governed by selfish vanity.  Valancourt, in his first interview, had 
with great candour laid open to her the true state of his present 
circumstances, and his future expectancies, and she, with more 
prudence than humanity, had absolutely and abruptly rejected his 
suit.  She wished her niece to marry ambitiously, not because she 
desired to see her in possession of the happiness, which rank and 
wealth are usually believed to bestow, but because she desired to 
partake the importance, which such an alliance would give.  When, 
therefore, she discovered that Valancourt was the nephew of a person 
of so much consequence as Madame Clairval, she became anxious for the 
connection, since the prospect it afforded of future fortune and 
distinction for Emily, promised the exaltation she coveted for 
herself.  Her calculations concerning fortune in this alliance were 
guided rather by her wishes, than by any hint of Valancourt, or 
strong appearance of probability; and, when she rested her 
expectation on the wealth of Madame Clairval, she seemed totally to 
have forgotten, that the latter had a daughter.  Valancourt, however, 
had not forgotten this circumstance, and the consideration of it had 
made him so modest in his expectations from Madame Clairval, that he 
had not even named the relationship in his first conversation with 
Madame Cheron.  But, whatever might be the future fortune of Emily, 
the present distinction, which the connection would afford for 
herself, was certain, since the splendour of Madame Clairval's 
establishment was such as to excite the general envy and partial 
imitation of the neighbourhood.  Thus had she consented to involve 
her niece in an engagement, to which she saw only a distant and 
uncertain conclusion, with as little consideration of her happiness, 
as when she had so precipitately forbade it:  for though she herself 
possessed the means of rendering this union not only certain, but 
prudent, yet to do so was no part of her present intention. 

From this period Valancourt made frequent visits to Madame Cheron, 
and Emily passed in his society the happiest hours she had known 
since the death of her father.  They were both too much engaged by 
the present moments to give serious consideration to the future.  
They loved and were beloved, and saw not, that the very attachment, 
which formed the delight of their present days, might possibly 
occasion the sufferings of years.  Meanwhile, Madame Cheron's 
intercourse with Madame Clairval became more frequent than before, 
and her vanity was already gratified by the opportunity of 
proclaiming, wherever she went, the attachment that subsisted between 
their nephew and niece.

Montoni was now also become a daily guest at the chateau, and Emily 
was compelled to observe, that he really was a suitor, and a favoured 
suitor, to her aunt.

Thus passed the winter months, not only in peace, but in happiness, 
to Valancourt and Emily; the station of his regiment being so near 
Tholouse, as to allow this frequent intercourse.  The pavilion on the 
terrace was the favourite scene of their interviews, and there Emily, 
with Madame Cheron, would work, while Valancourt read aloud works of 
genius and taste, listened to her enthusiasm, expressed his own, and 
caught new opportunities of observing, that their minds were formed 
to constitute the happiness of each other, the same taste, the same 
noble and benevolent sentiments animating each.



CHAPTER XIII


  As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-Isles,
  Placed far amid the melancholy main,
  (Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles,
  Or that aerial beings sometimes deign
  To stand embodied to our senses plain)
  Sees on the naked hill, or valley low,
  The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain,
  A vast assembly moving to and fro,
 Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show.
     CASTLE OF INDOLENCE

Madame Cheron's avarice at length yielded to her vanity.  Some very 
splendid entertainments, which Madame Clairval had given, and the 
general adulation, which was paid her, made the former more anxious 
than before to secure an alliance, that would so much exalt her in 
her own opinion and in that of the world.  She proposed terms for the 
immediate marriage of her niece, and offered to give Emily a dower, 
provided Madame Clairval observed equal terms, on the part of her 
nephew.  Madame Clairval listened to the proposal, and, considering 
that Emily was the apparent heiress of her aunt's wealth, accepted 
it.  Meanwhile, Emily knew nothing of the transaction, till Madame 
Cheron informed her, that she must make preparation for the nuptials, 
which would be celebrated without further delay; then, astonished and 
wholly unable to account for this sudden conclusion, which Valancourt 
had not solicited (for he was ignorant of what had passed between the 
elder ladies, and had not dared to hope such good fortune), she 
decisively objected to it.  Madame Cheron, however, quite as jealous 
of contradiction now, as she had been formerly, contended for a 
speedy marriage with as much vehemence as she had formerly opposed 
whatever had the most remote possibility of leading to it; and 
Emily's scruples disappeared, when she again saw Valancourt, who was 
now informed of the happiness, designed for him, and came to claim a 
promise of it from herself.

While preparations were making for these nuptials, Montoni became the 
acknowledged lover of Madame Cheron; and, though Madame Clairval was 
much displeased, when she heard of the approaching connection, and 
was willing to prevent that of Valancourt with Emily, her conscience 
told her, that she had no right thus to trifle with their peace, and 
Madame Clairval, though a woman of fashion, was far less advanced 
than her friend in the art of deriving satisfaction from distinction 
and admiration, rather than from conscience.

Emily observed with concern the ascendancy, which Montoni had 
acquired over Madame Cheron, as well as the increasing frequency of 
his visits; and her own opinion of this Italian was confirmed by that 
of Valancourt, who had always expressed a dislike of him.  As she 
was, one morning, sitting at work in the pavilion, enjoying the 
pleasant freshness of spring, whose colours were now spread upon the 
landscape, and listening to Valancourt, who was reading, but who 
often laid aside the book to converse, she received a summons to 
attend Madame Cheron immediately, and had scarcely entered the 
dressing-room, when she observed with surprise the dejection of her 
aunt's countenance, and the contrasted gaiety of her dress.  'So, 
niece!'--said Madame, and she stopped under some degree of 
embarrassment.--'I sent for you--I--I wished to see you; I have news 
to tell you.  From this hour you must consider the Signor Montoni as 
your uncle--we were married this morning.'

Astonished--not so much at the marriage, as at the secrecy with which 
it had been concluded, and the agitation with which it was announced, 
Emily, at length, attributed the privacy to the wish of Montoni, 
rather than of her aunt.  His wife, however, intended, that the 
contrary should be believed, and therefore added, 'you see I wished 
to avoid a bustle; but now the ceremony is over I shall do so no 
longer; and I wish to announce to my servants that they must receive 
the Signor Montoni for their master.'  Emily made a feeble attempt to 
congratulate her on these apparently imprudent nuptials.  'I shall 
now celebrate my marriage with some splendour,' continued Madame 
Montoni, 'and to save time I shall avail myself of the preparation 
that has been made for yours, which will, of course, be delayed a 
little while.  Such of your wedding clothes as are ready I shall 
expect you will appear in, to do honour to this festival.  I also 
wish you to inform Monsieur Valancourt, that I have changed my name, 
and he will acquaint Madame Clairval.  In a few days I shall give a 
grand entertainment, at which I shall request their presence.'

Emily was so lost in surprise and various thought, that she made 
Madame Montoni scarcely any reply, but, at her desire, she returned 
to inform Valancourt of what had passed.  Surprise was not his 
predominant emotion on hearing of these hasty nuptials; and, when he 
learned, that they were to be the means of delaying his own, and that 
the very ornaments of the chateau, which had been prepared to grace 
the nuptial day of his Emily, were to be degraded to the celebration 
of Madame Montoni's, grief and indignation agitated him alternately.  
He could conceal neither from the observation of Emily, whose efforts 
to abstract him from these serious emotions, and to laugh at the 
apprehensive considerations, that assailed him, were ineffectual; 
and, when, at length, he took leave, there was an earnest tenderness 
in his manner, that extremely affected her; she even shed tears, when 
he disappeared at the end of the terrace, yet knew not exactly why 
she should do so.

Montoni now took possession of the chateau, and the command of its 
inhabitants, with the ease of a man, who had long considered it to be 
his own.  His friend Cavigni, who had been extremely serviceable, in 
having paid Madame Cheron the attention and flattery, which she 
required, but from which Montoni too often revolted, had apartments 
assigned to him, and received from the domestics an equal degree of 
obedience with the master of the mansion.

Within a few days, Madame Montoni, as she had promised, gave a 
magnificent entertainment to a very numerous company, among whom was 
Valancourt; but at which Madame Clairval excused herself from 
attending.  There was a concert, ball and supper.  Valancourt was, of 
course, Emily's partner, and though, when he gave a look to the 
decorations of the apartments, he could not but remember, that they 
were designed for other festivities, than those they now contributed 
to celebrate, he endeavoured to check his concern by considering, 
that a little while only would elapse before they would be given to 
their original destination.  During this evening, Madame Montoni 
danced, laughed and talked incessantly; while Montoni, silent, 
reserved and somewhat haughty, seemed weary of the parade, and of the 
frivolous company it had drawn together.

This was the first and the last entertainment, given in celebration 
of their nuptials.  Montoni, though the severity of his temper and 
the gloominess of his pride prevented him from enjoying such 
festivities, was extremely willing to promote them.  It was seldom, 
that he could meet in any company a man of more address, and still 
seldomer one of more understanding, than himself; the balance of 
advantage in such parties, or in the connections, which might arise 
from them, must, therefore, be on his side; and, knowing, as he did, 
the selfish purposes, for which they are generally frequented, he had 
no objection to measure his talents of dissimulation with those of 
any other competitor for distinction and plunder.  But his wife, who, 
when her own interest was immediately concerned, had sometimes more 
discernment than vanity, acquired a consciousness of her inferiority 
to other women, in personal attractions, which, uniting with the 
jealousy natural to the discovery, counteracted his readiness for 
mingling with all the parties Tholouse could afford.  Till she had, 
as she supposed, the affections of an husband to lose, she had no 
motive for discovering the unwelcome truth, and it had never obtruded 
itself upon her; but, now that it influenced her policy, she opposed 
her husband's inclination for company, with the more eagerness, 
because she believed him to be really as well received in the female 
society of the place, as, during his addresses to her, he had 
affected to be.

A few weeks only had elapsed, since the marriage, when Madame Montoni 
informed Emily, that the Signor intended to return to Italy, as soon 
as the necessary preparation could be made for so long a journey.  
'We shall go to Venice,' said she, 'where the Signor has a fine 
mansion, and from thence to his estate in Tuscany.  Why do you look 
so grave, child?--You, who are so fond of a romantic country and fine 
views, will doubtless be delighted with this journey.'

'Am I then to be of the party, madam?' said Emily, with extreme 
surprise and emotion.  'Most certainly,' replied her aunt, 'how could 
you imagine we should leave you behind?  But I see you are thinking 
of the Chevalier; he is not yet, I believe, informed of the journey, 
but he very soon will be so.  Signor Montoni is gone to acquaint 
Madame Clairval of our journey, and to say, that the proposed 
connection between the families must from this time be thought of no 
more.'

The unfeeling manner, in which Madame Montoni thus informed her 
niece, that she must be separated, perhaps for ever, from the man, 
with whom she was on the point of being united for life, added to the 
dismay, which she must otherwise have suffered at such intelligence.  
When she could speak, she asked the cause of the sudden change in 
Madame's sentiments towards Valancourt, but the only reply she could 
obtain was, that the Signor had forbade the connection, considering 
it to be greatly inferior to what Emily might reasonably expect.

'I now leave the affair entirely to the Signor,' added Madame 
Montoni, 'but I must say, that M. Valancourt never was a favourite 
with me, and I was overpersuaded, or I should not have given my 
consent to the connection.  I was weak enough--I am so foolish 
sometimes!--to suffer other people's uneasiness to affect me, and so 
my better judgment yielded to your affliction.  But the Signor has 
very properly pointed out the folly of this, and he shall not have to 
reprove me a second time.  I am determined, that you shall submit to 
those, who know how to guide you better than yourself--I am 
determined, that you shall be conformable.'

Emily would have been astonished at the assertions of this eloquent 
speech, had not her mind been so overwhelmed by the sudden shock it 
had received, that she scarcely heard a word of what was latterly 
addressed to her.  Whatever were the weaknesses of Madame Montoni, 
she might have avoided to accuse herself with those of compassion and 
tenderness to the feelings of others, and especially to those of 
Emily.  It was the same ambition, that lately prevailed upon her to 
solicit an alliance with Madame Clairval's family, which induced her 
to withdraw from it, now that her marriage with Montoni had exalted 
her self-consequence, and, with it, her views for her niece.

Emily was, at this time, too much affected to employ either 
remonstrance, or entreaty on this topic; and when, at length, she 
attempted the latter, her emotion overcame her speech, and she 
retired to her apartment, to think, if in the present state of her 
mind to think was possible, upon this sudden and overwhelming 
subject.  It was very long, before her spirits were sufficiently 
composed to permit the reflection, which, when it came, was dark and 
even terrible.  She saw, that Montoni sought to aggrandise himself in 
his disposal of her, and it occurred, that his friend Cavigni was the 
person, for whom he was interested.  The prospect of going to Italy 
was still rendered darker, when she considered the tumultuous 
situation of that country, then torn by civil commotion, where every 
petty state was at war with its neighbour, and even every castle 
liable to the attack of an invader.  She considered the person, to 
whose immediate guidance she would be committed, and the vast 
distance, that was to separate her from Valancourt, and, at the 
recollection of him, every other image vanished from her mind, and 
every thought was again obscured by grief.

In this perturbed state she passed some hours, and, when she was 
summoned to dinner, she entreated permission to remain in her own 
apartment; but Madame Montoni was alone, and the request was refused.  
Emily and her aunt said little during the repast; the one occupied by 
her griefs, the other engrossed by the disappointment, which the 
unexpected absence of Montoni occasioned; for not only was her vanity 
piqued by the neglect, but her jealousy alarmed by what she 
considered as a mysterious engagement.  When the cloth was drawn and 
they were alone, Emily renewed the mention of Valancourt; but her 
aunt, neither softened to pity, or awakened to remorse, became 
enraged, that her will should be opposed, and the authority of 
Montoni questioned, though this was done by Emily with her usual 
gentleness, who, after a long, and torturing conversation, retired in 
tears.

As she crossed the hall, a person entered it by the great door, whom, 
as her eyes hastily glanced that way, she imagined to be Montoni, and 
she was passing on with quicker steps, when she heard the well-known 
voice of Valancourt.

'Emily, O! my Emily!' cried he in a tone faltering with impatience, 
while she turned, and, as he advanced, was alarmed at the expression 
of his countenance and the eager desperation of his air.  'In tears, 
Emily!  I would speak with you,' said he, 'I have much to say; 
conduct me to where we may converse.  But you tremble--you are ill!  
Let me lead you to a seat.'

He observed the open door of an apartment, and hastily took her hand 
to lead her thither; but she attempted to withdraw it, and said, with 
a languid smile, 'I am better already; if you wish to see my aunt she 
is in the dining-parlour.'  'I must speak with YOU, my Emily,' 
replied Valancourt, 'Good God! is it already come to this?  Are you 
indeed so willing to resign me?'  But this is an improper place--I am 
overheard.  Let me entreat your attention, if only for a few 
minutes.'--'When you have seen my aunt,' said Emily.  'I was wretched 
enough when I came hither,' exclaimed Valancourt, 'do not increase my 
misery by this coldness--this cruel refusal.'

The despondency, with which he spoke this, affected her almost to 
tears, but she persisted in refusing to hear him, till he had 
conversed with Madame Montoni.  'Where is her husband, where, then, 
is Montoni?' said Valancourt, in an altered tone:  'it is he, to whom 
I must speak.'

Emily, terrified for the consequence of the indignation, that flashed 
in his eyes, tremblingly assured him, that Montoni was not at home, 
and entreated he would endeavour to moderate his resentment.  At the 
tremulous accents of her voice, his eyes softened instantly from 
wildness into tenderness.  'You are ill, Emily,' said he, 'they will 
destroy us both!  Forgive me, that I dared to doubt your affection.'

Emily no longer opposed him, as he led her into an adjoining parlour; 
the manner, in which he had named Montoni, had so much alarmed her 
for his own safety, that she was now only anxious to prevent the 
consequences of his just resentment.  He listened to her entreaties, 
with attention, but replied to them only with looks of despondency 
and tenderness, concealing, as much as possible, the sentiments he 
felt towards Montoni, that he might soothe the apprehensions, which 
distressed her.  But she saw the veil he had spread over his 
resentment, and, his assumed tranquillity only alarming her more, she 
urged, at length, the impolicy of forcing an interview with Montoni, 
and of taking any measure, which might render their separation 
irremediable.  Valancourt yielded to these remonstrances, and her 
affecting entreaties drew from him a promise, that, however Montoni 
might persist in his design of disuniting them, he would not seek to 
redress his wrongs by violence.  'For my sake,' said Emily, 'let the 
consideration of what I should suffer deter you from such a mode of 
revenge!'  'For your sake, Emily,' replied Valancourt, his eyes 
filling with tears of tenderness and grief, while he gazed upon her.  
'Yes--yes--I shall subdue myself.  But, though I have given you my 
solemn promise to do this, do not expect, that I can tamely submit to 
the authority of Montoni; if I could, I should be unworthy of you.  
Yet, O Emily! how long may he condemn me to live without you,--how 
long may it be before you return to France!'

Emily endeavoured to sooth him with assurances of her unalterable 
affection, and by representing, that, in little more than a year, she 
should be her own mistress, as far as related to her aunt, from whose 
guardianship her age would then release her; assurances, which gave 
little consolation to Valancourt, who considered, that she would then 
be in Italy and in the power of those, whose dominion over her would 
not cease with their rights; but he affected to be consoled by them.  
Emily, comforted by the promise she had obtained, and by his apparent 
composure, was about to leave him, when her aunt entered the room.  
She threw a glance of sharp reproof upon her niece, who immediately 
withdrew, and of haughty displeasure upon Valancourt.

'This is not the conduct I should have expected from you, sir;' said 
she, 'I did not expect to see you in my house, after you had been 
informed, that your visits were no longer agreeable, much less, that 
you would seek a clandestine interview with my niece, and that she 
would grant one.'

Valancourt, perceiving it necessary to vindicate Emily from such a 
design, explained, that the purpose of his own visit had been to 
request an interview with Montoni, and he then entered upon the 
subject of it, with the tempered spirit which the sex, rather than 
the respectability, of Madame Montoni, demanded.

His expostulations were answered with severe rebuke; she lamented 
again, that her prudence had ever yielded to what she termed 
compassion, and added, that she was so sensible of the folly of her 
former consent, that, to prevent the possibility of a repetition, she 
had committed the affair entirely to the conduct of Signor Montoni.

The feeling eloquence of Valancourt, however, at length, made her 
sensible in some measure of her unworthy conduct, and she became 
susceptible to shame, but not remorse:  she hated Valancourt, who 
awakened her to this painful sensation, and, in proportion as she 
grew dissatisfied with herself, her abhorrence of him increased.  
This was also the more inveterate, because his tempered words and 
manner were such as, without accusing her, compelled her to accuse 
herself, and neither left her a hope, that the odious portrait was 
the caricature of his prejudice, or afforded her an excuse for 
expressing the violent resentment, with which she contemplated it.  
At length, her anger rose to such an height, that Valancourt was 
compelled to leave the house abruptly, lest he should forfeit his own 
esteem by an intemperate reply.  He was then convinced, that from 
Madame Montoni he had nothing to hope, for what of either pity, or 
justice could be expected from a person, who could feel the pain of 
guilt, without the humility of repentance?

To Montoni he looked with equal despondency, since it was nearly 
evident, that this plan of separation originated with him, and it was 
not probable, that he would relinquish his own views to entreaties, 
or remonstrances, which he must have foreseen and have been prepared 
to resist.  Yet, remembering his promise to Emily, and more 
solicitous, concerning his love, than jealous of his consequence, 
Valancourt was careful to do nothing that might unnecessarily 
irritate Montoni,  he wrote to him, therefore, not to demand an 
interview, but to solicit one, and, having done this, he endeavoured 
to wait with calmness his reply.

Madame Clairval was passive in the affair.  When she gave her 
approbation to Valancourt's marriage, it was in the belief, that 
Emily would be the heiress of Madame Montoni's fortune; and, though, 
upon the nuptials of the latter, when she perceived the fallacy of 
this expectation, her conscience had withheld her from adopting any 
measure to prevent the union, her benevolence was not sufficiently 
active to impel her towards any step, that might now promote it.  She 
was, on the contrary, secretly pleased, that Valancourt was released 
from an engagement, which she considered to be as inferior, in point 
of fortune, to his merit, as his alliance was thought by Montoni to 
be humiliating to the beauty of Emily; and, though her pride was 
wounded by this rejection of a member of her family, she disdained to 
shew resentment otherwise, than by silence.

Montoni, in his reply to Valancourt, said, that as an interview could 
neither remove the objections of the one, or overcome the wishes of 
the other, it would serve only to produce useless altercation between 
them.  He, therefore, thought proper to refuse it.

In consideration of the policy, suggested by Emily, and of his 
promise to her, Valancourt restrained the impulse, that urged him to 
the house of Montoni, to demand what had been denied to his 
entreaties.  He only repeated his solicitations to see him; seconding 
them with all the arguments his situation could suggest.  Thus 
several days passed, in remonstrance, on one side, and inflexible 
denial, on the other; for, whether it was fear, or shame, or the 
hatred, which results from both, that made Montoni shun the man he 
had injured, he was peremptory in his refusal, and was neither 
softened to pity by the agony, which Valancourt's letters pourtrayed, 
or awakened to a repentance of his own injustice by the strong 
remonstrances he employed.  At length, Valancourt's letters were 
returned unopened, and then, in the first moments of passionate 
despair, he forgot every promise to Emily, except the solemn one, 
which bound him to avoid violence, and hastened to Montoni's chateau, 
determined to see him by whatever other means might be necessary.  
Montoni was denied, and Valancourt, when he afterwards enquired for 
Madame, and Ma'amselle St. Aubert, was absolutely refused admittance 
by the servants.  Not choosing to submit himself to a contest with 
these, he, at length, departed, and, returning home in a state of 
mind approaching to frenzy, wrote to Emily of what had passed, 
expressed without restraint all the agony of his heart, and 
entreated, that, since he must not otherwise hope to see her 
immediately, she would allow him an interview unknown to Montoni.  
Soon after he had dispatched this, his passions becoming more 
temperate, he was sensible of the error he had committed in having 
given Emily a new subject of distress in the strong mention of his 
own suffering, and would have given half the world, had it been his, 
to recover the letter.  Emily, however, was spared the pain she must 
have received from it by the suspicious policy of Madame Montoni, who 
had ordered, that all letters, addressed to her niece, should be 
delivered to herself, and who, after having perused this and indulged 
the expressions of resentment, which Valancourt's mention of Montoni 
provoked, had consigned it to the flames.

Montoni, meanwhile, every day more impatient to leave France, gave 
repeated orders for dispatch to the servants employed in preparations 
for the journey, and to the persons, with whom he was transacting 
some particular business.  He preserved a steady silence to the 
letters in which Valancourt, despairing of greater good, and having 
subdued the passion, that had transgressed against his policy, 
solicited only the indulgence of being allowed to bid Emily farewell.  
But, when the latter [Valancourt] learned, that she was really to set 
out in a very few days, and that it was designed he should see her no 
more, forgetting every consideration of prudence, he dared, in a 
second letter to Emily, to propose a clandestine marriage.  This also 
was transmitted to Madame Montoni, and the last day of Emily's stay 
at Tholouse arrived, without affording Valancourt even a line to 
sooth his sufferings, or a hope, that he should be allowed a parting 
interview.

During this period of torturing suspense to Valancourt, Emily was 
sunk into that kind of stupor, with which sudden and irremediable 
misfortune sometimes overwhelms the mind.  Loving him with the 
tenderest affection, and having long been accustomed to consider him 
as the friend and companion of all her future days, she had no ideas 
of happiness, that were not connected with him.  What, then, must 
have been her suffering, when thus suddenly they were to be 
separated, perhaps, for ever, certainly to be thrown into distant 
parts of the world, where they could scarcely hear of each other's 
existence; and all this in obedience to the will of a stranger, for 
such as Montoni, and of a person, who had but lately been anxious to 
hasten their nuptials!  It was in vain, that she endeavoured to 
subdue her grief, and resign herself to an event, which she could not 
avoid.  The silence of Valancourt afflicted more than it surprised 
her, since she attributed it to its just occasion; but, when the day, 
preceding that, on which she was to quit Tholouse, arrived, and she 
had heard no mention of his being permitted to take leave of her, 
grief overcame every consideration, that had made her reluctant to 
speak of him, and she enquired of Madame Montoni, whether this 
consolation had been refused.  Her aunt informed her that it had, 
adding, that, after the provocation she had herself received from 
Valancourt, in their last interview, and the persecution, which the 
Signor had suffered from his letters, no entreaties should avail to 
procure it.

'If the Chevalier expected this favour from us,' said she, 'he should 
have conducted himself in a very different manner; he should have 
waited patiently, till he knew whether we were disposed to grant it, 
and not have come and reproved me, because I did not think proper to 
bestow my niece upon him,--and then have persisted in troubling the 
Signor, because he did not think proper to enter into any dispute 
about so childish an affair.  His behaviour throughout has been 
extremely presumptuous and impertinent, and I desire, that I may 
never hear his name repeated, and that you will get the better of 
those foolish sorrows and whims, and look like other people, and not 
appear with that dismal countenance, as if you were ready to cry.  
For, though you say nothing, you cannot conceal your grief from my 
penetration.  I can see you are ready to cry at this moment, though I 
am reproving you for it; aye, even now, in spite of my commands.'

Emily, having turned away to hide her tears, quitted the room to 
indulge them, and the day was passed in an intensity of anguish, such 
as she had, perhaps, never known before.  When she withdrew to her 
chamber for the night, she remained in the chair where she had placed 
herself, on entering the room, absorbed in her grief, till long after 
every member of the family, except herself, was retired to rest.  She 
could not divest herself of a belief, that she had parted with 
Valancourt to meet no more; a belief, which did not arise merely from 
foreseen circumstances, for, though the length of the journey she was 
about to commence, the uncertainty as to the period of her return, 
together with the prohibitions she had received, seemed to justify 
it, she yielded also to an impression, which she mistook for a pre-
sentiment, that she was going from Valancourt for ever.  How dreadful 
to her imagination, too, was the distance that would separate them--
the Alps, those tremendous barriers! would rise, and whole countries 
extend between the regions where each must exist!  To live in 
adjoining provinces, to live even in the same country, though without 
seeing him, was comparative happiness to the conviction of this 
dreadful length of distance.

Her mind was, at length, so much agitated by the consideration of her 
state, and the belief, that she had seen Valancourt for the last 
time, that she suddenly became very faint, and, looking round the 
chamber for something, that might revive her, she observed the 
casements, and had just strength to throw one open, near which she 
seated herself.  The air recalled her spirits, and the still moon-
light, that fell upon the elms of a long avenue, fronting the window, 
somewhat soothed them, and determined her to try whether exercise and 
the open air would not relieve the intense pain that bound her 
temples.  In the chateau all was still; and, passing down the great 
stair-case into the hall, from whence a passage led immediately to 
the garden, she softly and unheard, as she thought, unlocked the 
door, and entered the avenue.  Emily passed on with steps now 
hurried, and now faltering, as, deceived by the shadows among the 
trees, she fancied she saw some person move in the distant 
perspective, and feared, that it was a spy of Madame Montoni.  Her 
desire, however, to re-visit the pavilion, where she had passed so 
many happy hours with Valancourt, and had admired with him the 
extensive prospect over Languedoc and her native Gascony, overcame 
her apprehension of being observed, and she moved on towards the 
terrace, which, running along the upper garden, commanded the whole 
of the lower one, and communicated with it by a flight of marble 
steps, that terminated the avenue.

Having reached these steps, she paused a moment to look round, for 
her distance from the chateau now increased the fear, which the 
stillness and obscurity of the hour had awakened.  But, perceiving 
nothing that could justify it, she ascended to the terrace, where the 
moon-light shewed the long broad walk, with the pavilion at its 
extremity, while the rays silvered the foliage of the high trees and 
shrubs, that bordered it on the right, and the tufted summits of 
those, that rose to a level with the balustrade on the left, from the 
garden below.  Her distance from the chateau again alarming her, she 
paused to listen; the night was so calm, that no sound could have 
escaped her, but she heard only the plaintive sweetness of the 
nightingale, with the light shiver of the leaves, and she pursued her 
way towards the pavilion, having reached which, its obscurity did not 
prevent the emotion, that a fuller view of its well-known scene would 
have excited.  The lattices were thrown back, and shewed beyond their 
embowered arch the moon-light landscape, shadowy and soft; its 
groves, and plains extending gradually and indistinctly to the eye, 
its distant mountains catching a stronger gleam, and the nearer river 
reflecting the moon, and trembling to her rays.

Emily, as she approached the lattice, was sensible of the features of 
this scene only as they served to bring Valancourt more immediately 
to her fancy.  'Ah!' said she, with a heavy sigh, as she threw 
herself into a chair by the window, 'how often have we sat together 
in this spot--often have looked upon that landscape!  Never, never 
more shall we view it together--never--never more, perhaps, shall we 
look upon each other!'

Her tears were suddenly stopped by terror--a voice spoke near her in 
the pavilion; she shrieked--it spoke again, and she distinguished the 
well-known tones of Valancourt.  It was indeed Valancourt who 
supported her in his arms!  For some moments their emotion would not 
suffer either to speak.  'Emily,' said Valancourt at length, as he 
pressed her hand in his.  'Emily!' and he was again silent, but the 
accent, in which he had pronounced her name, expressed all his 
tenderness and sorrow.

'O my Emily!' he resumed, after a long pause, 'I do then see you once 
again, and hear again the sound of that voice!  I have haunted this 
place--these gardens, for many--many nights, with a faint, very faint 
hope of seeing you.  This was the only chance that remained to me, 
and thank heaven! it has at length succeeded--I am not condemned to 
absolute despair!'

Emily said something, she scarcely knew what, expressive of her 
unalterable affection, and endeavoured to calm the agitation of his 
mind; but Valancourt could for some time only utter incoherent 
expressions of his emotions; and, when he was somewhat more composed, 
he said, 'I came hither, soon after sun-set, and have been watching 
in the gardens, and in this pavilion ever since; for, though I had 
now given up all hope of seeing you, I could not resolve to tear 
myself from a place so near to you, and should probably have lingered 
about the chateau till morning dawned.  O how heavily the moments 
have passed, yet with what various emotion have they been marked, as 
I sometimes thought I heard footsteps, and fancied you were 
approaching, and then again--perceived only a dead and dreary 
silence!  But, when you opened the door of the pavilion, and the 
darkness prevented my distinguishing with certainty, whether it was 
my love--my heart beat so strongly with hopes and fears, that I could 
not speak.  The instant I heard the plaintive accents of your voice, 
my doubts vanished, but not my fears, till you spoke of me; then, 
losing the apprehension of alarming you in the excess of my emotion, 
I could no longer be silent.  O Emily! these are moments, in which 
joy and grief struggle so powerfully for pre-eminence, that the heart 
can scarcely support the contest!'

Emily's heart acknowledged the truth of this assertion, but the joy 
she felt on thus meeting Valancourt, at the very moment when she was 
lamenting, that they must probably meet no more, soon melted into 
grief, as reflection stole over her thoughts, and imagination 
prompted visions of the future.  She struggled to recover the calm 
dignity of mind, which was necessary to support her through this last 
interview, and which Valancourt found it utterly impossible to 
attain, for the transports of his joy changed abruptly into those of 
suffering, and he expressed in the most impassioned language his 
horror of this separation, and his despair of their ever meeting 
again.  Emily wept silently as she listened to him, and then, trying 
to command her own distress, and to sooth his, she suggested every 
circumstance that could lead to hope.  But the energy of his fears 
led him instantly to detect the friendly fallacies, which she 
endeavoured to impose on herself and him, and also to conjure up 
illusions too powerful for his reason.

'You are going from me,' said he, 'to a distant country, O how 
distant!--to new society, new friends, new admirers, with people too, 
who will try to make you forget me, and to promote new connections!  
How can I know this, and not know, that you will never return for me-
-never can be mine.'  His voice was stifled by sighs.

'You believe, then,' said Emily, 'that the pangs I suffer proceed 
from a trivial and temporary interest; you believe--'

'Suffer!' interrupted Valancourt, 'suffer for me!  O Emily--how 
sweet--how bitter are those words; what comfort, what anguish do they 
give!  I ought not to doubt the steadiness of your affection, yet 
such is the inconsistency of real love, that it is always awake to 
suspicion, however unreasonable; always requiring new assurances from 
the object of its interest, and thus it is, that I always feel 
revived, as by a new conviction, when your words tell me I am dear to 
you; and, wanting these, I relapse into doubt, and too often into 
despondency.'  Then seeming to recollect himself, he exclaimed, 'But 
what a wretch am I, thus to torture you, and in these moments, too!  
I, who ought to support and comfort you!'

This reflection overcame Valancourt with tenderness, but, relapsing 
into despondency, he again felt only for himself, and lamented again 
this cruel separation, in a voice and words so impassioned, that 
Emily could no longer struggle to repress her own grief, or to sooth 
his.  Valancourt, between these emotions of love and pity, lost the 
power, and almost the wish, of repressing his agitation; and, in the 
intervals of convulsive sobs, he, at one moment, kissed away her 
tears, then told her cruelly, that possibly she might never again 
weep for him, and then tried to speak more calmly, but only 
exclaimed, 'O Emily--my heart will break!--I cannot--cannot leave 
you!  Now--I gaze upon that countenance, now I hold you in my arms! a 
little while, and all this will appear a dream.  I shall look, and 
cannot see you; shall try to recollect your features--and the 
impression will be fled from my imagination;--to hear the tones of 
your voice, and even memory will be silent!--I cannot, cannot leave 
you!  why should we confide the happiness of our whole lives to the 
will of people, who have no right to interrupt, and, except in giving 
you to me, have no power to promote it?  O Emily! venture to trust 
your own heart, venture to be mine for ever!'  His voice trembled, 
and he was silent; Emily continued to weep, and was silent also, when 
Valancourt proceeded to propose an immediate marriage, and that at an 
early hour on the following morning, she should quit Madame Montoni's 
house, and be conducted by him to the church of the Augustines, where 
a friar should await to unite them.

The silence, with which she listened to a proposal, dictated by love 
and despair, and enforced at a moment, when it seemed scarcely 
possible for her to oppose it;--when her heart was softened by the 
sorrows of a separation, that might be eternal, and her reason 
obscured by the illusions of love and terror, encouraged him to hope, 
that it would not be rejected.  'Speak, my Emily!' said Valancourt 
eagerly, 'let me hear your voice, let me hear you confirm my fate.'  
she spoke not; her cheek was cold, and her senses seemed to fail her, 
but she did not faint.  To Valancourt's terrified imagination she 
appeared to be dying; he called upon her name, rose to go to the 
chateau for assistance, and then, recollecting her situation, feared 
to go, or to leave her for a moment.

After a few minutes, she drew a deep sigh, and began to revive.  The 
conflict she had suffered, between love and the duty she at present 
owed to her father's sister; her repugnance to a clandestine 
marriage, her fear of emerging on the world with embarrassments, such 
as might ultimately involve the object of her affection in misery and 
repentance;--all this various interest was too powerful for a mind, 
already enervated by sorrow, and her reason had suffered a transient 
suspension.  But duty, and good sense, however hard the conflict, at 
length, triumphed over affection and mournful presentiment; above 
all, she dreaded to involve Valancourt in obscurity and vain regret, 
which she saw, or thought she saw, must be the too certain 
consequence of a marriage in their present circumstances; and she 
acted, perhaps, with somewhat more than female fortitude, when she 
resolved to endure a present, rather than provoke a distant 
misfortune.

With a candour, that proved how truly she esteemed and loved him, and 
which endeared her to him, if possible, more than ever, she told 
Valancourt all her reasons for rejecting his proposals.  Those, which 
influenced her concerning his future welfare, he instantly refuted, 
or rather contradicted; but they awakened tender considerations for 
her, which the frenzy of passion and despair had concealed before, 
and love, which had but lately prompted him to propose a clandestine 
and immediate marriage, now induced him to renounce it.  The triumph 
was almost too much for his heart; for Emily's sake, he endeavoured 
to stifle his grief, but the swelling anguish would not be 
restrained.  'O Emily!' said he, 'I must leave you--I MUST leave you, 
and I know it is for ever!'

Convulsive sobs again interrupted his words, and they wept together 
in silence, till Emily, recollecting the danger of being discovered, 
and the impropriety of prolonging an interview, which might subject 
her to censure, summoned all her fortitude to utter a last farewell.

'Stay!' said Valancourt, 'I conjure you stay, for I have much to tell 
you.  The agitation of my mind has hitherto suffered me to speak only 
on the subject that occupied it;--I have forborne to mention a doubt 
of much importance, partly, lest it should appear as if I told it 
with an ungenerous view of alarming you into a compliance with my 
late proposal.'

Emily, much agitated, did not leave Valancourt, but she led him from 
the pavilion, and, as they walked upon the terrace, he proceeded as 
follows:

'This Montoni:  I have heard some strange hints concerning him.  Are 
you certain he is of Madame Quesnel's family, and that his fortune is 
what it appears to be?'

'I have no reason to doubt either,' replied Emily, in a voice of 
alarm.  'Of the first, indeed, I cannot doubt, but I have no certain 
means of judging of the latter, and I entreat you will tell me all 
you have heard.'

'That I certainly will, but it is very imperfect, and unsatisfactory 
information.  I gathered it by accident from an Italian, who was 
speaking to another person of this Montoni.  They were talking of his 
marriage; the Italian said, that if he was the person he meant, he 
was not likely to make Madame Cheron happy.  He proceeded to speak of 
him in general terms of dislike, and then gave some particular hints, 
concerning his character, that excited my curiosity, and I ventured 
to ask him a few questions.  He was reserved in his replies, but, 
after hesitating for some time, he owned, that he had understood 
abroad, that Montoni was a man of desperate fortune and character.  
He said something of a castle of Montoni's, situated among the 
Apennines, and of some strange circumstances, that might be 
mentioned, as to his former mode of life.  I pressed him to inform me 
further, but I believe the strong interest I felt was visible in my 
manner, and alarmed him; for no entreaties could prevail with him to 
give any explanation of the circumstances he had alluded to, or to 
mention any thing further concerning Montoni.  I observed to him, 
that, if Montoni was possessed of a castle in the Apennines, it 
appeared from such a circumstance, that he was of some family, and 
also seemed to contradict the report, that he was a man of entirely 
broken fortunes.  He shook his head, and looked as if he could have 
said a great deal, but made no reply.

'A hope of learning something more satisfactory, or more positive, 
detained me in his company a considerable time, and I renewed the 
subject repeatedly, but the Italian wrapped himself up in reserve, 
said--that what he had mentioned he had caught only from a floating 
report, and that reports frequently arose from personal malice, and 
were very little to be depended upon.  I forbore to press the subject 
farther, since it was obvious that he was alarmed for the consequence 
of what he had already said, and I was compelled to remain in 
uncertainty on a point where suspense is almost intolerable.  Think, 
Emily, what I must suffer to see you depart for a foreign country, 
committed to the power of a man of such doubtful character as is this 
Montoni!  But I will not alarm you unnecessarily;--it is possible, as 
the Italian said, at first, that this is not the Montoni he alluded 
to.  Yet, Emily, consider well before you resolve to commit yourself 
to him.  O! I must not trust myself to speak--or I shall renounce all 
the motives, which so lately influenced me to resign the hope of your 
becoming mine immediately.'

Valancourt walked upon the terrace with hurried steps, while Emily 
remained leaning on the balustrade in deep thought.  The information 
she had just received excited, perhaps, more alarm than it could 
justify, and raised once more the conflict of contrasted interests.  
She had never liked Montoni.  The fire and keenness of his eye, its 
proud exultation, its bold fierceness, its sullen watchfulness, as 
occasion, and even slight occasion, had called forth the latent soul, 
she had often observed with emotion; while from the usual expression 
of his countenance she had always shrunk.  From such observations she 
was the more inclined to believe, that it was this Montoni, of whom 
the Italian had uttered his suspicious hints.  The thought of being 
solely in his power, in a foreign land, was terrifying to her, but it 
was not by terror alone that she was urged to an immediate marriage 
with Valancourt.  The tenderest love had already pleaded his cause, 
but had been unable to overcome her opinion, as to her duty, her 
disinterested considerations for Valancourt, and the delicacy, which 
made her revolt from a clandestine union.  It was not to be expected, 
that a vague terror would be more powerful, than the united influence 
of love and grief.  But it recalled all their energy, and rendered a 
second conquest necessary.

With Valancourt, whose imagination was now awake to the suggestion of 
every passion; whose apprehensions for Emily had acquired strength by 
the mere mention of them, and became every instant more powerful, as 
his mind brooded over them--with Valancourt no second conquest was 
attainable.  He thought he saw in the clearest light, and love 
assisted the fear, that this journey to Italy would involve Emily in 
misery; he determined, therefore, to persevere in opposing it, and in 
conjuring her to bestow upon him the title of her lawful protector.

'Emily!' said he, with solemn earnestness, 'this is no time for 
scrupulous distinctions, for weighing the dubious and comparatively 
trifling circumstances, that may affect our future comfort.  I now 
see, much more clearly than before, the train of serious dangers you 
are going to encounter with a man of Montoni's character.  Those dark 
hints of the Italian spoke much, but not more than the idea I have of 
Montoni's disposition, as exhibited even in his countenance.  I think 
I see at this moment all that could have been hinted, written there.  
He is the Italian, whom I fear, and I conjure you for your own sake, 
as well as for mine, to prevent the evils I shudder to foresee.  O 
Emily! let my tenderness, my arms withhold you from them--give me the 
right to defend you!'

Emily only sighed, while Valancourt proceeded to remonstrate and to 
entreat with all the energy that love and apprehension could inspire.  
But, as his imagination magnified to her the possible evils she was 
going to meet, the mists of her own fancy began to dissipate, and 
allowed her to distinguish the exaggerated images, which imposed on 
his reason.  She considered, that there was no proof of Montoni being 
the person, whom the stranger had meant; that, even if he was so, the 
Italian had noticed his character and broken fortunes merely from 
report; and that, though the countenance of Montoni seemed to give 
probability to a part of the rumour, it was not by such circumstances 
that an implicit belief of it could be justified.  These 
considerations would probably not have arisen so distinctly to her 
mind, at this time, had not the terrors of Valancourt presented to 
her such obvious exaggerations of her danger, as incited her to 
distrust the fallacies of passion.  But, while she endeavoured in the 
gentlest manner to convince him of his error, she plunged him into a 
new one.  His voice and countenance changed to an expression of dark 
despair.  'Emily!' said he, 'this, this moment is the bitterest that 
is yet come to me.  You do not--cannot love me!--It would be 
impossible for you to reason thus coolly, thus deliberately, if you 
did.  I, _I_ am torn with anguish at the prospect of our separation, 
and of the evils that may await you in consequence of it; I would 
encounter any hazards to prevent it--to save you.  No! Emily, no!--
you cannot love me.'

'We have now little time to waste in exclamation, or assertion,' said 
Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion:  'if you are yet to learn 
how dear you are, and ever must be, to my heart, no assurances of 
mine can give you conviction.'

The last words faltered on her lips, and her tears flowed fast.  
These words and tears brought, once more, and with instantaneous 
force, conviction of her love to Valancourt.  He could only exclaim, 
'Emily! Emily!' and weep over the hand he pressed to his lips; but 
she, after some moments, again roused herself from the indulgence of 
sorrow, and said, 'I must leave you; it is late, and my absence from 
the chateau may be discovered.  Think of me--love me--when I am far 
away; the belief of this will be my comfort!'

'Think of you!--love you!' exclaimed Valancourt.

'Try to moderate these transports,' said Emily, 'for my sake, try.'

'For your sake!'

'Yes, for my sake,' replied Emily, in a tremulous voice, 'I cannot 
leave you thus!'

'Then do not leave me!' said Valancourt, with quickness.  'Why should 
we part, or part for longer than till to-morrow?'

'I am, indeed I am, unequal to these moments,' replied Emily, 'you 
tear my heart, but I never can consent to this hasty, imprudent 
proposal!'

'If we could command our time, my Emily, it should not be thus hasty; 
we must submit to circumstances.'

'We must indeed!  I have already told you all my heart--my spirits 
are gone.  You allowed the force of my objections, till your 
tenderness called up vague terrors, which have given us both 
unnecessary anguish.  Spare me! do not oblige me to repeat the 
reasons I have already urged.'

'Spare you!' cried Valancourt, 'I am a wretch--a very wretch, that 
have felt only for myself!--I! who ought to have shewn the fortitude 
of a man, who ought to have supported you, I! have increased your 
sufferings by the conduct of a child!  Forgive me, Emily! think of 
the distraction of my mind now that I am about to part with all that 
is dear to me--and forgive me!  When you are gone, I shall recollect 
with bitter remorse what I have made you suffer, and shall wish in 
vain that I could see you, if only for a moment, that I might sooth 
your grief.'

Tears again interrupted his voice, and Emily wept with him.  'I will 
shew myself more worthy of your love,' said Valancourt, at length; 'I 
will not prolong these moments.  My Emily--my own Emily! never forget 
me!  God knows when we shall meet again!  I resign you to his care.--
O God!--O God!--protect and bless her!'

He pressed her hand to his heart.  Emily sunk almost lifeless on his 
bosom, and neither wept, nor spoke.  Valancourt, now commanding his 
own distress, tried to comfort and re-assure her, but she appeared 
totally unaffected by what he said, and a sigh, which she uttered, 
now and then, was all that proved she had not fainted.

He supported her slowly towards the chateau, weeping and speaking to 
her; but she answered only in sighs, till, having reached the gate, 
that terminated the avenue, she seemed to have recovered her 
consciousness, and, looking round, perceived how near they were to 
the chateau.  'We must part here,' said she, stopping, 'Why prolong 
these moments?  Teach me the fortitude I have forgot.'

Valancourt struggled to assume a composed air.  'Farewell, my love!' 
said he, in a voice of solemn tenderness--'trust me we shall meet 
again--meet for each other--meet to part no more!'  His voice 
faltered, but, recovering it, he proceeded in a firmer tone.  'You 
know not what I shall suffer, till I hear from you; I shall omit no 
opportunity of conveying to you my letters, yet I tremble to think 
how few may occur.  And trust me, love, for your dear sake, I will 
try to bear this absence with fortitude.  O how little I have shewn 
to-night!'

'Farewell!' said Emily faintly.  'When you are gone, I shall think of 
many things I would have said to you.'  'And I of many--many!' said 
Valancourt; 'I never left you yet, that I did not immediately 
remember some question, or some entreaty, or some circumstance, 
concerning my love, that I earnestly wished to mention, and feel 
wretched because I could not.  O Emily! this countenance, on which I 
now gaze--will, in a moment, be gone from my eyes, and not all the 
efforts of fancy will be able to recall it with exactness.  O! what 
an infinite difference between this moment and the next!  NOW, I am 
in your presence, can behold you! THEN, all will be a dreary blank--
and I shall be a wanderer, exiled from my only home!'

Valancourt again pressed her to his heart, and held her there in 
silence, weeping.  Tears once again calmed her oppressed mind.  They 
again bade each other farewell, lingered a moment, and then parted.  
Valancourt seemed to force himself from the spot; he passed hastily 
up the avenue, and Emily, as she moved slowly towards the chateau, 
heard his distant steps.  she listened to the sounds, as they sunk 
fainter and fainter, till the melancholy stillness of night alone 
remained; and then hurried to her chamber, to seek repose, which, 
alas! was fled from her wretchedness.




VOLUME 2



CHAPTER I


 Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see,
 My heart untravell'd still shall turn to thee.
     GOLDSMITH

The carriages were at the gates at an early hour; the bustle of the 
domestics, passing to and fro in the galleries, awakened Emily from 
harassing slumbers:  her unquiet mind had, during the night, 
presented her with terrific images and obscure circumstances, 
concerning her affection and her future life.  She now endeavoured to 
chase away the impressions they had left on her fancy; but from 
imaginary evils she awoke to the consciousness of real ones.  
Recollecting that she had parted with Valancourt, perhaps for ever, 
her heart sickened as memory revived.  But she tried to dismiss the 
dismal forebodings that crowded on her mind, and to restrain the 
sorrow which she could not subdue; efforts which diffused over the 
settled melancholy of her countenance an expression of tempered 
resignation, as a thin veil, thrown over the features of beauty, 
renders them more interesting by a partial concealment.  But Madame 
Montoni observed nothing in this countenance except its usual 
paleness, which attracted her censure.  She told her niece, that she 
had been indulging in fanciful sorrows, and begged she would have 
more regard for decorum, than to let the world see that she could not 
renounce an improper attachment; at which Emily's pale cheek became 
flushed with crimson, but it was the blush of pride, and she made no 
answer.  Soon after, Montoni entered the breakfast room, spoke 
little, and seemed impatient to be gone.

The windows of this room opened upon the garden.  As Emily passed 
them, she saw the spot where she had parted with Valancourt on the 
preceding night:  the remembrance pressed heavily on her heart, and 
she turned hastily away from the object that had awakened it.

The baggage being at length adjusted, the travellers entered their 
carriages, and Emily would have left the chateau without one sigh of 
regret, had it not been situated in the neighbourhood of Valancourt's 
residence.

From a little eminence she looked back upon Tholouse, and the far-
seen plains of Gascony, beyond which the broken summits of the 
Pyrenees appeared on the distant horizon, lighted up by a morning 
sun.  'Dear pleasant mountains!' said she to herself, 'how long may 
it be ere I see ye again, and how much may happen to make me 
miserable in the interval!  Oh, could I now be certain, that I should 
ever return to ye, and find that Valancourt still lived for me, I 
should go in peace!  He will still gaze on ye, gaze when I am far 
away!'

The trees, that impended over the high banks of the road and formed a 
line of perspective with the distant country, now threatened to 
exclude the view of them; but the blueish mountains still appeared 
beyond the dark foliage, and Emily continued to lean from the coach 
window, till at length the closing branches shut them from her sight.

Another object soon caught her attention.  She had scarcely looked at 
a person who walked along the bank, with his hat, in which was the 
military feather, drawn over his eyes, before, at the sound of 
wheels, he suddenly turned, and she perceived that it was Valancourt 
himself, who waved his hand, sprung into the road, and through the 
window of the carriage put a letter into her hand.  He endeavoured to 
smile through the despair that overspread his countenance as she 
passed on.  The remembrance of that smile seemed impressed on Emily's 
mind for ever.  She leaned from the window, and saw him on a knoll of 
the broken bank, leaning against the high trees that waved over him, 
and pursuing the carriage with his eyes.  He waved his hand, and she 
continued to gaze till distance confused his figure, and at length 
another turn of the road entirely separated him from her sight.

Having stopped to take up Signor Cavigni at a chateau on the road, 
the travellers, of whom Emily was disrespectfully seated with Madame 
Montoni's woman in a second carriage, pursued their way over the 
plains of Languedoc.  The presence of this servant restrained Emily 
from reading Valancourt's letter, for she did not choose to expose 
the emotions it might occasion to the observation of any person.  Yet 
such was her wish to read this his last communication, that her 
trembling hand was every moment on the point of breaking the seal.

At length they reached the village, where they staid only to change 
horses, without alighting, and it was not till they stopped to dine, 
that Emily had an opportunity of reading the letter.  Though she had 
never doubted the sincerity of Valancourt's affection, the fresh 
assurances she now received of it revived her spirits; she wept over 
his letter in tenderness, laid it by to be referred to when they 
should be particularly depressed, and then thought of him with much 
less anguish than she had done since they parted.  Among some other 
requests, which were interesting to her, because expressive of his 
tenderness, and because a compliance with them seemed to annihilate 
for a while the pain of absence, he entreated she would always think 
of him at sunset.  'You will then meet me in thought,' said he; 'I 
shall constantly watch the sun-set, and I shall be happy in the 
belief, that your eyes are fixed upon the same object with mine, and 
that our minds are conversing.  You know not, Emily, the comfort I 
promise myself from these moments; but I trust you will experience 
it.'

It is unnecessary to say with what emotion Emily, on this evening, 
watched the declining sun, over a long extent of plains, on which she 
saw it set without interruption, and sink towards the province which 
Valancourt inhabited.  After this hour her mind became far more 
tranquil and resigned, than it had been since the marriage of Montoni 
and her aunt.

During several days the travellers journeyed over the plains of 
Languedoc; and then entering Dauphiny, and winding for some time 
among the mountains of that romantic province, they quitted their 
carriages and began to ascend the Alps.  And here such scenes of 
sublimity opened upon them as no colours of language must dare to 
paint!  Emily's mind was even so much engaged with new and wonderful 
images, that they sometimes banished the idea of Valancourt, though 
they more frequently revived it.  These brought to her recollection 
the prospects among the Pyrenees, which they had admired together, 
and had believed nothing could excel in grandeur.  How often did she 
wish to express to him the new emotions which this astonishing 
scenery awakened, and that he could partake of them!  Sometimes too 
she endeavoured to anticipate his remarks, and almost imagined him 
present.  she seemed to have arisen into another world, and to have 
left every trifling thought, every trifling sentiment, in that below; 
those only of grandeur and sublimity now dilated her mind, and 
elevated the affections of her heart.

With what emotions of sublimity, softened by tenderness, did she meet 
Valancourt in thought, at the customary hour of sun-set, when, 
wandering among the Alps, she watched the glorious orb sink amid 
their summits, his last tints die away on their snowy points, and a 
solemn obscurity steal over the scene!  And when the last gleam had 
faded, she turned her eyes from the west with somewhat of the 
melancholy regret that is experienced after the departure of a 
beloved friend; while these lonely feelings were heightened by the 
spreading gloom, and by the low sounds, heard only when darkness 
confines attention, which make the general stillness more impressive-
-leaves shook by the air, the last sigh of the breeze that lingers 
after sun-set, or the murmur of distant streams.

During the first days of this journey among the Alps, the scenery 
exhibited a wonderful mixture of solitude and inhabitation, of 
cultivation and barrenness.  On the edge of tremendous precipices, 
and within the hollow of the cliffs, below which the clouds often 
floated, were seen villages, spires, and convent towers; while green 
pastures and vineyards spread their hues at the feet of perpendicular 
rocks of marble, or of granite, whose points, tufted with alpine 
shrubs, or exhibiting only massy crags, rose above each other, till 
they terminated in the snow-topt mountain, whence the torrent fell, 
that thundered along the valley.

The snow was not yet melted on the summit of Mount Cenis, over which 
the travellers passed; but Emily, as she looked upon its clear lake 
and extended plain, surrounded by broken cliffs, saw, in imagination, 
the verdant beauty it would exhibit when the snows should be gone, 
and the shepherds, leading up the midsummer flocks from Piedmont, to 
pasture on its flowery summit, should add Arcadian figures to 
Arcadian landscape.

As she descended on the Italian side, the precipices became still 
more tremendous, and the prospects still more wild and majestic, over 
which the shifting lights threw all the pomp of colouring.  Emily 
delighted to observe the snowy tops of the mountains under the 
passing influence of the day, blushing with morning, glowing with the 
brightness of noon, or just tinted with the purple evening.  The 
haunt of man could now only be discovered by the simple hut of the 
shepherd and the hunter, or by the rough pine bridge thrown across 
the torrent, to assist the latter in his chase of the chamois over 
crags where, but for this vestige of man, it would have been believed 
only the chamois or the wolf dared to venture.  As Emily gazed upon 
one of these perilous bridges, with the cataract foaming beneath it, 
some images came to her mind, which she afterwards combined in the 
following

     STORIED SONNET

 The weary traveller, who, all night long,
 Has climb'd among the Alps' tremendous steeps,
 Skirting the pathless precipice, where throng
 Wild forms of danger; as he onward creeps
 If, chance, his anxious eye at distance sees
 The mountain-shepherd's solitary home,
 Peeping from forth the moon-illumin'd trees,
 What sudden transports to his bosom come!
 But, if between some hideous chasm yawn,
 Where the cleft pine a doubtful bridge displays,
 In dreadful silence, on the brink, forlorn
 He stands, and views in the faint rays
 Far, far below, the torrent's rising surge,
 And listens to the wild impetuous roar;
 Still eyes the depth, still shudders on the verge,
 Fears to return, nor dares to venture o'er.
 Desperate, at length the tottering plank he tries,
 His weak steps slide, he shrieks, he sinks--he dies!

Emily, often as she travelled among the clouds, watched in silent awe 
their billowy surges rolling below; sometimes, wholly closing upon 
the scene, they appeared like a world of chaos, and, at others, 
spreading thinly, they opened and admitted partial catches of the 
landscape--the torrent, whose astounding roar had never failed, 
tumbling down the rocky chasm, huge cliffs white with snow, or the 
dark summits of the pine forests, that stretched mid-way down the 
mountains.  But who may describe her rapture, when, having passed 
through a sea of vapour, she caught a first view of Italy; when, from 
the ridge of one of those tremendous precipices that hang upon Mount 
Cenis and guard the entrance of that enchanting country, she looked 
down through the lower clouds, and, as they floated away, saw the 
grassy vales of Piedmont at her feet, and, beyond, the plains of 
Lombardy extending to the farthest distance, at which appeared, on 
the faint horizon, the doubtful towers of Turin?

The solitary grandeur of the objects that immediately surrounded her, 
the mountain-region towering above, the deep precipices that fell 
beneath, the waving blackness of the forests of pine and oak, which 
skirted their feet, or hung within their recesses, the headlong 
torrents that, dashing among their cliffs, sometimes appeared like a 
cloud of mist, at others like a sheet of ice--these were features 
which received a higher character of sublimity from the reposing 
beauty of the Italian landscape below, stretching to the wide 
horizon, where the same melting blue tint seemed to unite earth and 
sky.

Madame Montoni only shuddered as she looked down precipices near 
whose edge the chairmen trotted lightly and swiftly, almost, as the 
chamois bounded, and from which Emily too recoiled; but with her 
fears were mingled such various emotions of delight, such admiration, 
astonishment, and awe, as she had never experienced before.

Meanwhile the carriers, having come to a landing-place, stopped to 
rest, and the travellers being seated on the point of a cliff, 
Montoni and Cavigni renewed a dispute concerning Hannibal's passage 
over the Alps, Montoni contending that he entered Italy by way of 
Mount Cenis, and Cavigni, that he passed over Mount St. Bernard.  The 
subject brought to Emily's imagination the disasters he had suffered 
in this bold and perilous adventure.  She saw his vast armies winding 
among the defiles, and over the tremendous cliffs of the mountains, 
which at night were lighted up by his fires, or by the torches which 
he caused to be carried when he pursued his indefatigable march.  In 
the eye of fancy, she perceived the gleam of arms through the 
duskiness of night, the glitter of spears and helmets, and the 
banners floating dimly on the twilight; while now and then the blast 
of a distant trumpet echoed along the defile, and the signal was 
answered by a momentary clash of arms.  She looked with horror upon 
the mountaineers, perched on the higher cliffs, assailing the troops 
below with broken fragments of the mountain; on soldiers and 
elephants tumbling headlong down the lower precipices; and, as she 
listened to the rebounding rocks, that followed their fall, the 
terrors of fancy yielded to those of reality, and she shuddered to 
behold herself on the dizzy height, whence she had pictured the 
descent of others.

Madame Montoni, meantime, as she looked upon Italy, was contemplating 
in imagination the splendour of palaces and the grandeur of castles, 
such as she believed she was going to be mistress of at Venice and in 
the Apennine, and she became, in idea, little less than a princess.  
Being no longer under the alarms which had deterred her from giving 
entertainments to the beauties of Tholouse, whom Montoni had 
mentioned with more eclat to his own vanity than credit to their 
discretion, or regard to truth, she determined to give concerts, 
though she had neither ear nor taste for music; conversazioni, though 
she had no talents for conversation; and to outvie, if possible, in 
the gaieties of her parties and the magnificence of her liveries, all 
the noblesse of Venice.  This blissful reverie was somewhat obscured, 
when she recollected the Signor, her husband, who, though he was not 
averse to the profit which sometimes results from such parties, had 
always shewn a contempt of the frivolous parade that sometimes 
attends them; till she considered that his pride might be gratified 
by displaying, among his own friends, in his native city, the wealth 
which he had neglected in France; and she courted again the splendid 
illusions that had charmed her before.

The travellers, as they descended, gradually, exchanged the region of 
winter for the genial warmth and beauty of spring.  The sky began to 
assume that serene and beautiful tint peculiar to the climate of 
Italy; patches of young verdure, fragrant shrubs and flowers looked 
gaily among the rocks, often fringing their rugged brows, or hanging 
in tufts from their broken sides; and the buds of the oak and 
mountain ash were expanding into foliage.  Descending lower, the 
orange and the myrtle, every now and then, appeared in some sunny 
nook, with their yellow blossoms peeping from among the dark green of 
their leaves, and mingling with the scarlet flowers of the 
pomegranate and the paler ones of the arbutus, that ran mantling to 
the crags above; while, lower still, spread the pastures of Piedmont, 
where early flocks were cropping the luxuriant herbage of spring.

The river Doria, which, rising on the summit of Mount Cenis, had 
dashed for many leagues over the precipices that bordered the road, 
now began to assume a less impetuous, though scarcely less romantic 
character, as it approached the green vallies of Piedmont, into which 
the travellers descended with the evening sun; and Emily found 
herself once more amid the tranquil beauty of pastoral scenery; among 
flocks and herds, and slopes tufted with woods of lively verdure and 
with beautiful shrubs, such as she had often seen waving luxuriantly 
over the alps above.  The verdure of the pasturage, now varied with 
the hues of early flowers, among which were yellow ranunculuses and 
pansey violets of delicious fragrance, she had never seen excelled.--
Emily almost wished to become a peasant of Piedmont, to inhabit one 
of the pleasant embowered cottages which she saw peeping beneath the 
cliffs, and to pass her careless hours among these romantic 
landscapes.  To the hours, the months, she was to pass under the 
dominion of Montoni, she looked with apprehension; while those which 
were departed she remembered with regret and sorrow.

In the present scenes her fancy often gave her the figure of 
Valancourt, whom she saw on a point of the cliffs, gazing with awe 
and admiration on the imagery around him; or wandering pensively 
along the vale below, frequently pausing to look back upon the 
scenery, and then, his countenance glowing with the poet's fire, 
pursuing his way to some overhanging heights.  When she again 
considered the time and the distance that were to separate them, that 
every step she now took lengthened this distance, her heart sunk, and 
the surrounding landscape charmed her no more.

The travellers, passing Novalesa, reached, after the evening had 
closed, the small and antient town of Susa, which had formerly 
guarded this pass of the Alps into Piedmont.  The heights which 
command it had, since the invention of artillery, rendered its 
fortifications useless; but these romantic heights, seen by moon-
light, with the town below, surrounded by its walls and watchtowers, 
and partially illumined, exhibited an interesting picture to Emily.  
Here they rested for the night at an inn, which had little 
accommodation to boast of; but the travellers brought with them the 
hunger that gives delicious flavour to the coarsest viands, and the 
weariness that ensures repose; and here Emily first caught a strain 
of Italian music, on Italian ground.  As she sat after supper at a 
little window, that opened upon the country, observing an effect of 
the moon-light on the broken surface of the mountains, and 
remembering that on such a night as this she once had sat with her 
father and Valancourt, resting upon a cliff of the Pyrenees, she 
heard from below the long-drawn notes of a violin, of such tone and 
delicacy of expression, as harmonized exactly with the tender 
emotions she was indulging, and both charmed and surprised her.  
Cavigni, who approached the window, smiled at her surprise.  'This is 
nothing extraordinary,' said he, 'you will hear the same, perhaps, at 
every inn on our way.  It is one of our landlord's family who plays, 
I doubt not,'  Emily, as she listened, thought he could be scarcely 
less than a professor of music whom she heard; and the sweet and 
plaintive strains soon lulled her into a reverie, from which she was 
very unwillingly roused by the raillery of Cavigni, and by the voice 
of Montoni, who gave orders to a servant to have the carriages ready 
at an early hour on the following morning; and added, that he meant 
to dine at Turin.

Madame Montoni was exceedingly rejoiced to be once more on level 
ground; and, after giving a long detail of the various terrors she 
had suffered, which she forgot that she was describing to the 
companions of her dangers, she added a hope, that she should soon be 
beyond the view of these horrid mountains, 'which all the world,' 
said she, 'should not tempt me to cross again.'  Complaining of 
fatigue she soon retired to rest, and Emily withdrew to her own room, 
when she understood from Annette, her aunt's woman, that Cavigni was 
nearly right in his conjecture concerning the musician, who had 
awakened the violin with so much taste, for that he was the son of a 
peasant inhabiting the neighbouring valley.  'He is going to the 
Carnival at Venice,' added Annette, 'for they say he has a fine hand 
at playing, and will get a world of money; and the Carnival is just 
going to begin:  but for my part, I should like to live among these 
pleasant woods and hills, better than in a town; and they say 
Ma'moiselle, we shall see no woods, or hills, or fields, at Venice, 
for that it is built in the very middle of the sea.'

Emily agreed with the talkative Annette, that this young man was 
making a change for the worse, and could not forbear silently 
lamenting, that he should be drawn from the innocence and beauty of 
these scenes, to the corrupt ones of that voluptuous city.

When she was alone, unable to sleep, the landscapes of her native 
home, with Valancourt, and the circumstances of her departure, 
haunted her fancy; she drew pictures of social happiness amidst the 
grand simplicity of nature, such as she feared she had bade farewel 
to for ever; and then, the idea of this young Piedmontese, thus 
ignorantly sporting with his happiness, returned to her thoughts, 
and, glad to escape awhile from the pressure of nearer interests, she 
indulged her fancy in composing the following lines.

     THE PIEDMONTESE

 Ah, merry swain, who laugh'd along the vales,
 And with your gay pipe made the mountains ring,
 Why leave your cot, your woods, and thymy gales,
 And friends belov'd, for aught that wealth can bring?
 He goes to wake o'er moon-light seas the string,
 Venetian gold his untaught fancy hails!
 Yet oft of home his simple carols sing,
 And his steps pause, as the last Alp he scales.
 Once more he turns to view his native scene--
 Far, far below, as roll the clouds away,
 He spies his cabin 'mid the pine-tops green,
 The well-known woods, clear brook, and pastures gay;
 And thinks of friends and parents left behind,
 Of sylvan revels, dance, and festive song;
 And hears the faint reed swelling in the wind;
 And his sad sighs the distant notes prolong!
 Thus went the swain, till mountain-shadows fell,
 And dimm'd the landscape to his aching sight;
 And must he leave the vales he loves so well!
 Can foreign wealth, and shows, his heart delight?
 No, happy vales! your wild rocks still shall hear
 His pipe, light sounding on the morning breeze;
 Still shall he lead the flocks to streamlet clear,
 And watch at eve beneath the western trees.
 Away, Venetian gold--your charm is o'er!
 And now his swift step seeks the lowland bow'rs,
 Where, through the leaves, his cottage light ONCE MORE
 Guides him to happy friends, and jocund hours.
 Ah, merry swain! that laugh along the vales,
 And with your gay pipe make the mountains ring,
 Your cot, your woods, your thymy-scented gales--
 And friends belov'd--more joy than wealth can bring!



CHAPTER II


 TITANIA.  If you will patiently dance in our round,
  And see our moon-light revels, go with us.
     MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

Early on the following morning, the travellers set out for Turin.  
The luxuriant plain, that extends from the feet of the Alps to that 
magnificent city, was not then, as now, shaded by an avenue of trees 
nine miles in length; but plantations of olives, mulberry and palms, 
festooned with vines, mingled with the pastoral scenery, through with 
the rapid Po, after its descent from the mountains, wandered to meet 
the humble Doria at Turin.  As they advanced towards this city, the 
Alps, seen at some distance, began to appear in all their awful 
sublimity; chain rising over chain in long succession, their higher 
points darkened by the hovering clouds, sometimes hid, and at others 
seen shooting up far above them; while their lower steeps, broken 
into fantastic forms, were touched with blue and purplish tints, 
which, as they changed in light and shade, seemed to open new scenes 
to the eye.  To the east stretched the plains of Lombardy, with the 
towers of Turin rising at a distance; and beyond, the Apennines, 
bounding the horizon.

The general magnificence of that city, with its vistas of churches 
and palaces, branching from the grand square, each opening to a 
landscape of the distant Alps or Apennines, was not only such as 
Emily had never seen in France, but such as she had never imagined.

Montoni, who had been often at Turin, and cared little about views of 
any kind, did not comply with his wife's request, that they might 
survey some of the palaces; but staying only till the necessary 
refreshments could be obtained, they set forward for Venice with all 
possible rapidity.  Montoni's manner, during this journey, was grave, 
and even haughty; and towards Madame Montoni he was more especially 
reserved; but it was not the reserve of respect so much as of pride 
and discontent.  Of Emily he took little notice.  With Cavigni his 
conversations were commonly on political or military topics, such as 
the convulsed state of their country rendered at this time 
particularly interesting, Emily observed, that, at the mention of any 
daring exploit, Montoni's eyes lost their sullenness, and seemed 
instantaneously to gleam with fire; yet they still retained somewhat 
of a lurking cunning, and she sometimes thought that their fire 
partook more of the glare of malice than the brightness of valour, 
though the latter would well have harmonized with the high chivalric 
air of his figure, in which Cavigni, with all his gay and gallant 
manners, was his inferior.

On entering the Milanese, the gentlemen exchanged their French hats 
for the Italian cap of scarlet cloth, embroidered; and Emily was 
somewhat surprised to observe, that Montoni added to his the military 
plume, while Cavigni retained only the feather:  which was usually 
worn with such caps:  but she at length concluded, that Montoni 
assumed this ensign of a soldier for convenience, as a means of 
passing with more safety through a country over-run with parties of 
the military.

Over the beautiful plains of this country the devastations of war 
were frequently visible.  Where the lands had not been suffered to 
lie uncultivated, they were often tracked with the steps of the 
spoiler; the vines were torn down from the branches that had 
supported them, the olives trampled upon the ground, and even the 
groves of mulberry trees had been hewn by the enemy to light fires 
that destroyed the hamlets and villages of their owners.  Emily 
turned her eyes with a sigh from these painful vestiges of 
contention, to the Alps of the Grison, that overlooked them to the 
north, whose awful solitudes seemed to offer to persecuted man a 
secure asylum.

The travellers frequently distinguished troops of soldiers moving at 
a distance; and they experienced, at the little inns on the road, the 
scarcity of provision and other inconveniences, which are a part of 
the consequence of intestine war; but they had never reason to be 
much alarmed for their immediate safety, and they passed on to Milan 
with little interruption of any kind, where they staid not to survey 
the grandeur of the city, or even to view its vast cathedral, which 
was then building.

Beyond Milan, the country wore the aspect of a ruder devastation; and 
though every thing seemed now quiet, the repose was like that of 
death, spread over features, which retain the impression of the last 
convulsions.

It was not till they had passed the eastern limits of the Milanese, 
that the travellers saw any troops since they had left Milan, when, 
as the evening was drawing to a close, they descried what appeared to 
be an army winding onward along the distant plains, whose spears and 
other arms caught the last rays of the sun.  As the column advanced 
through a part of the road, contracted between two hillocks, some of 
the commanders, on horseback, were distinguished on a small eminence, 
pointing and making signals for the march; while several of the 
officers were riding along the line directing its progress, according 
to the signs communicated by those above; and others, separating from 
the vanguard, which had emerged from the pass, were riding carelessly 
along the plains at some distance to the right of the army.

As they drew nearer, Montoni, distinguishing the feathers that waved 
in their caps, and the banners and liveries of the bands that 
followed them, thought he knew this to be the small army commanded by 
the famous captain Utaldo, with whom, as well as with some of the 
other chiefs, he was personally acquainted.  He, therefore, gave 
orders that the carriages should draw up by the side of the road, to 
await their arrival, and give them the pass.  A faint strain of 
martial music now stole by, and, gradually strengthening as the 
troops approached, Emily distinguished the drums and trumpets, with 
the clash of cymbals and of arms, that were struck by a small party, 
in time to the march.

Montoni being now certain that these were the bands of the victorious 
Utaldo, leaned from the carriage window, and hailed their general by 
waving his cap in the air; which compliment the chief returned by 
raising his spear, and then letting it down again suddenly, while 
some of his officers, who were riding at a distance from the troops, 
came up to the carriage, and saluted Montoni as an old acquaintance.  
The captain himself soon after arriving, his bands halted while he 
conversed with Montoni, whom he appeared much rejoiced to see; and 
from what he said, Emily understood that this was a victorious army, 
returning into their own principality; while the numerous waggons, 
that accompanied them, contained the rich spoils of the enemy, their 
own wounded soldiers, and the prisoners they had taken in battle, who 
were to be ransomed when the peace, then negociating between the 
neighbouring states, should be ratified.  The chiefs on the following 
day were to separate, and each, taking his share of the spoil, was to 
return with his own band to his castle.  This was therefore to be an 
evening of uncommon and general festivity, in commemoration of the 
victory they had accomplished together, and of the farewell which the 
commanders were about to take of each other.

Emily, as these officers conversed with Montoni, observed with 
admiration, tinctured with awe, their high martial air, mingled with 
the haughtiness of the nobless of those days, and heightened by the 
gallantry of their dress, by the plumes towering on their caps, the 
armorial coat, Persian sash, and ancient Spanish cloak.  Utaldo, 
telling Montoni that his army were going to encamp for the night near 
a village at only a few miles distance, invited him to turn back and 
partake of their festivity, assuring the ladies also, that they 
should be pleasantly accommodated; but Montoni excused himself, 
adding, that it was his design to reach Verona that evening; and, 
after some conversation concerning the state of the country towards 
that city, they parted.

The travellers proceeded without any interruption; but it was some 
hours after sun-set before they arrived at Verona, whose beautiful 
environs were therefore not seen by Emily till the following morning; 
when, leaving that pleasant town at an early hour, they set off for 
Padua, where they embarked on the Brenta for Venice.  Here the scene 
was entirely changed; no vestiges of war, such as had deformed the 
plains of the Milanese, appeared; on the contrary, all was peace and 
elegance.  The verdant banks of the Brenta exhibited a continued 
landscape of beauty, gaiety, and splendour.  Emily gazed with 
admiration on the villas of the Venetian noblesse, with their cool 
porticos and colonnades, overhung with poplars and cypresses of 
majestic height and lively verdure; on their rich orangeries, whose 
blossoms perfumed the air, and on the luxuriant willows, that dipped 
their light leaves in the wave, and sheltered from the sun the gay 
parties whose music came at intervals on the breeze.  The Carnival 
did, indeed, appear to extend from Venice along the whole line of 
these enchanting shores; the river was gay with boats passing to that 
city, exhibiting the fantastic diversity of a masquerade in the 
dresses of the people within them; and, towards evening, groups of 
dancers frequently were seen beneath the trees.

Cavigni, meanwhile, informed her of the names of the noblemen to whom 
the several villas they passed belonged, adding light sketches of 
their characters, such as served to amuse rather than to inform, 
exhibiting his own wit instead of the delineation of truth.  Emily 
was sometimes diverted by his conversation; but his gaiety did not 
entertain Madame Montoni, as it had formerly done; she was frequently 
grave, and Montoni retained his usual reserve.

Nothing could exceed Emily's admiration on her first view of Venice, 
with its islets, palaces, and towers rising out of the sea, whose 
clear surface reflected the tremulous picture in all its colours.  
The sun, sinking in the west, tinted the waves and the lofty 
mountains of Friuli, which skirt the northern shores of the Adriatic, 
with a saffron glow, while on the marble porticos and colonnades of 
St. Mark were thrown the rich lights and shades of evening.  As they 
glided on, the grander features of this city appeared more 
distinctly:  its terraces, crowned with airy yet majestic fabrics, 
touched, as they now were, with the splendour of the setting sun, 
appeared as if they had been called up from the ocean by the wand of 
an enchanter, rather than reared by mortal hands.

The sun, soon after, sinking to the lower world, the shadow of the 
earth stole gradually over the waves, and then up the towering sides 
of the mountains of Friuli, till it extinguished even the last upward 
beams that had lingered on their summits, and the melancholy purple 
of evening drew over them, like a thin veil.  How deep, how beautiful 
was the tranquillity that wrapped the scene!  All nature seemed to 
repose; the finest emotions of the soul were alone awake.  Emily's 
eyes filled with tears of admiration and sublime devotion, as she 
raised them over the sleeping world to the vast heavens, and heard 
the notes of solemn music, that stole over the waters from a 
distance.  She listened in still rapture, and no person of the party 
broke the charm by an enquiry.  The sounds seemed to grow on the air; 
for so smoothly did the barge glide along, that its motion was not 
perceivable, and the fairy city appeared approaching to welcome the 
strangers.  They now distinguished a female voice, accompanied by a 
few instruments, singing a soft and mournful air; and its fine 
expression, as sometimes it seemed pleading with the impassioned 
tenderness of love, and then languishing into the cadence of hopeless 
grief, declared, that it flowed from no feigned sensibility.  Ah! 
thought Emily, as she sighed and remembered Valancourt, those strains 
come from the heart!

She looked round, with anxious enquiry; the deep twilight, that had 
fallen over the scene, admitted only imperfect images to the eye, 
but, at some distance on the sea, she thought she perceived a 
gondola:  a chorus of voices and instruments now swelled on the air--
so sweet, so solemn! it seemed like the hymn of angels descending 
through the silence of night!  Now it died away, and fancy almost 
beheld the holy choir reascending towards heaven; then again it 
swelled with the breeze, trembled awhile, and again died into 
silence.  It brought to Emily's recollection some lines of her late 
father, and she repeated in a low voice,

     Oft I hear,
 Upon the silence of the midnight air,
 Celestial voices swell in holy chorus
 That bears the soul to heaven!

The deep stillness, that succeeded, was as expressive as the strain 
that had just ceased.  It was uninterrupted for several minutes, till 
a general sigh seemed to release the company from their enchantment.  
Emily, however, long indulged the pleasing sadness, that had stolen 
upon her spirits; but the gay and busy scene that appeared, as the 
barge approached St. Mark's Place, at length roused her attention.  
The rising moon, which threw a shadowy light upon the terraces, and 
illumined the porticos and magnificent arcades that crowned them, 
discovered the various company, whose light steps, soft guitars, and 
softer voices, echoed through the colonnades.

The music they heard before now passed Montoni's barge, in one of the 
gondolas, of which several were seen skimming along the moon-light 
sea, full of gay parties, catching the cool breeze.  Most of these 
had music, made sweeter by the waves over which it floated, and by 
the measured sound of oars, as they dashed the sparkling tide.  Emily 
gazed, and listened, and thought herself in a fairy scene; even 
Madame Montoni was pleased; Montoni congratulated himself on his 
return to Venice, which he called the first city in the world, and 
Cavigni was more gay and animated than ever.

The barge passed on to the grand canal, where Montoni's mansion was 
situated.  And here, other forms of beauty and of grandeur, such as 
her imagination had never painted, were unfolded to Emily in the 
palaces of Sansovino and Palladio, as she glided along the waves.  
The air bore no sounds, but those of sweetness, echoing along each 
margin of the canal, and from gondolas on its surface, while groups 
of masks were seen dancing on the moon-light terraces, and seemed 
almost to realize the romance of fairyland.

The barge stopped before the portico of a large house, from whence a 
servant of Montoni crossed the terrace, and immediately the party 
disembarked.  From the portico they passed a noble hall to a stair-
case of marble, which led to a saloon, fitted up in a style of 
magnificence that surprised Emily.  The walls and ceilings were 
adorned with historical and allegorical paintings, in fresco; silver 
tripods, depending from chains of the same metal, illumined the 
apartment, the floor of which was covered with Indian mats painted in 
a variety of colours and devices; the couches and drapery of the 
lattices were of pale green silk, embroidered and fringed with green 
and gold.  Balcony lattices opened upon the grand canal, whence rose 
a confusion of voices and of musical instruments, and the breeze that 
gave freshness to the apartment.  Emily, considering the gloomy 
temper of Montoni, looked upon the splendid furniture of this house 
with surprise, and remembered the report of his being a man of broken 
fortune, with astonishment.  'Ah!' said she to herself, 'if 
Valancourt could but see this mansion, what peace would it give him!  
He would then be convinced that the report was groundless.'

Madame Montoni seemed to assume the air of a princess; but Montoni 
was restless and discontented, and did not even observe the civility 
of bidding her welcome to her home.

Soon after his arrival, he ordered his gondola, and, with Cavigni, 
went out to mingle in the scenes of the evening.  Madame then became 
serious and thoughtful.  Emily, who was charmed with every thing she 
saw, endeavoured to enliven her; but reflection had not, with Madame 
Montoni, subdued caprice and ill-humour, and her answers discovered 
so much of both, that Emily gave up the attempt of diverting her, and 
withdrew to a lattice, to amuse herself with the scene without, so 
new and so enchanting.

The first object that attracted her notice was a group of dancers on 
the terrace below, led by a guitar and some other instruments.  The 
girl, who struck the guitar, and another, who flourished a 
tambourine, passed on in a dancing step, and with a light grace and 
gaiety of heart, that would have subdued the goddess of spleen in her 
worst humour.  After these came a group of fantastic figures, some 
dressed as gondolieri, others as minstrels, while others seemed to 
defy all description.  They sung in parts, their voices accompanied 
by a few soft instruments.  At a little distance from the portico 
they stopped, and Emily distinguished the verses of Ariosto.  They 
sung of the wars of the Moors against Charlemagne, and then of the 
woes of Orlando:  afterwards the measure changed, and the melancholy 
sweetness of Petrarch succeeded.  The magic of his grief was assisted 
by all that Italian music and Italian expression, heightened by the 
enchantments of Venetian moonlight, could give.

Emily, as she listened, caught the pensive enthusiasm; her tears 
flowed silently, while her fancy bore her far away to France and to 
Valancourt.  Each succeeding sonnet, more full of charming sadness 
than the last, seemed to bind the spell of melancholy:  with extreme 
regret she saw the musicians move on, and her attention followed the 
strain till the last faint warble died in air.  She then remained 
sunk in that pensive tranquillity which soft music leaves on the 
mind--a state like that produced by the view of a beautiful landscape 
by moon-light, or by the recollection of scenes marked with the 
tenderness of friends lost for ever, and with sorrows, which time has 
mellowed into mild regret.  Such scenes are indeed, to the mind, like 
'those faint traces which the memory bears of music that is past'.

Other sounds soon awakened her attention:  it was the solemn harmony 
of horns, that swelled from a distance; and, observing the gondolas 
arrange themselves along the margin of the terraces, she threw on her 
veil, and, stepping into the balcony, discerned, in the distant 
perspective of the canal, something like a procession, floating on 
the light surface of the water:  as it approached, the horns and 
other instruments mingled sweetly, and soon after the fabled deities 
of the city seemed to have arisen from the ocean; for Neptune, with 
Venice personified as his queen, came on the undulating waves, 
surrounded by tritons and sea-nymphs.  The fantastic splendour of 
this spectacle, together with the grandeur of the surrounding 
palaces, appeared like the vision of a poet suddenly embodied, and 
the fanciful images, which it awakened in Emily's mind, lingered 
there long after the procession had passed away.  She indulged 
herself in imagining what might be the manners and delights of a sea-
nymph, till she almost wished to throw off the habit of mortality, 
and plunge into the green wave to participate them.

'How delightful,' said she, 'to live amidst the coral bowers and 
crystal caverns of the ocean, with my sister nymphs, and listen to 
the sounding waters above, and to the soft shells of the tritons! and 
then, after sun-set, to skim on the surface of the waves round wild 
rocks and along sequestered shores, where, perhaps, some pensive 
wanderer comes to weep!  Then would I soothe his sorrows with my 
sweet music, and offer him from a shell some of the delicious fruit 
that hangs round Neptune's palace.'

She was recalled from her reverie to a mere mortal supper, and could 
not forbear smiling at the fancies she had been indulging, and at her 
conviction of the serious displeasure, which Madame Montoni would 
have expressed, could she have been made acquainted with them.

After supper, her aunt sat late, but Montoni did not return, and she 
at length retired to rest.  If Emily had admired the magnificence of 
the saloon, she was not less surprised, on observing the half-
furnished and forlorn appearance of the apartments she passed in the 
way to her chamber, whither she went through long suites of noble 
rooms, that seemed, from their desolate aspect, to have been 
unoccupied for many years.  On the walls of some were the faded 
remains of tapestry; from others, painted in fresco, the damps had 
almost withdrawn both colours and design.  At length she reached her 
own chamber, spacious, desolate, and lofty, like the rest, with high 
lattices that opened towards the Adriatic.  It brought gloomy images 
to her mind, but the view of the Adriatic soon gave her others more 
airy, among which was that of the sea-nymph, whose delights she had 
before amused herself with picturing; and, anxious to escape from 
serious reflections, she now endeavoured to throw her fanciful ideas 
into a train, and concluded the hour with composing the following 
lines:

     THE SEA-NYMPH

 Down, down a thousand fathom deep,
 Among the sounding seas I go;
 Play round the foot of ev'ry steep
 Whose cliffs above the ocean grow.

 There, within their secret cares,
 I hear the mighty rivers roar;
 And guide their streams through Neptune's waves
 To bless the green earth's inmost shore:

 And bid the freshen'd waters glide,
 For fern-crown'd nymphs of lake, or brook,
 Through winding woods and pastures wide,
 And many a wild, romantic nook.

 For this the nymphs, at fall of eave,
 Oft dance upon the flow'ry banks,
 And sing my name, and garlands weave
 To bear beneath the wave their thanks.

 In coral bow'rs I love to lie,
 And hear the surges roll above,
 And through the waters view on high
 The proud ships sail, and gay clouds move.

 And oft at midnight's stillest hour,
 When summer seas the vessel lave,
 I love to prove my charmful pow'r
 While floating on the moon-light wave.

 And when deep sleep the crew has bound,
 And the sad lover musing leans
 O'er the ship's side, I breathe around
 Such strains as speak no mortal means!
 
 O'er the dim waves his searching eye
 Sees but the vessel's lengthen'd shade;
 Above--the moon and azure sky;
 Entranc'd he hears, and half afraid!

 Sometimes, a single note I swell,
 That, softly sweet, at distance dies;
 Then wake the magic of my shell,
 And choral voices round me rise!

 The trembling youth, charm'd by my strain,
 Calls up the crew, who, silent, bend
 O'er the high deck, but list in vain;
 My song is hush'd, my wonders end!

 Within the mountain's woody bay,
 Where the tall bark at anchor rides,
 At twilight hour, with tritons gay,
 I dance upon the lapsing tides:

 And with my sister-nymphs I sport,
 Till the broad sun looks o'er the floods;
 Then, swift we seek our crystal court,
 Deep in the wave, 'mid Neptune's woods.

 In cool arcades and glassy halls
 We pass the sultry hours of noon,
 Beyond wherever sun-beam falls,
 Weaving sea-flowers in gay festoon.

 The while we chant our ditties sweet
 To some soft shell that warbles near;
 Join'd by the murmuring currents, fleet,
 That glide along our halls so clear.

 There, the pale pearl and sapphire blue,
 And ruby red, and em'rald green,
 Dart from the domes a changing hue,
 And sparry columns deck the scene.

 When the dark storm scowls o'er the deep,
 And long, long peals of thunder sound,
 On some high cliff my watch I keep
 O'er all the restless seas around:

 Till on the ridgy wave afar
 Comes the lone vessel, labouring slow,
 Spreading the white foam in the air,
 With sail and top-mast bending low.

 Then, plunge I 'mid the ocean's roar,
 My way by quiv'ring lightnings shewn,
 To guide the bark to peaceful shore,
 And hush the sailor's fearful groan.

 And if too late I reach its side
 To save it from the 'whelming surge,
 I call my dolphins o'er the tide,
 To bear the crew where isles emerge.

 Their mournful spirits soon I cheer,
 While round the desert coast I go,
 With warbled songs they faintly hear,
 Oft as the stormy gust sinks low.

 My music leads to lofty groves,
 That wild upon the sea-bank wave;
 Where sweet fruits bloom, and fresh spring roves,
 And closing boughs the tempest brave.

 Then, from the air spirits obey
 My potent voice they love so well,
 And, on the clouds, paint visions gay,
 While strains more sweet at distance swell.

 And thus the lonely hours I cheat,
 Soothing the ship-wreck'd sailor's heart,
 Till from the waves the storms retreat,
 And o'er the east the day-beams dart.

 Neptune for this oft binds me fast
 To rocks below, with coral chain,
 Till all the tempest's over-past,
 And drowning seamen cry in vain.

 Whoe'er ye are that love my lay,
 Come, when red sun-set tints the wave,
 To the still sands, where fairies play;
 There, in cool seas, I love to lave.



CHAPTER III


 He is a great observer, and he looks
 Quite through the deeds of men:  he loves no plays,
     he hears no music;
 Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort,
 As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit
 that could be mov'd to smile at any thing.
 Such men as he be never at heart's ease,
 While they behold a greater than themselves.
     JULIUS CAESAR

Montoni and his companion did not return home, till many hours after 
the dawn had blushed upon the Adriatic.  The airy groups, which had 
danced all night along the colonnade of St. Mark, dispersed before 
the morning, like so many spirits.  Montoni had been otherwise 
engaged; his soul was little susceptible of light pleasures.  He 
delighted in the energies of the passions; the difficulties and 
tempests of life, which wreck the happiness of others, roused and 
strengthened all the powers of his mind, and afforded him the highest 
enjoyments, of which his nature was capable.  Without some object of 
strong interest, life was to him little more than a sleep; and, when 
pursuits of real interest failed, he substituted artificial ones, 
till habit changed their nature, and they ceased to be unreal.  Of 
this kind was the habit of gaming, which he had adopted, first, for 
the purpose of relieving him from the languor of inaction, but had 
since pursued with the ardour of passion.  In this occupation he had 
passed the night with Cavigni and a party of young men, who had more 
money than rank, and more vice than either.  Montoni despised the 
greater part of these for the inferiority of their talents, rather 
than for their vicious inclinations, and associated with them only to 
make them the instruments of his purposes.  Among these, however, 
were some of superior abilities, and a few whom Montoni admitted to 
his intimacy, but even towards these he still preserved a decisive 
and haughty air, which, while it imposed submission on weak and timid 
minds, roused the fierce hatred of strong ones.  He had, of course, 
many and bitter enemies; but the rancour of their hatred proved the 
degree of his power; and, as power was his chief aim, he gloried more 
in such hatred, than it was possible he could in being esteemed.  A 
feeling so tempered as that of esteem, he despised, and would have 
despised himself also had he thought himself capable of being 
flattered by it.

Among the few whom he distinguished, were the Signors Bertolini, 
Orsino, and Verezzi.  The first was a man of gay temper, strong 
passions, dissipated, and of unbounded extravagance, but generous, 
brave, and unsuspicious.  Orsino was reserved, and haughty; loving 
power more than ostentation; of a cruel and suspicious temper; quick 
to feel an injury, and relentless in avenging it; cunning and 
unsearchable in contrivance, patient and indefatigable in the 
execution of his schemes.  He had a perfect command of feature and of 
his passions, of which he had scarcely any, but pride, revenge and 
avarice; and, in the gratification of these, few considerations had 
power to restrain him, few obstacles to withstand the depth of his 
stratagems.  This man was the chief favourite of Montoni.  Verezzi 
was a man of some talent, of fiery imagination, and the slave of 
alternate passions.  He was gay, voluptuous, and daring; yet had 
neither perseverance or true courage, and was meanly selfish in all 
his aims.  Quick to form schemes, and sanguine in his hope of 
success, he was the first to undertake, and to abandon, not only his 
own plans, but those adopted from other persons.  Proud and 
impetuous, he revolted against all subordination; yet those who were 
acquainted with his character, and watched the turn of his passions, 
could lead him like a child.

Such were the friends whom Montoni introduced to his family and his 
table, on the day after his arrival at Venice.  There were also of 
the party a Venetian nobleman, Count Morano, and a Signora Livona, 
whom Montoni had introduced to his wife, as a lady of distinguished 
merit, and who, having called in the morning to welcome her to 
Venice, had been requested to be of the dinner party.

Madame Montoni received with a very ill grace, the compliments of the 
Signors.  She disliked them, because they were the friends of her 
husband; hated them, because she believed they had contributed to 
detain him abroad till so late an hour of the preceding morning; and 
envied them, since, conscious of her own want of influence, she was 
convinced, that he preferred their society to her own.  The rank of 
Count Morano procured him that distinction which she refused to the 
rest of the company.  The haughty sullenness of her countenance and 
manner, and the ostentatious extravagance of her dress, for she had 
not yet adopted the Venetian habit, were strikingly contrasted by the 
beauty, modesty, sweetness and simplicity of Emily, who observed, 
with more attention than pleasure, the party around her.  The beauty 
and fascinating manners of Signora Livona, however, won her 
involuntary regard; while the sweetness of her accents and her air of 
gentle kindness awakened with Emily those pleasing affections, which 
so long had slumbered.

In the cool of the evening the party embarked in Montoni's gondola, 
and rowed out upon the sea.  The red glow of sun-set still touched 
the waves, and lingered in the west, where the melancholy gleam 
seemed slowly expiring, while the dark blue of the upper aether began 
to twinkle with stars.  Emily sat, given up to pensive and sweet 
emotions.  The smoothness of the water, over which she glided, its 
reflected images--a new heaven and trembling stars below the waves, 
with shadowy outlines of towers and porticos, conspired with the 
stillness of the hour, interrupted only by the passing wave, or the 
notes of distant music, to raise those emotions to enthusiasm.  As 
she listened to the measured sound of the oars, and to the remote 
warblings that came in the breeze, her softened mind returned to the 
memory of St. Aubert and to Valancourt, and tears stole to her eyes.  
The rays of the moon, strengthening as the shadows deepened, soon 
after threw a silvery gleam upon her countenance, which was partly 
shaded by a thin black veil, and touched it with inimitable softness.  
Hers was the CONTOUR of a Madona, with the sensibility of a Magdalen; 
and the pensive uplifted eye, with the tear that glittered on her 
cheek, confirmed the expression of the character.

The last strain of distant music now died in air, for the gondola was 
far upon the waves, and the party determined to have music of their 
own.  The Count Morano, who sat next to Emily, and who had been 
observing her for some time in silence, snatched up a lute, and 
struck the chords with the finger of harmony herself, while his 
voice, a fine tenor, accompanied them in a rondeau full of tender 
sadness.  To him, indeed, might have been applied that beautiful 
exhortation of an English poet, had it then existed:

     Strike up, my master,
 But touch the strings with a religious softness!
 Teach sounds to languish through the night's dull ear
 Till Melancholy starts from off her couch,
 And Carelessness grows concert to attention!

With such powers of expression the Count sung the following

     RONDEAU

 Soft as yon silver ray, that sleeps
 Upon the ocean's trembling tide;
 Soft as the air, that lightly sweeps
 Yon said, that swells in stately pride:

 Soft as the surge's stealing note,
 That dies along the distant shores,
 Or warbled strain, that sinks remote--
 So soft the sigh my bosom pours!

 True as the wave to Cynthia's ray,
 True as the vessel to the breeze,
 True as the soul to music's sway,
 Or music to Venetian seas:

 Soft as yon silver beams, that sleep
 Upon the ocean's trembling breast;
 So soft, so true, fond Love shall weep,
 So soft, so true, with THEE shall rest.

The cadence with which he returned from the last stanza to a 
repetition of the first; the fine modulation in which his voice stole 
upon the first line, and the pathetic energy with which it pronounced 
the last, were such as only exquisite taste could give.  When he had 
concluded, he gave the lute with a sigh to Emily, who, to avoid any 
appearance of affectation, immediately began to play.  She sung a 
melancholy little air, one of the popular songs of her native 
province, with a simplicity and pathos that made it enchanting.  But 
its well-known melody brought so forcibly to her fancy the scenes and 
the persons, among which she had often heard it, that her spirits 
were overcome, her voice trembled and ceased--and the strings of the 
lute were struck with a disordered hand; till, ashamed of the emotion 
she had betrayed, she suddenly passed on to a song so gay and airy, 
that the steps of the dance seemed almost to echo to the notes.  
BRAVISSIMO! burst instantly from the lips of her delighted auditors, 
and she was compelled to repeat the air.  Among the compliments that 
followed, those of the Count were not the least audible, and they had 
not concluded, when Emily gave the instrument to Signora Livona, 
whose voice accompanied it with true Italian taste.

Afterwards, the Count, Emily, Cavigni, and the Signora, sung 
canzonettes, accompanied by a couple of lutes and a few other 
instruments.  Sometimes the instruments suddenly ceased, and the 
voices dropped from the full swell of harmony into a low chant; then, 
after a deep pause, they rose by degrees, the instruments one by one 
striking up, till the loud and full chorus soared again to heaven!

Meanwhile, Montoni, who was weary of this harmony, was considering 
how he might disengage himself from his party, or withdraw with such 
of it as would be willing to play, to a Casino.  In a pause of the 
music, he proposed returning to shore, a proposal which Orsino 
eagerly seconded, but which the Count and the other gentlemen as 
warmly opposed.

Montoni still meditated how he might excuse himself from longer 
attendance upon the Count, for to him only he thought excuse 
necessary, and how he might get to land, till the gondolieri of an 
empty boat, returning to Venice, hailed his people.  Without 
troubling himself longer about an excuse, he seized this opportunity 
of going thither, and, committing the ladies to the care of his 
friends, departed with Orsino, while Emily, for the first time, saw 
him go with regret; for she considered his presence a protection, 
though she knew not what she should fear.  He landed at St. Mark's, 
and, hurrying to a Casino, was soon lost amidst a crowd of gamesters.

Meanwhile, the Count having secretly dispatched a servant in 
Montoni's boat, for his own gondola and musicians, Emily heard, 
without knowing his project, the gay song of gondolieri approaching, 
as they sat on the stern of the boat, and saw the tremulous gleam of 
the moon-light wave, which their oars disturbed.  Presently she heard 
the sound of instruments, and then a full symphony swelled on the 
air, and, the boats meeting, the gondolieri hailed each other.  The 
count then explaining himself, the party removed into his gondola, 
which was embellished with all that taste could bestow.

While they partook of a collation of fruits and ice, the whole band, 
following at a distance in the other boat, played the most sweet and 
enchanting strains, and the Count, who had again seated himself by 
Emily, paid her unremitted attention, and sometimes, in a low but 
impassioned voice, uttered compliments which she could not 
misunderstand.  To avoid them she conversed with Signora Livona, and 
her manner to the Count assumed a mild reserve, which, though 
dignified, was too gentle to repress his assiduities:  he could see, 
hear, speak to no person, but Emily while Cavigni observed him now 
and then, with a look of displeasure, and Emily, with one of 
uneasiness.  she now wished for nothing so much as to return to 
Venice, but it was near mid-night before the gondolas approached St. 
Mark's Place, where the voice of gaiety and song was loud.  The busy 
hum of mingling sounds was heard at a considerable distance on the 
water, and, had not a bright moon-light discovered the city, with its 
terraces and towers, a stranger would almost have credited the fabled 
wonders of Neptune's court, and believed, that the tumult arose from 
beneath the waves.

They landed at St. Mark's, where the gaiety of the colonnades and the 
beauty of the night, made Madame Montoni willingly submit to the 
Count's solicitations to join the promenade, and afterwards to take a 
supper with the rest of the party, at his Casino.  If any thing could 
have dissipated Emily's uneasiness, it would have been the grandeur, 
gaiety, and novelty of the surrounding scene, adorned with Palladio's 
palaces, and busy with parties of masqueraders.

At length they withdrew to the Casino, which was fitted up with 
infinite taste, and where a splendid banquet was prepared; but here 
Emily's reserve made the Count perceive, that it was necessary for 
his interest to win the favour of Madame Montoni, which, from the 
condescension she had already shewn to him, appeared to be an 
achievement of no great difficulty.  He transferred, therefore, part 
of his attention from Emily to her aunt, who felt too much flattered 
by the distinction even to disguise her emotion; and before the party 
broke up, he had entirely engaged the esteem of Madame Montoni.  
whenever he addressed her, her ungracious countenance relaxed into 
smiles, and to whatever he proposed she assented.  He invited her, 
with the rest of the party, to take coffee, in his box at the opera, 
on the following evening, and Emily heard the invitation accepted, 
with strong anxiety, concerning the means of excusing herself from 
attending Madame Montoni thither.

It was very late before their gondola was ordered, and Emily's 
surprise was extreme, when, on quitting the Casino, she beheld the 
broad sun rising out of the Adriatic, while St. Mark's Place was yet 
crowded with company.  Sleep had long weighed heavily on her eyes, 
but now the fresh sea-breeze revived her, and she would have quitted 
the scene with regret, had not the Count been present, performing the 
duty, which he had imposed upon himself, of escorting them home.  
There they heard that Montoni was not yet returned; and his wife, 
retiring in displeasure to her apartment, at length released Emily 
from the fatigue of further attendance.

Montoni came home late in the morning, in a very ill humour, having 
lost considerably at play, and, before he withdrew to rest, had a 
private conference with Cavigni, whose manner, on the following day, 
seemed to tell, that the subject of it had not been pleasing to him.

In the evening, Madame Montoni, who, during the day, had observed a 
sullen silence towards her husband, received visits from some 
Venetian ladies, with whose sweet manners Emily was particularly 
charmed.  They had an air of ease and kindness towards the strangers, 
as if they had been their familiar friends for years; and their 
conversation was by turns tender, sentimental and gay.  Madame, 
though she had no taste for such conversation, and whose coarseness 
and selfishness sometimes exhibited a ludicrous contrast to their 
excessive refinement, could not remain wholly insensible to the 
captivations of their manner.

In a pause of conversation, a lady who was called Signora Herminia 
took up a lute, and began to play and sing, with as much easy gaiety, 
as if she had been alone.  Her voice was uncommonly rich in tone, and 
various in expression; yet she appeared to be entirely unconscious of 
its powers, and meant nothing less than to display them.  She sung 
from the gaiety of her heart, as she sat with her veil half thrown 
back, holding gracefully the lute, under the spreading foliage and 
flowers of some plants, that rose from baskets, and interlaced one of 
the lattices of the saloon.  Emily, retiring a little from the 
company, sketched her figure, with the miniature scenery around her, 
and drew a very interesting picture, which, though it would not, 
perhaps, have borne criticism, had spirit and taste enough to awaken 
both the fancy and the heart.  When she had finished it, she 
presented it to the beautiful original, who was delighted with the 
offering, as well as the sentiment it conveyed, and assured Emily, 
with a smile of captivating sweetness, that she should preserve it as 
a pledge of her friendship.

In the evening Cavigni joined the ladies, but Montoni had other 
engagements; and they embarked in the gondola for St. Mark's, where 
the same gay company seemed to flutter as on the preceding night.  
The cool breeze, the glassy sea, the gentle sound of its waves, and 
the sweeter murmur of distant music; the lofty porticos and arcades, 
and the happy groups that sauntered beneath them; these, with every 
feature and circumstance of the scene, united to charm Emily, no 
longer teased by the officious attentions of Count Morano.  But, as 
she looked upon the moon-light sea, undulating along the walls of St. 
Mark, and, lingering for a moment over those walls, caught the sweet 
and melancholy song of some gondolier as he sat in his boat below, 
waiting for his master, her softened mind returned to the memory of 
her home, of her friends, and of all that was dear in her native 
country.

After walking some time, they sat down at the door of a Casino, and, 
while Cavigni was accommodating them with coffee and ice, were joined 
by Count Morano.  He sought Emily with a look of impatient delight, 
who, remembering all the attention he had shewn her on the preceding 
evening, was compelled, as before, to shrink from his assiduities 
into a timid reserve, except when she conversed with Signora Herminia 
and the other ladies of her party.

It was near midnight before they withdrew to the opera, where Emily 
was not so charmed but that, when she remembered the scene she had 
just quitted, she felt how infinitely inferior all the splendour of 
art is to the sublimity of nature.  Her heart was not now affected, 
tears of admiration did not start to her eyes, as when she viewed the 
vast expanse of ocean, the grandeur of the heavens, and listened to 
the rolling waters, and to the faint music that, at intervals, 
mingled with their roar.  Remembering these, the scene before her 
faded into insignificance.

Of the evening, which passed on without any particular incident, she 
wished the conclusion, that she might escape from the attentions of 
the Count; and, as opposite qualities frequently attract each other 
in our thoughts, thus Emily, when she looked on Count Morano, 
remembered Valancourt, and a sigh sometimes followed the 
recollection.

Several weeks passed in the course of customary visits, during which 
nothing remarkable occurred.  Emily was amused by the manners and 
scenes that surrounded her, so different from those of France, but 
where Count Morano, too frequently for her comfort, contrived to 
introduce himself.  His manner, figure and accomplishments, which 
were generally admired, Emily would, perhaps, have admired also, had 
her heart been disengaged from Valancourt, and had the Count forborne 
to persecute her with officious attentions, during which she observed 
some traits in his character, that prejudiced her against whatever 
might otherwise be good in it.

Soon after his arrival at Venice, Montoni received a packet from M. 
Quesnel, in which the latter mentioned the death of his wife's uncle, 
at his villa on the Brenta; and that, in consequence of this event, 
he should hasten to take possession of that estate and of other 
effects bequeathed to him.  This uncle was the brother of Madame 
Quesnel's late mother; Montoni was related to her by the father's 
side, and though he could have had neither claim nor expectation 
concerning these possessions, he could scarcely conceal the envy 
which M. Quesnel's letter excited.

Emily had observed with concern, that, since they left France, 
Montoni had not even affected kindness towards her aunt, and that, 
after treating her, at first, with neglect, he now met her with 
uniform ill-humour and reserve.  She had never supposed, that her 
aunt's foibles could have escaped the discernment of Montoni, or that 
her mind or figure were of a kind to deserve his attention.  Her 
surprise, therefore, at this match, had been extreme; but since he 
had made the choice, she did not suspect that he would so openly have 
discovered his contempt of it.  But Montoni, who had been allured by 
the seeming wealth of Madame Cheron, was now severely disappointed by 
her comparative poverty, and highly exasperated by the deceit she had 
employed to conceal it, till concealment was no longer necessary.  He 
had been deceived in an affair, wherein he meant to be the deceiver; 
out-witted by the superior cunning of a woman, whose understanding he 
despised, and to whom he had sacrificed his pride and his liberty, 
without saving himself from the ruin, which had impended over his 
head.  Madame Montoni had contrived to have the greatest part of what 
she really did possess, settled upon herself:  what remained, though 
it was totally inadequate both to her husband's expectations, and to 
his necessities, he had converted into money, and brought with him to 
Venice, that he might a little longer delude society, and make a last 
effort to regain the fortunes he had lost.

The hints which had been thrown out to Valancourt, concerning 
Montoni's character and condition, were too true; but it was now left 
to time and occasion, to unfold the circumstances, both of what had, 
and of what had not been hinted, and to time and occasion we commit 
them.

Madame Montoni was not of a nature to bear injuries with meekness, or 
to resent them with dignity:  her exasperated pride displayed itself 
in all the violence and acrimony of a little, or at least of an ill-
regulated mind.  She would not acknowledge, even to herself, that she 
had in any degree provoked contempt by her duplicity, but weakly 
persisted in believing, that she alone was to be pitied, and Montoni 
alone to be censured; for, as her mind had naturally little 
perception of moral obligation, she seldom understood its force but 
when it happened to be violated towards herself:  her vanity had 
already been severely shocked by a discovery of Montoni's contempt; 
it remained to be farther reproved by a discovery of his 
circumstances.  His mansion at Venice, though its furniture 
discovered a part of the truth to unprejudiced persons, told nothing 
to those who were blinded by a resolution to believe whatever they 
wished.  Madame Montoni still thought herself little less than a 
princess, possessing a palace at Venice, and a castle among the 
Apennines.  To the castle di Udolpho, indeed, Montoni sometimes 
talked of going for a few weeks to examine into its condition, and to 
receive some rents; for it appeared that he had not been there for 
two years, and that, during this period, it had been inhabited only 
by an old servant, whom he called his steward.

Emily listened to the mention of this journey with pleasure, for she 
not only expected from it new ideas, but a release from the 
persevering assiduities of Count Morano.  In the country, too, she 
would have leisure to think of Valancourt, and to indulge the 
melancholy, which his image, and a recollection of the scenes of La 
Vallee, always blessed with the memory of her parents, awakened.  The 
ideal scenes were dearer, and more soothing to her heart, than all 
the splendour of gay assemblies; they were a kind of talisman that 
expelled the poison of temporary evils, and supported her hopes of 
happy days:  they appeared like a beautiful landscape, lighted up by 
a gleam of sun-shine, and seen through a perspective of dark and 
rugged rocks.

But Count Morano did not long confine himself to silent assiduities; 
he declared his passion to Emily, and made proposals to Montoni, who 
encouraged, though Emily rejected, him:  with Montoni for his friend, 
and an abundance of vanity to delude him, he did not despair of 
success.  Emily was astonished and highly disgusted at his 
perseverance, after she had explained her sentiments with a frankness 
that would not allow him to misunderstand them.

He now passed the greater part of his time at Montoni's, dining there 
almost daily, and attending Madame and Emily wherever they went; and 
all this, notwithstanding the uniform reserve of Emily, whose aunt 
seemed as anxious as Montoni to promote this marriage; and would 
never dispense with her attendance at any assembly where the Count 
proposed to be present.

Montoni now said nothing of his intended journey, of which Emily 
waited impatiently to hear; and he was seldom at home but when the 
Count, or Signor Orsino, was there, for between himself and Cavigni a 
coolness seemed to subsist, though the latter remained in his house.  
With Orsino, Montoni was frequently closeted for hours together, and, 
whatever might be the business, upon which they consulted, it 
appeared to be of consequence, since Montoni often sacrificed to it 
his favourite passion for play, and remained at home the whole night.  
There was somewhat of privacy, too, in the manner of Orsino's visits, 
which had never before occurred, and which excited not only surprise, 
but some degree of alarm in Emily's mind, who had unwillingly 
discovered much of his character when he had most endeavoured to 
disguise it.  After these visits, Montoni was often more thoughtful 
than usual; sometimes the deep workings of his mind entirely 
abstracted him from surrounding objects, and threw a gloom over his 
visage that rendered it terrible; at others, his eyes seemed almost 
to flash fire, and all the energies of his soul appeared to be roused 
for some great enterprise.  Emily observed these written characters 
of his thoughts with deep interest, and not without some degree of 
awe, when she considered that she was entirely in his power; but 
forbore even to hint her fears, or her observations, to Madame 
Montoni, who discerned nothing in her husband, at these times, but 
his usual sternness.

A second letter from M. Quesnel announced the arrival of himself and 
his lady at the Villa Miarenti; stated several circumstances of his 
good fortune, respecting the affair that had brought him into Italy; 
and concluded with an earnest request to see Montoni, his wife and 
niece, at his new estate.

Emily received, about the same period, a much more interesting 
letter, and which soothed for a while every anxiety of her heart.  
Valancourt, hoping she might be still at Venice, had trusted a letter 
to the ordinary post, that told her of his health, and of his 
unceasing and anxious affection.  He had lingered at Tholouse for 
some time after her departure, that he might indulge the melancholy 
pleasure of wandering through the scenes where he had been accustomed 
to behold her, and had thence gone to his brother's chateau, which 
was in the neighbourhood of La Vallee.  Having mentioned this, he 
added, 'If the duty of attending my regiment did not require my 
departure, I know not when I should have resolution enough to quit 
the neighbourhood of a place which is endeared by the remembrance of 
you.  The vicinity to La Vallee has alone detained me thus long at 
Estuviere:  I frequently ride thither early in the morning, that I 
may wander, at leisure, through the day, among scenes, which were 
once your home, where I have been accustomed to see you, and to hear 
you converse.  I have renewed my acquaintance with the good old 
Theresa, who rejoiced to see me, that she might talk of you:  I need 
not say how much this circumstance attached me to her, or how eagerly 
I listened to her upon her favourite subject.  You will guess the 
motive that first induced me to make myself known to Theresa:  it 
was, indeed, no other than that of gaining admittance into the 
chateau and gardens, which my Emily had so lately inhabited:  here, 
then, I wander, and meet your image under every shade:  but chiefly I 
love to sit beneath the spreading branches of your favourite plane, 
where once, Emily, we sat together; where I first ventured to tell 
you, that I loved.  O Emily! the remembrance of those moments 
overcomes me--I sit lost in reverie--I endeavour to see you dimly 
through my tears, in all the heaven of peace and innocence, such as 
you then appeared to me; to hear again the accents of that voice, 
which then thrilled my heart with tenderness and hope.  I lean on the 
wall of the terrace, where we together watched the rapid current of 
the Garonne below, while I described the wild scenery about its 
source, but thought only of you.  O Emily! are these moments passed 
for ever--will they never more return?'

In another part of his letter he wrote thus.  'You see my letter is 
dated on many different days, and, if you look back to the first, you 
will perceive, that I began to write soon after your departure from 
France.  To write was, indeed, the only employment that withdrew me 
from my own melancholy, and rendered your absence supportable, or 
rather, it seemed to destroy absence; for, when I was conversing with 
you on paper, and telling you every sentiment and affection of my 
heart, you almost appeared to be present.  This employment has been 
from time to time my chief consolation, and I have deferred sending 
off my packet, merely for the comfort of prolonging it, though it was 
certain, that what I had written, was written to no purpose till you 
received it.  Whenever my mind has been more than usually depressed I 
have come to pour forth its sorrows to you, and have always found 
consolation; and, when any little occurrence has interested my heart, 
and given a gleam of joy to my spirits, I have hastened to 
communicate it to you, and have received reflected satisfaction.  
Thus, my letter is a kind of picture of my life and of my thoughts 
for the last month, and thus, though it has been deeply interesting 
to me, while I wrote it, and I dare hope will, for the same reason, 
be not indifferent to you, yet to other readers it would seem to 
abound only in frivolities.  Thus it is always, when we attempt to 
describe the finer movements of the heart, for they are too fine to 
be discerned, they can only be experienced, and are therefore passed 
over by the indifferent observer, while the interested one feels, 
that all description is imperfect and unnecessary, except as it may 
prove the sincerity of the writer, and sooth his own sufferings.  You 
will pardon all this egotism--for I am a lover.'

'I have just heard of a circumstance, which entirely destroys all my 
fairy paradise of ideal delight, and which will reconcile me to the 
necessity of returning to my regiment, for I must no longer wander 
beneath the beloved shades, where I have been accustomed to meet you 
in thought.--La Vallee is let!  I have reason to believe this is 
without your knowledge, from what Theresa told me this morning, and, 
therefore, I mention the circumstance.  She shed tears, while she 
related, that she was going to leave the service of her dear 
mistress, and the chateau where she had lived so many happy years; 
and all this, added she, without even a letter from Mademoiselle to 
soften the news; but it is all Mons. Quesnel's doings, and I dare say 
she does not even know what is going forward.'

'Theresa added, That she had received a letter from him, informing 
her the chateau was let, and that, as her services would no longer be 
required, she must quit the place, on that day week, when the new 
tenant would arrive.'

'Theresa had been surprised by a visit from M. Quesnel, some time 
before the receipt of this letter, who was accompanied by a stranger 
that viewed the premises with much curiosity.'

Towards the conclusion of his letter, which is dated a week after 
this sentence, Valancourt adds, 'I have received a summons from my 
regiment, and I join it without regret, since I am shut out from the 
scenes that are so interesting to my heart.  I rode to La Vallee this 
morning, and heard that the new tenant was arrived, and that Theresa 
was gone.  I should not treat the subject thus familiarly if I did 
not believe you to be uninformed of this disposal of your house; for 
your satisfaction I have endeavoured to learn something of the 
character and fortune of your tenant, but without success.  He is a 
gentleman, they say, and this is all I can hear.  The place, as I 
wandered round the boundaries, appeared more melancholy to my 
imagination, than I had ever seen it.  I wished earnestly to have got 
admittance, that I might have taken another leave of your favourite 
plane-tree, and thought of you once more beneath its shade:  but I 
forbore to tempt the curiosity of strangers:  the fishing-house in 
the woods, however, was still open to me; thither I went, and passed 
an hour, which I cannot even look back upon without emotion.  O 
Emily! surely we are not separated for ever--surely we shall live for 
each other!'

This letter brought many tears to Emily's eyes; tears of tenderness 
and satisfaction on learning that Valancourt was well, and that time 
and absence had in no degree effaced her image from his heart.  There 
were passages in this letter which particularly affected her, such as 
those describing his visits to La Vallee, and the sentiments of 
delicate affection that its scenes had awakened.  It was a 
considerable time before her mind was sufficiently abstracted from 
Valancourt to feel the force of his intelligence concerning La 
Vallee.  That Mons. Quesnel should let it, without even consulting 
her on the measure, both surprised and shocked her, particularly as 
it proved the absolute authority he thought himself entitled to 
exercise in her affairs.  It is true, he had proposed, before she 
left France, that the chateau should be let, during her absence, and 
to the oeconomical prudence of this she had nothing to object; but 
the committing what had been her father's villa to the power and 
caprice of strangers, and the depriving herself of a sure home, 
should any unhappy circumstances make her look back to her home as an 
asylum, were considerations that made her, even then, strongly oppose 
the measure.  Her father, too, in his last hour, had received from 
her a solemn promise never to dispose of La Vallee; and this she 
considered as in some degree violated if she suffered the place to be 
let.  But it was now evident with how little respect M. Quesnel had 
regarded these objections, and how insignificant he considered every 
obstacle to pecuniary advantage.  It appeared, also, that he had not 
even condescended to inform Montoni of the step he had taken, since 
no motive was evident for Montoni's concealing the circumstance from 
her, if it had been made known to him:  this both displeased and 
surprised her; but the chief subjects of her uneasiness were--the 
temporary disposal of La Vallee, and the dismission of her father's 
old and faithful servant.--'Poor Theresa,' said Emily, 'thou hadst 
not saved much in thy servitude, for thou wast always tender towards 
the poor, and believd'st thou shouldst die in the family, where thy 
best years had been spent.  Poor Theresa!--now thou art turned out in 
thy old age to seek thy bread!'

Emily wept bitterly as these thoughts passed over her mind, and she 
determined to consider what could be done for Theresa, and to talk 
very explicitly to M. Quesnel on the subject; but she much feared 
that his cold heart could feel only for itself.  She determined also 
to enquire whether he had made any mention of her affairs, in his 
letter to Montoni, who soon gave her the opportunity she sought, by 
desiring that she would attend him in his study.  She had little 
doubt, that the interview was intended for the purpose of 
communicating to her a part of M. Quesnel's letter concerning the 
transactions at La Vallee, and she obeyed him immediately.  Montoni 
was alone.

'I have just been writing to Mons. Quesnel,' said he when Emily 
appeared, 'in reply to the letter I received from him a few days ago, 
and I wished to talk to you upon a subject that occupied part of it.'

'I also wished to speak with you on this topic, sir,' said Emily.

'It is a subject of some interest to you, undoubtedly,' rejoined 
Montoni, 'and I think you must see it in the light that I do; indeed 
it will not bear any other.  I trust you will agree with me, that any 
objection founded on sentiment, as they call it, ought to yield to 
circumstances of solid advantage.'

'Granting this, sir,' replied Emily, modestly, 'those of humanity 
ought surely to be attended to.  But I fear it is now too late to 
deliberate upon this plan, and I must regret, that it is no longer in 
my power to reject it.'

'It is too late,' said Montoni; 'but since it is so, I am pleased to 
observe, that you submit to reason and necessity without indulging 
useless complaint.  I applaud this conduct exceedingly, the more, 
perhaps, since it discovers a strength of mind seldom observable in 
your sex.  When you are older you will look back with gratitude to 
the friends who assisted in rescuing you from the romantic illusions 
of sentiment, and will perceive, that they are only the snares of 
childhood, and should be vanquished the moment you escape from the 
nursery.  I have not closed my letter, and you may add a few lines to 
inform your uncle of your acquiescence.  You will soon see him, for 
it is my intention to take you, with Madame Montoni, in a few days to 
Miarenti, and you can then talk over the affair.'

Emily wrote on the opposite page of the paper as follows:

'It is now useless, sir, for me to remonstrate upon the circumstances 
of which Signor Montoni informs me that he has written.  I could have 
wished, at least, that the affair had been concluded with less 
precipitation, that I might have taught myself to subdue some 
prejudices, as the Signor calls them, which still linger in my heart.  
As it is, I submit.  In point of prudence nothing certainly can be 
objected; but, though I submit, I have yet much to say on some other 
points of the subject, when I shall have the honour of seeing you.  
In the meantime I entreat you will take care of Theresa, for the sake 
of,
     Sir,
     Your affectionate niece,
     EMILY ST. AUBERT.'

Montoni smiled satirically at what Emily had written, but did not 
object to it, and she withdrew to her own apartment, where she sat 
down to begin a letter to Valancourt, in which she related the 
particulars of her journey, and her arrival at Venice, described some 
of the most striking scenes in the passage over the Alps; her 
emotions on her first view of Italy; the manners and characters of 
the people around her, and some few circumstances of Montoni's 
conduct.  But she avoided even naming Count Morano, much more the 
declaration he had made, since she well knew how tremblingly alive to 
fear is real love, how jealously watchful of every circumstance that 
may affect its interest; and she scrupulously avoided to give 
Valancourt even the slightest reason for believing he had a rival.

On the following day Count Morano dined again at Montoni's.  He was 
in an uncommon flow of spirits, and Emily thought there was somewhat 
of exultation in his manner of addressing her, which she had never 
observed before.  She endeavoured to repress this by more than her 
usual reserve, but the cold civility of her air now seemed rather to 
encourage than to depress him.  He appeared watchful of an 
opportunity of speaking with her alone, and more than once solicited 
this; but Emily always replied, that she could hear nothing from him 
which he would be unwilling to repeat before the whole company.

In the evening, Madame Montoni and her party went out upon the sea, 
and as the Count led Emily to his zendaletto, he carried her hand to 
his lips, and thanked her for the condescension she had shown him.  
Emily, in extreme surprise and displeasure, hastily withdrew her 
hand, and concluded that he had spoken ironically; but, on reaching 
the steps of the terrace, and observing by the livery, that it was 
the Count's zendaletto which waited below, while the rest of the 
party, having arranged themselves in the gondolas, were moving on, 
she determined not to permit a separate conversation, and, wishing 
him a good evening, returned to the portico.  The Count followed to 
expostulate and entreat, and Montoni, who then came out, rendered 
solicitation unnecessary, for, without condescending to speak, he 
took her hand, and led her to the zendaletto.  Emily was not silent; 
she entreated Montoni, in a low voice, to consider the impropriety of 
these circumstances, and that he would spare her the mortification of 
submitting to them; he, however, was inflexible.

'This caprice is intolerable,' said he, 'and shall not be indulged:  
there is no impropriety in the case.'

At this moment, Emily's dislike of Count Morano rose to abhorrence.  
That he should, with undaunted assurance, thus pursue her, 
notwithstanding all she had expressed on the subject of his 
addresses, and think, as it was evident he did, that her opinion of 
him was of no consequence, so long as his pretensions were sanctioned 
by Montoni, added indignation to the disgust which she had felt 
towards him.  She was somewhat relieved by observing that Montoni was 
to be of the party, who seated himself on one side of her, while 
Morano placed himself on the other.  There was a pause for some 
moments as the gondolieri prepared their oars, and Emily trembled 
from apprehension of the discourse that might follow this silence.  
At length she collected courage to break it herself, in the hope of 
preventing fine speeches from Morano, and reproof from Montoni.  To 
some trivial remark which she made, the latter returned a short and 
disobliging reply; but Morano immediately followed with a general 
observation, which he contrived to end with a particular compliment, 
and, though Emily passed it without even the notice of a smile, he 
was not discouraged.

'I have been impatient,' said he, addressing Emily, 'to express my 
gratitude; to thank you for your goodness; but I must also thank 
Signor Montoni, who has allowed me this opportunity of doing so.'

Emily regarded the Count with a look of mingled astonishment and 
displeasure.

'Why,' continued he, 'should you wish to diminish the delight of this 
moment by that air of cruel reserve?--Why seek to throw me again into 
the perplexities of doubt, by teaching your eyes to contradict the 
kindness of your late declaration?  You cannot doubt the sincerity, 
the ardour of my passion; it is therefore unnecessary, charming 
Emily! surely unnecessary, any longer to attempt a disguise of your 
sentiments.'

'If I ever had disguised them, sir,' said Emily, with recollected 
spirit, 'it would certainly be unnecessary any longer to do so.  I 
had hoped, sir, that you would have spared me any farther necessity 
of alluding to them; but, since you do not grant this, hear me 
declare, and for the last time, that your perseverance has deprived 
you even of the esteem, which I was inclined to believe you merited.'

'Astonishing!' exclaimed Montoni:  'this is beyond even my 
expectation, though I have hitherto done justice to the caprice of 
the sex!  But you will observe, Mademoiselle Emily, that I am no 
lover, though Count Morano is, and that I will not be made the 
amusement of your capricious moments.  Here is the offer of an 
alliance, which would do honour to any family; yours, you will 
recollect, is not noble; you long resisted my remonstrances, but my 
honour is now engaged, and it shall not be trifled with.--You shall 
adhere to the declaration, which you have made me an agent to convey 
to the Count.'

'I must certainly mistake you, sir,' said Emily; 'my answers on the 
subject have been uniform; it is unworthy of you to accuse me of 
caprice.  If you have condescended to be my agent, it is an honour I 
did not solicit.  I myself have constantly assured Count Morano, and 
you also, sir, that I never can accept the honour he offers me, and I 
now repeat the declaration.'

The Count looked with an air of surprise and enquiry at Montoni, 
whose countenance also was marked with surprise, but it was surprise 
mingled with indignation.

'Here is confidence, as well as caprice!' said the latter.  'Will you 
deny your own words, Madam?'

'Such a question is unworthy of an answer, sir;' said Emily blushing; 
'you will recollect yourself, and be sorry that you have asked it.'

'Speak to the point,' rejoined Montoni, in a voice of increasing 
vehemence.  'Will you deny your own words; will you deny, that you 
acknowledged, only a few hours ago, that it was too late to recede 
from your engagements, and that you accepted the Count's hand?'

'I will deny all this, for no words of mine ever imported it.'

'Astonishing!  Will you deny what you wrote to Mons. Quesnel, your 
uncle? if you do, your own hand will bear testimony against you.  
What have you now to say?' continued Montoni, observing the silence 
and confusion of Emily.

'I now perceive, sir, that you are under a very great error, and that 
I have been equally mistaken.'

'No more duplicity, I entreat; be open and candid, if it be 
possible.'

'I have always been so, sir; and can claim no merit in such conduct, 
for I have had nothing to conceal.'

'How is this, Signor?' cried Morano, with trembling emotion.

'Suspend your judgment, Count,' replied Montoni, 'the wiles of a 
female heart are unsearchable.  Now, Madame, your EXPLANATION.'

'Excuse me, sir, if I withhold my explanation till you appear willing 
to give me your confidence; assertion as present can only subject me 
to insult.'

'Your explanation, I entreat you!' said Morano.

'Well, well,' rejoined Montoni, 'I give you my confidence; let us 
hear this explanation.'

'Let me lead to it then, by asking a question.'

'As many as you please,' said Montoni, contemptuously.

'What, then, was the subject of your letter to Mons. Quesnel?'

'The same that was the subject of your note to him, certainly.  You 
did well to stipulate for my confidence before you demanded that 
question.'

'I must beg you will be more explicit, sir; what was that subject?'

'What could it be, but the noble offer of Count Morano,' said 
Montoni.

'Then, sir, we entirely misunderstood each other,' replied Emily.

'We entirely misunderstood each other too, I suppose,' rejoined 
Montoni, 'in the conversation which preceded the writing of that 
note?  I must do you the justice to own, that you are very ingenious 
at this same art of misunderstanding.'

Emily tried to restrain the tears that came to her eyes, and to 
answer with becoming firmness.  'Allow me, sir, to explain myself 
fully, or to be wholly silent.'

'The explanation may now be dispensed with; it is anticipated.  If 
Count Morano still thinks one necessary, I will give him an honest 
one--You have changed your intention since our last conversation; 
and, if he can have patience and humility enough to wait till to-
morrow, he will probably find it changed again:  but as I have 
neither the patience or the humility, which you expect from a lover, 
I warn you of the effect of my displeasure!'

'Montoni, you are too precipitate,' said the Count, who had listened 
to this conversation in extreme agitation and impatience;--'Signora, 
I entreat your own explanation of this affair!'

'Signor Montoni has said justly,' replied Emily, 'that all 
explanation may now be dispensed with; after what has passed I cannot 
suffer myself to give one.  It is sufficient for me, and for you, 
sir, that I repeat my late declaration; let me hope this is the last 
time it will be necessary for me to repeat it--I never can accept the 
honour of your alliance.'

'Charming Emily!' exclaimed the Count in an impassioned tone, 'let 
not resentment make you unjust; let me not suffer for the offence of 
Montoni!--Revoke--'

'Offence!' interrupted Montoni--'Count, this language is ridiculous, 
this submission is childish!--speak as becomes a man, not as the 
slave of a pretty tyrant.'

'You distract me, Signor; suffer me to plead my own cause; you have 
already proved insufficient to it.'

'All conversation on this subject, sir,' said Emily, 'is worse than 
useless, since it can bring only pain to each of us:  if you would 
oblige me, pursue it no farther.'

'It is impossible, Madam, that I can thus easily resign the object of 
a passion, which is the delight and torment of my life.--I must still 
love--still pursue you with unremitting ardour;--when you shall be 
convinced of the strength and constancy of my passion, your heart 
must soften into pity and repentance.'

'Is this generous, sir? is this manly?  can it either deserve or 
obtain the esteem you solicit, thus to continue a persecution from 
which I have no present means of escaping?'

A gleam of moonlight that fell upon Morano's countenance, revealed 
the strong emotions of his soul; and, glancing on Montoni discovered 
the dark resentment, which contrasted his features.

'By heaven this is too much!' suddenly exclaimed the Count; 'Signor 
Montoni, you treat me ill; it is from you that I shall look for 
explanation.'

'From me, sir! you shall have it;' muttered Montoni, 'if your 
discernment is indeed so far obscured by passion, as to make 
explanation necessary.  And for you, Madam, you should learn, that a 
man of honour is not to be trifled with, though you may, perhaps, 
with impunity, treat a BOY like a puppet.'

This sarcasm roused the pride of Morano, and the resentment which he 
had felt at the indifference of Emily, being lost in indignation of 
the insolence of Montoni, he determined to mortify him, by defending 
her.

'This also,' said he, replying to Montoni's last words, 'this also, 
shall not pass unnoticed.  I bid you learn, sir, that you have a 
stronger enemy than a woman to contend with:  I will protect Signora 
St. Aubert from your threatened resentment.  You have misled me, and 
would revenge your disappointed views upon the innocent.'

'Misled you!' retorted Montoni with quickness, 'is my conduct--my 
word'--then pausing, while he seemed endeavouring to restrain the 
resentment, that flashed in his eyes, in the next moment he added, in 
a subdued voice, 'Count Morano, this is a language, a sort of conduct 
to which I am not accustomed:  it is the conduct of a passionate boy-
-as such, I pass it over in contempt.'

'In contempt, Signor?'

'The respect I owe myself,' rejoined Montoni, 'requires, that I 
should converse more largely with you upon some points of the subject 
in dispute.  Return with me to Venice, and I will condescend to 
convince you of your error.'

'Condescend, sir! but I will not condescend to be so conversed with.'

Montoni smiled contemptuously; and Emily, now terrified for the 
consequences of what she saw and heard, could no longer be silent.  
She explained the whole subject upon which she had mistaken Montoni 
in the morning, declaring, that she understood him to have consulted 
her solely concerning the disposal of La Vallee, and concluding with 
entreating, that he would write immediately to M. Quesnel, and 
rectify the mistake.

But Montoni either was, or affected to be, still incredulous; and 
Count Morano was still entangled in perplexity.  While she was 
speaking, however, the attention of her auditors had been diverted 
from the immediate occasion of their resentment, and their passion 
consequently became less.  Montoni desired the Count would order his 
servants to row back to Venice, that he might have some private 
conversation with him; and Morano, somewhat soothed by his softened 
voice and manner, and eager to examine into the full extent of his 
difficulties, complied.

Emily, comforted by this prospect of release, employed the present 
moments in endeavouring, with conciliating care, to prevent any fatal 
mischief between the persons who so lately had persecuted and 
insulted her.

Her spirits revived, when she heard once more the voice of song and 
laughter, resounding from the grand canal, and at length entered 
again between its stately piazzas.  The zendaletto stopped at 
Montoni's mansion, and the Count hastily led her into the hall, where 
Montoni took his arm, and said something in a low voice, on which 
Morano kissed the hand he held, notwithstanding Emily's effort to 
disengage it, and, wishing her a good evening, with an accent and 
look she could not misunderstand, returned to his zendaletto with 
Montoni.

Emily, in her own apartment, considered with intense anxiety all the 
unjust and tyrannical conduct of Montoni, the dauntless perseverance 
of Morano, and her own desolate situation, removed from her friends 
and country.  She looked in vain to Valancourt, confined by his 
profession to a distant kingdom, as her protector; but it gave her 
comfort to know, that there was, at least, one person in the world, 
who would sympathize in her afflictions, and whose wishes would fly 
eagerly to release her.  Yet she determined not to give him 
unavailing pain by relating the reasons she had to regret the having 
rejected his better judgment concerning Montoni; reasons, however, 
which could not induce her to lament the delicacy and disinterested 
affection that had made her reject his proposal for a clandestine 
marriage.  The approaching interview with her uncle she regarded with 
some degree of hope, for she determined to represent to him the 
distresses of her situation, and to entreat that he would allow her 
to return to France with him and Madame Quesnel.  Then, suddenly 
remembering that her beloved La Vallee, her only home, was no longer 
at her command, her tears flowed anew, and she feared that she had 
little pity to expect from a man who, like M. Quesnel, could dispose 
of it without deigning to consult with her, and could dismiss an aged 
and faithful servant, destitute of either support or asylum.  But, 
though it was certain, that she had herself no longer a home in 
France, and few, very few friends there, she determined to return, if 
possible, that she might be released from the power of Montoni, whose 
particularly oppressive conduct towards herself, and general 
character as to others, were justly terrible to her imagination.  She 
had no wish to reside with her uncle, M. Quesnel, since his behaviour 
to her late father and to herself, had been uniformly such as to 
convince her, that in flying to him she could only obtain an exchange 
of oppressors; neither had she the slightest intention of consenting 
to the proposal of Valancourt for an immediate marriage, though this 
would give her a lawful and a generous protector, for the chief 
reasons, which had formerly influenced her conduct, still existed 
against it, while others, which seemed to justify the step, would not 
be done away; and his interest, his fame were at all times too dear 
to her, to suffer her to consent to a union, which, at this early 
period of their lives, would probably defeat both.  One sure, and 
proper asylum, however, would still be open to her in France.  She 
knew that she could board in the convent, where she had formerly 
experienced so much kindness, and which had an affecting and solemn 
claim upon her heart, since it contained the remains of her late 
father.  Here she could remain in safety and tranquillity, till the 
term, for which La Vallee might be let, should expire; or, till the 
arrangement of M. Motteville's affairs enabled her so far to estimate 
the remains of her fortune, as to judge whether it would be prudent 
for her to reside there.

Concerning Montoni's conduct with respect to his letters to M. 
Quesnel, she had many doubts; however he might be at first mistaken 
on the subject, she much suspected that he wilfully persevered in his 
error, as a means of intimidating her into a compliance with his 
wishes of uniting her to Count Morano.  Whether this was or was not 
the fact, she was extremely anxious to explain the affair to M. 
Quesnel, and looked forward with a mixture of impatience, hope and 
fear, to her approaching visit.

On the following day, Madame Montoni, being alone with Emily, 
introduced the mention of Count Morano, by expressing her surprise, 
that she had not joined the party on the water the preceding evening, 
and at her abrupt departure to Venice.  Emily then related what had 
passed, expressed her concern for the mutual mistake that had 
occurred between Montoni and herself, and solicited her aunt's kind 
offices in urging him to give a decisive denial to the count's 
further addresses; but she soon perceived, that Madame Montoni had 
not been ignorant of the late conversation, when she introduced the 
present.

'You have no encouragement to expect from me,' said her aunt, 'in 
these notions.  I have already given my opinion on the subject, and 
think Signor Montoni right in enforcing, by any means, your consent.  
If young persons will be blind to their interest, and obstinately 
oppose it, why, the greatest blessings they can have are friends, who 
will oppose their folly.  Pray what pretensions of any kind do you 
think you have to such a match as is now offered you?'

'Not any whatever, Madam,' replied Emily, 'and, therefore, at least, 
suffer me to be happy in my humility.'

'Nay, niece, it cannot be denied, that you have pride enough; my poor 
brother, your father, had his share of pride too; though, let me add, 
his fortune did not justify it.'

Emily, somewhat embarrassed by the indignation, which this malevolent 
allusion to her father excited, and by the difficulty of rendering 
her answer as temperate as it should be reprehensive, hesitated for 
some moments, in a confusion, which highly gratified her aunt.  At 
length she said, 'My father's pride, Madam, had a noble object--the 
happiness which he knew could be derived only from goodness, 
knowledge and charity.  As it never consisted in his superiority, in 
point of fortune, to some persons, it was not humbled by his 
inferiority, in that respect, to others.  He never disdained those, 
who were wretched by poverty and misfortune; he did sometimes despise 
persons, who, with many opportunities of happiness, rendered 
themselves miserable by vanity, ignorance and cruelty.  I shall think 
it my highest glory to emulate such pride.'

'I do not pretend to understand any thing of these high-flown 
sentiments, niece; you have all that glory to yourself:  I would 
teach you a little plain sense, and not have you so wise as to 
despise happiness.'

'That would indeed not be wisdom, but folly,' said Emily, 'for wisdom 
can boast no higher attainment than happiness; but you will allow, 
Madam, that our ideas of happiness may differ.  I cannot doubt, that 
you wish me to be happy, but I must fear you are mistaken in the 
means of making me so.'

'I cannot boast of a learned education, niece, such as your father 
thought proper to give you, and, therefore, do not pretend to 
understand all these fine speeches about happiness.  I must be 
contented to understand only common sense, and happy would it have 
been for you and your father, if that had been included in his 
education.'

Emily was too much shocked by these reflections on her father's 
memory, to despise this speech as it deserved.

Madame Montoni was about to speak, but Emily quitted the room, and 
retired to her own, where the little spirit she had lately exerted 
yielded to grief and vexation, and left her only to her tears.  From 
every review of her situation she could derive, indeed, only new 
sorrow.  To the discovery, which had just been forced upon her, of 
Montoni's unworthiness, she had now to add, that of the cruel vanity, 
for the gratification of which her aunt was about to sacrifice her; 
of the effrontery and cunning, with which, at the time that she 
meditated the sacrifice, she boasted of her tenderness, or insulted 
her victim; and of the venomous envy, which, as it did not scruple to 
attack her father's character, could scarcely be expected to withhold 
from her own.

During the few days that intervened between this conversation and the 
departure for Miarenti, Montoni did not once address himself to 
Emily.  His looks sufficiently declared his resentment; but that he 
should forbear to renew a mention of the subject of it, exceedingly 
surprised her, who was no less astonished, that, during three days, 
Count Morano neither visited Montoni, or was named by him.  Several 
conjectures arose in her mind.  Sometimes she feared that the dispute 
between them had been revived, and had ended fatally to the Count.  
Sometimes she was inclined to hope, that weariness, or disgust at her 
firm rejection of his suit had induced him to relinquish it; and, at 
others, she suspected that he had now recourse to stratagem, and 
forbore his visits, and prevailed with Montoni to forbear the 
repetition of his name, in the expectation that gratitude and 
generosity would prevail with her to give him the consent, which he 
could not hope from love.

Thus passed the time in vain conjecture, and alternate hopes and 
fears, till the day arrived when Montoni was to set out for the villa 
of Miarenti, which, like the preceding ones, neither brought the 
Count, or the mention of him.

Montoni having determined not to leave Venice, till towards evening, 
that he might avoid the heats, and catch the cool breezes of night, 
embarked about an hour before sun-set, with his family, in a barge, 
for the Brenta.  Emily sat alone near the stern of the vessel, and, 
as it floated slowly on, watched the gay and lofty city lessening 
from her view, till its palaces seemed to sink in the distant waves, 
while its loftier towers and domes, illumined by the declining sun, 
appeared on the horizon, like those far-seen clouds which, in more 
northern climes, often linger on the western verge, and catch the 
last light of a summer's evening.  Soon after, even these grew dim, 
and faded in distance from her sight; but she still sat gazing on the 
vast scene of cloudless sky, and mighty waters, and listening in 
pleasing awe to the deep-sounding waves, while, as her eyes glanced 
over the Adriatic, towards the opposite shores, which were, however, 
far beyond the reach of sight, she thought of Greece, and, a thousand 
classical remembrances stealing to her mind, she experienced that 
pensive luxury which is felt on viewing the scenes of ancient story, 
and on comparing their present state of silence and solitude with 
that of their former grandeur and animation.  The scenes of the 
Illiad illapsed in glowing colours to her fancy--scenes, once the 
haunt of heroes--now lonely, and in ruins; but which still shone, in 
the poet's strain, in all their youthful splendour.

As her imagination painted with melancholy touches, the deserted 
plains of Troy, such as they appeared in this after-day, she 
reanimated the landscape with the following little story.

     STANZAS

 O'er Ilion's plains, where once the warrior bled,
 And once the poet rais'd his deathless strain,
 O'er Ilion's plains a weary driver led
 His stately camels:  For the ruin'd fane

 Wide round the lonely scene his glance he threw,
 For now the red cloud faded in the west,
 And twilight o'er the silent landscape drew
 Her deep'ning veil; eastward his course he prest:

 There, on the grey horizon's glimm'ring bound,
 Rose the proud columns of deserted Troy,
 And wandering shepherds now a shelter found
 Within those walls, where princes wont to joy.

 Beneath a lofty porch the driver pass'd,
 Then, from his camels heav'd the heavy load;
 Partook with them the simple, cool repast,
 And in short vesper gave himself to God.

 From distant lands with merchandise he came,
 His all of wealth his patient servants bore;
 Oft deep-drawn sighs his anxious wish proclaim
 To reach, again, his happy cottage door;

 For there, his wife, his little children, dwell;
 Their smiles shall pay the toil of many an hour:
 Ev'n now warm tears to expectation swell,
 As fancy o'er his mind extends her pow'r.

 A death-like stillness reign'd, where once the song,
 The song of heroes, wak'd the midnight air,
 Save, when a solemn murmur roll'd along,
 That seem'd to say--'for future worlds prepare.'

 For Time's imperious voice was frequent heard
 Shaking the marble temple to its fall,
 (By hands he long had conquer'd, vainly rear'd),
 And distant ruins answer'd to his call.

 While Hamet slept, his camels round him lay,
 Beneath him, all his store of wealth was piled;
 And here, his cruse and empty wallet lay,
 And there, the flute that chear'd him in the wild.

 The robber Tartar on his slumber stole,
 For o'er the waste, at eve, he watch'd his train;
 Ah! who his thirst of plunder shall control?
 Who calls on him for mercy--calls in vain!

 A poison'd poignard in his belt he wore,
 A crescent sword depended at his side,
 The deathful quiver at his back he bore,
 And infants--at his very look had died!

 The moon's cold beam athwart the temple fell,
 And to his sleeping prey the Tartar led;
 But soft!--a startled camel shook his bell,
 Then stretch'd his limbs, and rear'd his drowsy head.

 Hamet awoke! the poignard glitter'd high!
 Swift from his couch he sprung, and 'scap'd the blow;
 When from an unknown hand the arrows fly,
 That lay the ruffian, in his vengeance, low.

 He groan'd, he died! from forth a column'd gate
 A fearful shepherd, pale and silent, crept,
 Who, as he watch'd his folded flock star-late,
 Had mark'd the robber steal where Hamet slept.

 He fear'd his own, and sav'd a stranger's life!
 Poor Hamet clasp'd him to his grateful heart;
 Then, rous'd his camels for the dusty strife,
 And, with the shepherd, hasten'd to depart.

 And now, aurora breathes her fresh'ning gale,
 And faintly trembles on the eastern cloud;
 And now, the sun, from under twilight's veil,
 Looks gaily forth, and melts her airy shroud.

 Wide o'er the level plains, his slanting beams
 Dart their long lines on Ilion's tower'd site;
 The distant Hellespont with morning gleams,
 And old Scamander winds his waves in light.

 All merry sound the camel bells, so gay,
 And merry beats fond Hamet's heart, for he,
 E'er the dim evening steals upon the day,
 His children, wife and happy home shall see.

As Emily approached the shores of Italy she began to discriminate the 
rich features and varied colouring of the landscape--the purple 
hills, groves of orange pine and cypress, shading magnificent villas, 
and towns rising among vineyards and plantations.  The noble Brenta, 
pouring its broad waves into the sea, now appeared, and, when she 
reached its mouth, the barge stopped, that the horses might be 
fastened which were now to tow it up the stream.  This done, Emily 
gave a last look to the Adriatic, and to the dim sail,

     that from the sky-mix'd wave
 Dawns on the sight,

and the barge slowly glided between the green and luxuriant slopes of 
the river.  The grandeur of the Palladian villas, that adorn these 
shores, was considerably heightened by the setting rays, which threw 
strong contrasts of light and shade upon the porticos and long 
arcades, and beamed a mellow lustre upon the orangeries and the tall 
groves of pine and cypress, that overhung the buildings.  The scent 
of oranges, of flowering myrtles, and other odoriferous plants was 
diffused upon the air, and often, from these embowered retreats, a 
strain of music stole on the calm, and 'softened into silence.'

The sun now sunk below the horizon, twilight fell over the landscape, 
and Emily, wrapt in musing silence, continued to watch its features 
gradually vanishing into obscurity.  she remembered her many happy 
evenings, when with St. Aubert she had observed the shades of 
twilight steal over a scene as beautiful as this, from the gardens of 
La Vallee, and a tear fell to the memory of her father.  Her spirits 
were softened into melancholy by the influence of the hour, by the 
low murmur of the wave passing under the vessel, and the stillness of 
the air, that trembled only at intervals with distant music:--why 
else should she, at these moments, have looked on her attachment to 
Valancourt with presages so very afflicting, since she had but lately 
received letters from him, that had soothed for a while all her 
anxieties?  It now seemed to her oppressed mind, that she had taken 
leave of him for ever, and that the countries, which separated them, 
would never more be re-traced by her.  She looked upon Count Morano 
with horror, as in some degree the cause of this; but apart from him, 
a conviction, if such that may be called, which arises from no proof, 
and which she knew not how to account for, seized her mind--that she 
should never see Valancourt again.  Though she knew, that neither 
Morano's solicitations, nor Montoni's commands had lawful power to 
enforce her obedience, she regarded both with a superstitious dread, 
that they would finally prevail.

Lost in this melancholy reverie, and shedding frequent tears, Emily 
was at length roused by Montoni, and she followed him to the cabin, 
where refreshments were spread, and her aunt was seated alone.  The 
countenance of Madame Montoni was inflamed with resentment, that 
appeared to be the consequence of some conversation she had held with 
her husband, who regarded her with a kind of sullen disdain, and both 
preserved, for some time, a haughty silence.  Montoni then spoke to 
Emily of Mons. Quesnel:  'You will not, I hope, persist in 
disclaiming your knowledge of the subject of my letter to him?'

'I had hoped, sir, that it was no longer necessary for me to disclaim 
it,' said Emily, 'I had hoped, from your silence, that you was 
convinced of your error.'

'You have hoped impossibilities then,' replied Montoni; 'I might as 
reasonably have expected to find sincerity and uniformity of conduct 
in one of your sex, as you to convict me of error in this affair.'

Emily blushed, and was silent; she now perceived too clearly, that 
she had hoped an impossibility, for, where no mistake had been 
committed no conviction could follow; and it was evident, that 
Montoni's conduct had not been the consequence of mistake, but of 
design.

Anxious to escape from conversation, which was both afflicting and 
humiliating to her, she soon returned to the deck, and resumed her 
station near the stern, without apprehension of cold, for no vapour 
rose from the water, and the air was dry and tranquil; here, at 
least, the benevolence of nature allowed her the quiet which Montoni 
had denied her elsewhere.  It was now past midnight.  The stars shed 
a kind of twilight, that served to shew the dark outline of the 
shores on either hand, and the grey surface of the river; till the 
moon rose from behind a high palm grove, and shed her mellow lustre 
over the scene.  The vessel glided smoothly on:  amid the stillness 
of the hour Emily heard, now and then, the solitary voice of the 
barge-men on the bank, as they spoke to their horses; while, from a 
remote part of the vessel, with melancholy song,

     The sailor sooth'd,
 Beneath the trembling moon, the midnight wave.

Emily, meanwhile, anticipated her reception by Mons, and Madame 
Quesnel; considered what she should say on the subject of La Vallee; 
and then, to with-hold her mind from more anxious topics, tried to 
amuse herself by discriminating the faint-drawn features of the 
landscape, reposing in the moon-light.  While her fancy thus 
wandered, she saw, at a distance, a building peeping between the 
moon-light trees, and, as the barge approached, heard voices 
speaking, and soon distinguished the lofty portico of a villa, 
overshadowed by groves of pine and sycamore, which she recollected to 
be the same, that had formerly been pointed out to her, as belonging 
to Madame Quesnel's relative.

The barge stopped at a flight of marble steps, which led up the bank 
to a lawn.  Lights appeared between some pillars beyond the portico.  
Montoni sent forward his servant, and then disembarked with his 
family.  They found Mons. and Madame Quesnel, with a few friends, 
seated on sofas in the portico, enjoying the cool breeze of the 
night, and eating fruits and ices, while some of their servants at a 
little distance, on the river's bank, were performing a simple 
serenade.  Emily was now accustomed to the way of living in this warm 
country, and was not surprised to find Mons. and Madame Quesnel in 
their portico, two hours after midnight.

The usual salutations being over, the company seated themselves in 
the portico, and refreshments were brought them from the adjoining 
hall, where a banquet was spread, and servants attended.  When the 
bustle of this meeting had subsided, and Emily had recovered from the 
little flutter into which it had thrown her spirits, she was struck 
with the singular beauty of the hall, so perfectly accommodated to 
the luxuries of the season.  It was of white marble, and the roof, 
rising into an open cupola, was supported by columns of the same 
material.  Two opposite sides of the apartment, terminating in open 
porticos, admitted to the hall a full view of the gardens, and of the 
river scenery; in the centre a fountain continually refreshed the 
air, and seemed to heighten the fragrance, that breathed from the 
surrounding orangeries, while its dashing waters gave an agreeable 
and soothing sound.  Etruscan lamps, suspended from the pillars, 
diffused a brilliant light over the interior part of the hall, 
leaving the remoter porticos to the softer lustre of the moon.

Mons. Quesnel talked apart to Montoni of his own affairs, in his 
usual strain of self-importance; boasted of his new acquisitions, and 
then affected to pity some disappointments, which Montoni had lately 
sustained.  Meanwhile, the latter, whose pride at least enabled him 
to despise such vanity as this, and whose discernment at once 
detected under this assumed pity, the frivolous malignity of 
Quesnel's mind, listened to him in contemptuous silence, till he 
named his niece, and then they left the portico, and walked away into 
the gardens.

Emily, however, still attended to Madame Quesnel, who spoke of France 
(for even the name of her native country was dear to her) and she 
found some pleasure in looking at a person, who had lately been in 
it.  That country, too, was inhabited by Valancourt, and she listened 
to the mention of it, with a faint hope, that he also would be named.  
Madame Quesnel, who, when she was in France, had talked with rapture 
of Italy, now, that she was in Italy, talked with equal praise of 
France, and endeavoured to excite the wonder and the envy of her 
auditors by accounts of places, which they had not been happy enough 
to see.  In these descriptions she not only imposed upon them, but 
upon herself, for she never thought a present pleasure equal to one, 
that was passed; and thus the delicious climate, the fragrant 
orangeries and all the luxuries, which surrounded her, slept 
unnoticed, while her fancy wandered over the distant scenes of a 
northern country.

Emily listened in vain for the name of Valancourt.  Madame Montoni 
spoke in her turn of the delights of Venice, and of the pleasure she 
expected from visiting the fine castle of Montoni, on the Apennine; 
which latter mention, at least, was merely a retaliating boast, for 
Emily well knew, that her aunt had no taste for solitary grandeur, 
and, particularly, for such as the castle of Udolpho promised.  Thus 
the party continued to converse, and, as far as civility would 
permit, to torture each other by mutual boasts, while they reclined 
on sofas in the portico, and were environed with delights both from 
nature and art, by which any honest minds would have been tempered to 
benevolence, and happy imaginations would have been soothed into 
enchantment.

The dawn, soon after, trembled in the eastern horizon, and the light 
tints of morning, gradually expanding, shewed the beautifully 
declining forms of the Italian mountains and the gleaming landscapes, 
stretched at their feet.  Then the sun-beams, shooting up from behind 
the hills, spread over the scene that fine saffron tinge, which seems 
to impart repose to all it touches.  The landscape no longer gleamed; 
all its glowing colours were revealed, except that its remoter 
features were still softened and united in the mist of distance, 
whose sweet effect was heightened to Emily by the dark verdure of the 
pines and cypresses, that over-arched the foreground of the river.

The market people, passing with their boats to Venice, now formed a 
moving picture on the Brenta.  Most of these had little painted 
awnings, to shelter their owners from the sun-beams, which, together 
with the piles of fruit and flowers, displayed beneath, and the 
tasteful simplicity of the peasant girls, who watched the rural 
treasures, rendered them gay and striking objects.  The swift 
movement of the boats down the current, the quick glance of oars in 
the water, and now and then the passing chorus of peasants, who 
reclined under the sail of their little bark, or the tones of some 
rustic instrument, played by a girl, as she sat near her sylvan 
cargo, heightened the animation and festivity of the scene.

When Montoni and M. Quesnel had joined the ladies, the party left the 
portico for the gardens, where the charming scenery soon withdrew 
Emily's thoughts from painful subjects.  The majestic forms and rich 
verdure of cypresses she had never seen so perfect before:  groves of 
cedar, lemon, and orange, the spiry clusters of the pine and poplar, 
the luxuriant chesnut and oriental plane, threw all their pomp of 
shade over these gardens; while bowers of flowering myrtle and other 
spicy shrubs mingled their fragrance with that of flowers, whose 
vivid and various colouring glowed with increased effect beneath the 
contrasted umbrage of the groves.  The air also was continually 
refreshed by rivulets, which, with more taste than fashion, had been 
suffered to wander among the green recesses.

Emily often lingered behind the party, to contemplate the distant 
landscape, that closed a vista, or that gleamed beneath the dark 
foliage of the foreground;--the spiral summits of the mountains, 
touched with a purple tint, broken and steep above, but shelving 
gradually to their base; the open valley, marked by no formal lines 
of art; and the tall groves of cypress, pine and poplar, sometimes 
embellished by a ruined villa, whose broken columns appeared between 
the branches of a pine, that seemed to droop over their fall.

From other parts of the gardens, the character of the view was 
entirely changed, and the fine solitary beauty of the landscape 
shifted for the crowded features and varied colouring of 
inhabitation.

The sun was now gaining fast upon the sky, and the party quitted the 
gardens, and retired to repose.



CHAPTER IV


 And poor Misfortune feels the lash of Vice.
     THOMSON

Emily seized the first opportunity of conversing alone with Mons. 
Quesnel, concerning La Vallee.  His answers to her enquiries were 
concise, and delivered with the air of a man, who is conscious of 
possessing absolute power and impatient of hearing it questioned.  He 
declared, that the disposal of the place was a necessary measure; and 
that she might consider herself indebted to his prudence for even the 
small income that remained for her.  'But, however,' added he, 'when 
this Venetian Count (I have forgot his name) marries you, your 
present disagreeable state of dependence will cease.  As a relation 
to you I rejoice in the circumstance, which is so fortunate for you, 
and, I may add, so unexpected by your friends.'  For some moments 
Emily was chilled into silence by this speech; and, when she 
attempted to undeceive him, concerning the purport of the note she 
had inclosed in Montoni's letter,  he appeared to have some private 
reason for disbelieving her assertion, and, for a considerable time, 
persevered in accusing her of capricious conduct.  Being, at length, 
however, convinced that she really disliked Morano and had positively 
rejected his suit, his resentment was extravagant, and he expressed 
it in terms equally pointed and inhuman; for, secretly flattered by 
the prospect of a connection with a nobleman, whose title he had 
affected to forget, he was incapable of feeling pity for whatever 
sufferings of his niece might stand in the way of his ambition.

Emily saw at once in his manner all the difficulties, that awaited 
her, and, though no oppression could have power to make her renounce 
Valancourt for Morano, her fortitude now trembled at an encounter 
with the violent passions of her uncle.

She opposed his turbulence and indignation only by the mild dignity 
of a superior mind; but the gentle firmness of her conduct served to 
exasperate still more his resentment, since it compelled him to feel 
his own inferiority, and, when he left her, he declared, that, if she 
persisted in her folly, both himself and Montoni would abandon her to 
the contempt of the world.

The calmness she had assumed in his presence failed Emily, when 
alone, and she wept bitterly, and called frequently upon the name of 
her departed father, whose advice to her from his death-bed she then 
remembered.  'Alas!' said she, 'I do indeed perceive how much more 
valuable is the strength of fortitude than the grace of sensibility, 
and I will also endeavour to fulfil the promise I then made; I will 
not indulge in unavailing lamentation, but will try to endure, with 
firmness, the oppression I cannot elude.'

Somewhat soothed by the consciousness of performing a part of St. 
Aubert's last request, and of endeavouring to pursue the conduct 
which he would have approved, she overcame her tears, and, when the 
company met at dinner, had recovered her usual serenity of 
countenance.

In the cool of the evening, the ladies took the FRESCO along the bank 
of the Brenta in Madame Quesnel's carriage.  The state of Emily's 
mind was in melancholy contrast with the gay groups assembled beneath 
the shades that overhung this enchanting stream.  Some were dancing 
under the trees, and others reclining on the grass, taking ices and 
coffee and calmly enjoying the effect of a beautiful evening, on a 
luxuriant landscape.  Emily, when she looked at the snow-capt 
Apennines, ascending in the distance, thought of Montoni's castle, 
and suffered some terror, lest he should convey her thither, for the 
purpose of enforcing her obedience; but the thought vanished, when 
she considered, that she was as much in his power at Venice as she 
could be elsewhere.

It was moonlight before the party returned to the villa, where supper 
was spread in the airy hall, which had so much enchanted Emily's 
fancy, on the preceding night.  The ladies seated themselves in the 
portico, till Mons. Quesnel, Montoni, and other gentlemen should join 
them at table, and Emily endeavoured to resign herself to the 
tranquillity of the hour.  Presently, a barge stopped at the steps 
that led into the gardens, and, soon after, she distinguished the 
voices of Montoni and Quesnel, and then that of Morano, who, in the 
next moment, appeared.  His compliments she received in silence, and 
her cold air seemed at first to discompose him; but he soon recovered 
his usual gaiety of manner, though the officious kindness of M. and 
Madame Quesnel Emily perceived disgusted him.  Such a degree of 
attention she had scarcely believed could be shewn by M. Quesnel, for 
she had never before seen him otherwise than in the presence of his 
inferiors or equals.

When she could retire to her own apartment, her mind almost 
involuntarily dwelt on the most probable means of prevailing with the 
Count to withdraw his suit, and to her liberal mind none appeared 
more probable, than that of acknowledging to him a prior attachment 
and throwing herself upon his generosity for a release.  When, 
however, on the following day, he renewed his addresses, she shrunk 
from the adoption of the plan she had formed.  There was something so 
repugnant to her just pride, in laying open the secret of her heart 
to such a man as Morano, and in suing to him for compassion, that she 
impatiently rejected this design and wondered, that she could have 
paused upon it for a moment.  The rejection of his suit she repeated 
in the most decisive terms she could select, mingling with it a 
severe censure of his conduct; but, though the Count appeared 
mortified by this, he persevered in the most ardent professions of 
admiration, till he was interrupted and Emily released by the 
presence of Madame Quesnel.

During her stay at this pleasant villa, Emily was thus rendered 
miserable by the assiduities of Morano, together with the cruelly 
exerted authority of M. Quesnel and Montoni, who, with her aunt, 
seemed now more resolutely determined upon this marriage than they 
had even appeared to be at Venice.  M. Quesnel, finding, that both 
argument and menace were ineffectual in enforcing an immediate 
conclusion to it, at length relinquished his endeavours, and trusted 
to the power of Montoni and to the course of events at Venice.  
Emily, indeed, looked to Venice with hope, for there she would be 
relieved in some measure from the persecution of Morano, who would no 
longer be an inhabitant of the same house with herself, and from that 
of Montoni, whose engagements would not permit him to be continually 
at home.  But amidst the pressure of her own misfortunes, she did not 
forget those of poor Theresa, for whom she pleaded with courageous 
tenderness to Quesnel, who promised, in slight and general terms, 
that she should not be forgotten.

Montoni, in a long conversation with M. Quesnel, arranged the plan to 
be pursued respecting Emily, and M. Quesnel proposed to be at Venice, 
as soon as he should be informed, that the nuptials were concluded.

It was new to Emily to part with any person, with whom she was 
connected, without feeling of regret; the moment, however, in which 
she took leave of M. and Madame Quesnel, was, perhaps, the only 
satisfactory one she had known in their presence.

Morano returned in Montoni's barge, and Emily, as she watched her 
gradual approach to that magic city, saw at her side the only person, 
who occasioned her to view it with less than perfect delight.  They 
arrived there about midnight, when Emily was released from the 
presence of the Count, who, with Montoni, went to a Casino, and she 
was suffered to retire to her own apartment.

On the following day, Montoni, in a short conversation, which he held 
with Emily, informed her, that he would no longer be TRIFLED with, 
and that, since her marriage with the Count would be so highly 
advantageous to her, that folly only could object to it, and folly of 
such extent as was incapable of conviction, it should be celebrated 
without further delay, and, if that was necessary, without her 
consent.

Emily, who had hitherto tried remonstrance, had now recourse to 
supplication, for distress prevented her from foreseeing, that, with 
a man of Montoni's disposition, supplication would be equally 
useless.  She afterwards enquired by what right he exerted this 
unlimited authority over her? a question, which her better judgment 
would have with-held her, in a calmer moment, from making, since it 
could avail her nothing, and would afford Montoni another opportunity 
of triumphing over her defenceless condition.

'By what right!' cried Montoni, with a malicious smile, 'by the right 
of my will; if you can elude that, I will not inquire by what right 
you do so.  I now remind you, for the last time, that you are a 
stranger, in a foreign country, and that it is your interest to make 
me your friend; you know the means; if you compel me to become your 
enemy--I will venture to tell you, that the punishment shall exceed 
your expectation.  You may know _I_ am not to be trifled with.'

Emily continued, for some time after Montoni had left her, in a state 
of despair, or rather stupefaction; a consciousness of misery was all 
that remained in her mind.  In this situation Madame Montoni found 
her, at the sound of whose voice Emily looked up, and her aunt, 
somewhat softened by the expression of despair, that fixed her 
countenance, spoke in a manner more kind than she had ever yet done.  
Emily's heart was touched; she shed tears, and, after weeping for 
some time, recovered sufficient composure to speak on the subject of 
her distress, and to endeavour to interest Madame Montoni in her 
behalf.  But, though the compassion of her aunt had been surprised, 
her ambition was not to be overcome, and her present object was to be 
the aunt of a Countess.  Emily's efforts, therefore, were as 
unsuccessful as they had been with Montoni, and she withdrew to her 
apartment to think and weep alone.  How often did she remember the 
parting scene with Valancourt, and wish, that the Italian had 
mentioned Montoni's character with less reserve!  When her mind, 
however, had recovered from the first shock of this behaviour, she 
considered, that it would be impossible for him to compel her 
alliance with Morano, if she persisted in refusing to repeat any part 
of the marriage ceremony; and she persevered in her resolution to 
await Montoni's threatened vengeance rather than give herself for 
life to a man, whom she must have despised for his present conduct, 
had she never even loved Valancourt; yet she trembled at the revenge 
she thus resolved to brave.

An affair, however, soon after occurred, which somewhat called off 
Montoni's attention from Emily.  The mysterious visits of Orsino were 
renewed with more frequency since the return of the former to Venice.  
There were others, also, besides Orsino, admitted to these midnight 
councils, and among them Cavigni and Verezzi.  Montoni became more 
reserved and austere in his manner than ever; and Emily, if her own 
interests had not made her regardless of his, might have perceived, 
that something extraordinary was working in his mind.

One night, on which a council was not held, Orsino came in great 
agitation of spirits, and dispatched his confidential servant to 
Montoni, who was at a Casino, desiring that he would return home 
immediately; but charging the servant not to mention his name.  
Montoni obeyed the summons, and, on meeting Orsino, was informed of 
the circumstances, that occasioned his visit and his visible alarm, 
with a part of which he was already acquainted.

A Venetian nobleman, who had, on some late occasion, provoked the 
hatred of Orsino, had been way-laid and poniarded by hired assassins:  
and, as the murdered person was of the first connections, the Senate 
had taken up the affair.  One of the assassins was now apprehended, 
who had confessed, that Orsino was his employer in the atrocious 
deed; and the latter, informed of his danger, had now come to Montoni 
to consult on the measures necessary to favour his escape.  He knew, 
that, at this time, the officers of the police were upon the watch 
for him, all over the city; to leave it, at present, therefore, was 
impracticable, and Montoni consented to secrete him for a few days 
till the vigilance of justice should relax, and then to assist him in 
quitting Venice.  He knew the danger he himself incurred by 
permitting Orsino to remain in his house, but such was the nature of 
his obligations to this man, that he did not think it prudent to 
refuse him an asylum.

Such was the person whom Montoni had admitted to his confidence, and 
for whom he felt as much friendship as was compatible with his 
character.

While Orsino remained concealed in his house, Montoni was unwilling 
to attract public observation by the nuptials of Count Morano; but 
this obstacle was, in a few days, overcome by the departure of his 
criminal visitor, and he then informed Emily, that her marriage was 
to be celebrated on the following morning.  To her repeated 
assurances, that it should not take place, he replied only by a 
malignant smile; and, telling her that the Count and a priest would 
be at his house, early in the morning, he advised her no further to 
dare his resentment, by opposition to his will and to her own 
interest.  'I am now going out for the evening,' said he, 'remember, 
that I shall give your hand to Count Morano in the morning.'  Emily, 
having, ever since his late threats, expected, that her trials would 
at length arrive to this crisis, was less shocked by the declaration, 
that she otherwise would have been, and she endeavoured to support 
herself by the belief, that the marriage could not be valid, so long 
as she refused before the priest to repeat any part of the ceremony.  
Yet, as the moment of trial approached, her long-harassed spirits 
shrunk almost equally from the encounter of his vengeance, and from 
the hand of Count Morano.  She was not even perfectly certain of the 
consequence of her steady refusal at the altar, and she trembled, 
more than ever, at the power of Montoni, which seemed unlimited as 
his will, for she saw, that he would not scruple to transgress any 
law, if, by so doing, he could accomplish his project.

While her mind was thus suffering and in a state little short of 
distraction, she was informed that Morano asked permission to see 
her, and the servant had scarcely departed with an excuse, before she 
repented that she had sent one.  In the next moment, reverting to her 
former design, and determining to try, whether expostulation and 
entreaty would not succeed, where a refusal and a just disdain had 
failed, she recalled the servant, and, sending a different message, 
prepared to go down to the Count.

The dignity and assumed composure with which she met him, and the 
kind of pensive resignation, that softened her countenance, were 
circumstances not likely to induce him to relinquish her, serving, as 
they did, to heighten a passion, which had already intoxicated his 
judgment.  He listened to all she said with an appearance of 
complacency and of a wish to oblige her; but his resolution remained 
invariably the same, and he endeavoured to win her admiration by 
every insinuating art he so well knew how to practise.  Being, at 
length, assured, that she had nothing to hope from his justice, she 
repeated, in a solemn and impressive manner, her absolute rejection 
of his suit, and quitted him with an assurance, that her refusal 
would be effectually maintained against every circumstance, that 
could be imagined for subduing it.  A just pride had restrained her 
tears in his presence, but now they flowed from the fulness of her 
heart.  She often called upon the name of her late father, and often 
dwelt with unutterable anguish on the idea of Valancourt.

She did not go down to supper, but remained alone in her apartment, 
sometimes yielding to the influence of grief and terror, and, at 
others, endeavouring to fortify her mind against them, and to prepare 
herself to meet, with composed courage, the scene of the following 
morning, when all the stratagem of Morano and the violence of Montoni 
would be united against her.

The evening was far advanced, when Madame Montoni came to her chamber 
with some bridal ornaments, which the Count had sent to Emily.  She 
had, this day, purposely avoided her niece; perhaps, because her 
usual insensibility failed her, and she feared to trust herself with 
a view of Emily's distress; or possibly, though her conscience was 
seldom audible, it now reproached her with her conduct to her 
brother's orphan child, whose happiness had been entrusted to her 
care by a dying father.

Emily could not look at these presents, and made a last, though 
almost hopeless, effort to interest the compassion of Madame Montoni, 
who, if she did feel any degree of pity, or remorse, successfully 
concealed it, and reproached her niece with folly in being miserable, 
concerning a marriage, which ought only to make her happy.  'I am 
sure,' said she, 'if I was unmarried, and the Count had proposed to 
me, I should have been flattered by the distinction:  and if I should 
have been so, I am sure, niece, you, who have no fortune, ought to 
feel yourself highly honoured, and shew a proper gratitude and 
humility towards the Count, for his condescension.  I am often 
surprised, I must own, to observe how humbly he deports himself to 
you, notwithstanding the haughty airs you give yourself; I wonder he 
has patience to humour you so:  if I was he, I know, I should often 
be ready to reprehend you, and make you know yourself a little 
better.  I would not have flattered you, I can tell you, for it is 
this absurd flattery that makes you fancy yourself of so much 
consequence, that you think nobody can deserve you, and I often tell 
the Count so, for I have no patience to hear him pay you such 
extravagant compliments, which you believe every word of!'

'Your patience, madam, cannot suffer more cruelly on such occasions, 
than my own,' said Emily.

'O! that is all mere affectation,' rejoined her aunt.  'I know that 
his flattery delights you, and makes you so vain, that you think you 
may have the whole world at your feet.  But you are very much 
mistaken; I can assure you, niece, you will not meet with many such 
suitors as the Count:  every other person would have turned upon his 
heel, and left you to repent at your leisure, long ago.'

'O that the Count had resembled every other person, then!' said 
Emily, with a heavy sigh.

'It is happy for you, that he does not,' rejoined Madame Montoni; 
'and what I am now saying is from pure kindness.  I am endeavouring 
to convince you of your good fortune, and to persuade you to submit 
to necessity with a good grace.  It is nothing to me, you know, 
whether you like this marriage or not, for it must be; what I say, 
therefore, is from pure kindness.  I wish to see you happy, and it is 
your own fault if you are not so.  I would ask you, now, seriously 
and calmly, what kind of a match you can expect, since a Count cannot 
content your ambition?'

'I have no ambition whatever, madam,' replied Emily, 'my only wish is 
to remain in my present station.'

'O! that is speaking quite from the purpose,' said her aunt, 'I see 
you are still thinking of Mons. Valancourt.  Pray get rid of all 
those fantastic notions about love, and this ridiculous pride, and be 
something like a reasonable creature.  But, however, this is nothing 
to the purpose--for your marriage with the Count takes place 
tomorrow, you know, whether you approve it or not.  The Count will be 
trifled with no longer.'

Emily made no attempt to reply to this curious speech; she felt it 
would be mean, and she knew it would be useless.  Madame Montoni laid 
the Count's presents upon the table, on which Emily was leaning, and 
then, desiring she would be ready early in the morning, bade her 
good-night.  'Good-night, madam,' said Emily, with a deep sigh, as 
the door closed upon her aunt, and she was left once more to her own 
sad reflections.  For some time she sat so lost in thought, as to be 
wholly unconscious where she was; at length, raising her head, and 
looking round the room, its gloom and profound stillness awed her.  
She fixed her eyes on the door, through which her aunt had 
disappeared, and listened anxiously for some sound, that might 
relieve the deep dejection of her spirits; but it was past midnight, 
and all the family except the servant, who sat up for Montoni, had 
retired to bed.  Her mind, long harassed by distress, now yielded to 
imaginary terrors; she trembled to look into the obscurity of her 
spacious chamber, and feared she knew not what; a state of mind, 
which continued so long, that she would have called up Annette, her 
aunt's woman, had her fears permitted her to rise from her chair, and 
to cross the apartment.

These melancholy illusions at length began to disperse, and she 
retired to her bed, not to sleep, for that was scarcely possible, but 
to try, at least, to quiet her disturbed fancy, and to collect 
strength of spirits sufficient to bear her through the scene of the 
approaching morning.



CHAPTER V


 Dark power! with shudd'ring, meek submitted thought
 Be mine to read the visions old
 Which thy awak'ning bards have told,
 And, lest they meet my blasted view,
 Hold each strange tale devoutly true.
     COLLINS' ODE TO FEAR

Emily was recalled from a kind of slumber, into which she had, at 
length, sunk, by a quick knocking at her chamber door.  She started 
up in terror, for Montoni and Count Morano instantly came to her 
mind; but, having listened in silence for some time, and recognizing 
the voice of Annette, she rose and opened the door.  'What brings you 
hither so early?' said Emily, trembling excessively.  She was unable 
to support herself, and sat down on the bed.

'Dear ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'do not look so pale.  I am quite 
frightened to see you.  Here is a fine bustle below stairs, all the 
servants running to and fro, and none of them fast enough!  Here is a 
bustle, indeed, all of a sudden, and nobody knows for what!'

'Who is below besides them?' said Emily, 'Annette, do not trifle with 
me!'

'Not for the world, ma'amselle, I would not trifle for the world; but 
one cannot help making one's remarks, and there is the Signor in such 
a bustle, as I never saw him before; and he has sent me to tell you, 
ma'am, to get ready immediately.'

'Good God support me!' cried Emily, almost fainting, 'Count Morano is 
below, then!'

'No, ma'amselle, he is not below that I know of,' replied Annette, 
'only his excellenza sent me to desire you would get ready directly 
to leave Venice, for that the gondolas would be at the steps of the 
canal in a few minutes:  but I must hurry back to my lady, who is 
just at her wits end, and knows not which way to turn for haste.'

'Explain, Annette, explain the meaning of all this before you go,' 
said Emily, so overcome with surprise and timid hope, that she had 
scarcely breath to speak.

'Nay, ma'amselle, that is more than I can do.  I only know that the 
Signor is just come home in a very ill humour, that he has had us all 
called out of our beds, and tells us we are all to leave Venice 
immediately.'

'Is Count Morano to go with the signor?' said Emily, 'and whither are 
we going?'

'I know neither, ma'am, for certain; but I heard Ludovico say 
something about going, after we get to terra-firma, to the signor's 
castle among some mountains, that he talked of.'

'The Apennines!' said Emily, eagerly, 'O! then I have little to 
hope!'

'That is the very place, ma'am.  But cheer up, and do not take it so 
much to heart, and think what a little time you have to get ready in, 
and how impatient the Signor is.  Holy St. Mark! I hear the oars on 
the canal; and now they come nearer, and now they are dashing at the 
steps below; it is the gondola, sure enough.'

Annette hastened from the room; and Emily prepared for this 
unexpected flight, as fast as her trembling hands would permit, not 
perceiving, that any change in her situation could possibly be for 
the worse.  She had scarcely thrown her books and clothes into her 
travelling trunk, when, receiving a second summons, she went down to 
her aunt's dressing-room, where she found Montoni impatiently 
reproving his wife for delay.  He went out, soon after, to give some 
further orders to his people, and Emily then enquired the occasion of 
this hasty journey; but her aunt appeared to be as ignorant as 
herself, and to undertake the journey with more reluctance.

The family at length embarked, but neither Count Morano, nor Cavigni, 
was of the party.  Somewhat revived by observing this, Emily, when 
the gondolieri dashed their oars in the water, and put off from the 
steps of the portico, felt like a criminal, who receives a short 
reprieve.  Her heart beat yet lighter, when they emerged from the 
canal into the ocean, and lighter still, when they skimmed past the 
walls of St. Mark, without having stopped to take up Count Morano.

The dawn now began to tint the horizon, and to break upon the shores 
of the Adriatic.  Emily did not venture to ask any questions of 
Montoni, who sat, for some time, in gloomy silence, and then rolled 
himself up in his cloak, as if to sleep, while Madame Montoni did the 
same; but Emily, who could not sleep, undrew one of the little 
curtains of the gondola, and looked out upon the sea.  The rising 
dawn now enlightened the mountain-tops of Friuli, but their lower 
sides, and the distant waves, that rolled at their feet, were still 
in deep shadow.  Emily, sunk in tranquil melancholy, watched the 
strengthening light spreading upon the ocean, shewing successively 
Venice and her islets, and the shores of Italy, along which boats, 
with their pointed latin sails, began to move.

The gondolieri were frequently hailed, at this early hour, by the 
market-people, as they glided by towards Venice, and the lagune soon 
displayed a gay scene of innumerable little barks, passing from 
terra-firma with provisions.  Emily gave a last look to that splendid 
city, but her mind was then occupied by considering the probable 
events, that awaited her, in the scenes, to which she was removing, 
and with conjectures, concerning the motive of this sudden journey.  
It appeared, upon calmer consideration, that Montoni was removing her 
to his secluded castle, because he could there, with more probability 
of success, attempt to terrify her into obedience; or, that, should 
its gloomy and sequestered scenes fail of this effect, her forced 
marriage with the Count could there be solemnized with the secrecy, 
which was necessary to the honour of Montoni.  The little spirit, 
which this reprieve had recalled, now began to fail, and, when Emily 
reached the shore, her mind had sunk into all its former depression.

Montoni did not embark on the Brenta, but pursued his way in 
carriages across the country, towards the Apennine; during which 
journey, his manner to Emily was so particularly severe, that this 
alone would have confirmed her late conjecture, had any such 
confirmation been necessary.  Her senses were now dead to the 
beautiful country, through which she travelled.  Sometimes she was 
compelled to smile at the naivete of Annette, in her remarks on what 
she saw, and sometimes to sigh, as a scene of peculiar beauty 
recalled Valancourt to her thoughts, who was indeed seldom absent 
from them, and of whom she could never hope to hear in the solitude, 
to which she was hastening.

At length, the travellers began to ascend among the Apennines.  The 
immense pine-forests, which, at that period, overhung these 
mountains, and between which the road wound, excluded all view but of 
the cliffs aspiring above, except, that, now and then, an opening 
through the dark woods allowed the eye a momentary glimpse of the 
country below.  The gloom of these shades, their solitary silence, 
except when the breeze swept over their summits, the tremendous 
precipices of the mountains, that came partially to the eye, each 
assisted to raise the solemnity of Emily's feelings into awe; she saw 
only images of gloomy grandeur, or of dreadful sublimity, around her; 
other images, equally gloomy and equally terrible, gleamed on her 
imagination.  She was going she scarcely knew whither, under the 
dominion of a person, from whose arbitrary disposition she had 
already suffered so much, to marry, perhaps, a man who possessed 
neither her affection, or esteem; or to endure, beyond the hope of 
succour, whatever punishment revenge, and that Italian revenge, might 
dictate.--The more she considered what might be the motive of the 
journey, the more she became convinced, that it was for the purpose 
of concluding her nuptials with Count Morano, with that secrecy, 
which her resolute resistance had made necessary to the honour, if 
not to the safety, of Montoni.  From the deep solitudes, into which 
she was immerging, and from the gloomy castle, of which she had heard 
some mysterious hints, her sick heart recoiled in despair, and she 
experienced, that, though her mind was already occupied by peculiar 
distress, it was still alive to the influence of new and local 
circumstance; why else did she shudder at the idea of this desolate 
castle?

As the travellers still ascended among the pine forests, steep rose 
over steep, the mountains seemed to multiply, as they went, and what 
was the summit of one eminence proved to be only the base of another.  
At length, they reached a little plain, where the drivers stopped to 
rest the mules, whence a scene of such extent and magnificence opened 
below, as drew even from Madame Montoni a note of admiration.  Emily 
lost, for a moment, her sorrows, in the immensity of nature.  Beyond 
the amphitheatre of mountains, that stretched below, whose tops 
appeared as numerous almost, as the waves of the sea, and whose feet 
were concealed by the forests--extended the campagna of Italy, where 
cities and rivers, and woods and all the glow of cultivation were 
mingled in gay confusion.  The Adriatic bounded the horizon, into 
which the Po and the Brenta, after winding through the whole extent 
of the landscape, poured their fruitful waves.  Emily gazed long on 
the splendours of the world she was quitting, of which the whole 
magnificence seemed thus given to her sight only to increase her 
regret on leaving it; for her, Valancourt alone was in that world; to 
him alone her heart turned, and for him alone fell her bitter tears.

From this sublime scene the travellers continued to ascend among the 
pines, till they entered a narrow pass of the mountains, which shut 
out every feature of the distant country, and, in its stead, 
exhibited only tremendous crags, impending over the road, where no 
vestige of humanity, or even of vegetation, appeared, except here and 
there the trunk and scathed branches of an oak, that hung nearly 
headlong from the rock, into which its strong roots had fastened.  
This pass, which led into the heart of the Apennine, at length opened 
to day, and a scene of mountains stretched in long perspective, as 
wild as any the travellers had yet passed.  Still vast pine-forests 
hung upon their base, and crowned the ridgy precipice, that rose 
perpendicularly from the vale, while, above, the rolling mists caught 
the sun-beams, and touched their cliffs with all the magical 
colouring of light and shade.  The scene seemed perpetually changing, 
and its features to assume new forms, as the winding road brought 
them to the eye in different attitudes; while the shifting vapours, 
now partially concealing their minuter beauties and now illuminating 
them with splendid tints, assisted the illusions of the sight.

Though the deep vallies between these mountains were, for the most 
part, clothed with pines, sometimes an abrupt opening presented a 
perspective of only barren rocks, with a cataract flashing from their 
summit among broken cliffs, till its waters, reaching the bottom, 
foamed along with unceasing fury; and sometimes pastoral scenes 
exhibited their 'green delights' in the narrow vales, smiling amid 
surrounding horror.  There herds and flocks of goats and sheep, 
browsing under the shade of hanging woods, and the shepherd's little 
cabin, reared on the margin of a clear stream, presented a sweet 
picture of repose.

Wild and romantic as were these scenes, their character had far less 
of the sublime, that had those of the Alps, which guard the entrance 
of Italy.  Emily was often elevated, but seldom felt those emotions 
of indescribable awe which she had so continually experienced, in her 
passage over the Alps.

Towards the close of day, the road wound into a deep valley.  
Mountains, whose shaggy steeps appeared to be inaccessible, almost 
surrounded it.  To the east, a vista opened, that exhibited the 
Apennines in their darkest horrors; and the long perspective of 
retiring summits, rising over each other, their ridges clothed with 
pines, exhibited a stronger image of grandeur, than any that Emily 
had yet seen.  The sun had just sunk below the top of the mountains 
she was descending, whose long shadow stretched athwart the valley, 
but his sloping rays, shooting through an opening of the cliffs, 
touched with a yellow gleam the summits of the forest, that hung upon 
the opposite steeps, and streamed in full splendour upon the towers 
and battlements of a castle, that spread its extensive ramparts along 
the brow of a precipice above.  The splendour of these illumined 
objects was heightened by the contrasted shade, which involved the 
valley below.

'There,' said Montoni, speaking for the first time in several hours, 
'is Udolpho.'

Emily gazed with melancholy awe upon the castle, which she understood 
to be Montoni's; for, though it was now lighted up by the setting 
sun, the gothic greatness of its features, and its mouldering walls 
of dark grey stone, rendered it a gloomy and sublime object.  As she 
gazed, the light died away on its walls, leaving a melancholy purple 
tint, which spread deeper and deeper, as the thin vapour crept up the 
mountain, while the battlements above were still tipped with 
splendour.  From those, too, the rays soon faded, and the whole 
edifice was invested with the solemn duskiness of evening.  Silent, 
lonely, and sublime, it seemed to stand the sovereign of the scene, 
and to frown defiance on all, who dared to invade its solitary reign.  
As the twilight deepened, its features became more awful in 
obscurity, and Emily continued to gaze, till its clustering towers 
were alone seen, rising over the tops of the woods, beneath whose 
thick shade the carriages soon after began to ascend.

The extent and darkness of these tall woods awakened terrific images 
in her mind, and she almost expected to see banditti start up from 
under the trees.  At length, the carriages emerged upon a heathy 
rock, and, soon after, reached the castle gates, where the deep tone 
of the portal bell, which was struck upon to give notice of their 
arrival, increased the fearful emotions, that had assailed Emily.  
While they waited till the servant within should come to open the 
gates, she anxiously surveyed the edifice:  but the gloom, that 
overspread it, allowed her to distinguish little more than a part of 
its outline, with the massy walls of the ramparts, and to know, that 
it was vast, ancient and dreary.  From the parts she saw, she judged 
of the heavy strength and extent of the whole.  The gateway before 
her, leading into the courts, was of gigantic size, and was defended 
by two round towers, crowned by overhanging turrets, embattled, 
where, instead of banners, now waved long grass and wild plants, that 
had taken root among the mouldering stones, and which seemed to sigh, 
as the breeze rolled past, over the desolation around them.  The 
towers were united by a curtain, pierced and embattled also, below 
which appeared the pointed arch of a huge portcullis, surmounting the 
gates:  from these, the walls of the ramparts extended to other 
towers, overlooking the precipice, whose shattered outline, appearing 
on a gleam, that lingered in the west, told of the ravages of war.--
Beyond these all was lost in the obscurity of evening.

While Emily gazed with awe upon the scene, footsteps were heard 
within the gates, and the undrawing of bolts; after which an ancient 
servant of the castle appeared, forcing back the huge folds of the 
portal, to admit his lord.  As the carriage-wheels rolled heavily 
under the portcullis, Emily's heart sunk, and she seemed, as if she 
was going into her prison; the gloomy court, into which she passed, 
served to confirm the idea, and her imagination, ever awake to 
circumstance, suggested even more terrors, than her reason could 
justify.

Another gate delivered them into the second court, grass-grown, and 
more wild than the first, where, as she surveyed through the twilight 
its desolation--its lofty walls, overtopt with briony, moss and 
nightshade, and the embattled towers that rose above,--long-suffering 
and murder came to her thoughts.  One of those instantaneous and 
unaccountable convictions, which sometimes conquer even strong minds, 
impressed her with its horror.  The sentiment was not diminished, 
when she entered an extensive gothic hall, obscured by the gloom of 
evening, which a light, glimmering at a distance through a long 
perspective of arches, only rendered more striking.  As a servant 
brought the lamp nearer partial gleams fell upon the pillars and the 
pointed arches, forming a strong contrast with their shadows, that 
stretched along the pavement and the walls.

The sudden journey of Montoni had prevented his people from making 
any other preparations for his reception, than could be had in the 
short interval, since the arrival of the servant, who had been sent 
forward from Venice; and this, in some measure, may account for the 
air of extreme desolation, that everywhere appeared.

The servant, who came to light Montoni, bowed in silence, and the 
muscles of his countenance relaxed with no symptom of joy.--Montoni 
noticed the salutation by a slight motion of his hand, and passed on, 
while his lady, following, and looking round with a degree of 
surprise and discontent, which she seemed fearful of expressing, and 
Emily, surveying the extent and grandeur of the hall in timid wonder, 
approached a marble stair-case.  The arches here opened to a lofty 
vault, from the centre of which hung a tripod lamp, which a servant 
was hastily lighting; and the rich fret-work of the roof, a corridor, 
leading into several upper apartments, and a painted window, 
stretching nearly from the pavement to the ceiling of the hall, 
became gradually visible.

Having crossed the foot of the stair-case, and passed through an 
ante-room, they entered a spacious apartment, whose walls, wainscoted 
with black larch-wood, the growth of the neighbouring mountains, were 
scarcely distinguishable from darkness itself.  'Bring more light,' 
said Montoni, as he entered.  The servant, setting down his lamp, was 
withdrawing to obey him, when Madame Montoni observing, that the 
evening air of this mountainous region was cold, and that she should 
like a fire, Montoni ordered that wood might be brought.

While he paced the room with thoughtful steps, and Madame Montoni sat 
silently on a couch, at the upper end of it, waiting till the servant 
returned, Emily was observing the singular solemnity and desolation 
of the apartment, viewed, as it now was, by the glimmer of the single 
lamp, placed near a large Venetian mirror, that duskily reflected the 
scene, with the tall figure of Montoni passing slowly along, his arms 
folded, and his countenance shaded by the plume, that waved in his 
hat.

From the contemplation of this scene, Emily's mind proceeded to the 
apprehension of what she might suffer in it, till the remembrance of 
Valancourt, far, far distant! came to her heart, and softened it into 
sorrow.  A heavy sigh escaped her:  but, trying to conceal her tears, 
she walked away to one of the high windows, that opened upon the 
ramparts, below which, spread the woods she had passed in her 
approach to the castle.  But the night-shade sat deeply on the 
mountains beyond, and their indented outline alone could be faintly 
traced on the horizon, where a red streak yet glimmered in the west.  
The valley between was sunk in darkness.

The scene within, upon which Emily turned on the opening of the door, 
was scarcely less gloomy.  The old servant, who had received them at 
the gates, now entered, bending under a load of pine-branches, while 
two of Montoni's Venetian servants followed with lights.

'Your excellenza is welcome to the castle,' said the old man, as he 
raised himself from the hearth, where he had laid the wood:  'it has 
been a lonely place a long while; but you will excuse it, Signor, 
knowing we had but short notice.  It is near two years, come next 
feast of St. Mark, since your excellenza was within these walls.'

'You have a good memory, old Carlo,' said Montoni:  'it is there-
about; and how hast thou contrived to live so long?'

'A-well-a-day, sir, with much ado; the cold winds, that blow through 
the castle in winter, are almost too much for me; and I thought 
sometimes of asking your excellenza to let me leave the mountains, 
and go down into the lowlands.  But I don't know how it is--I am loth 
to quit these old walls I have lived in so long.'

'Well, how have you gone on in the castle, since I left it?' said 
Montoni.

'Why much as usual, Signor, only it wants a good deal of repairing.  
There is the north tower--some of the battlements have tumbled down, 
and had liked one day to have knocked my poor wife (God rest her 
soul!) on the head.  Your excellenza must know'--

'Well, but the repairs,' interrupted Montoni.

'Aye, the repairs,' said Carlo:  'a part of the roof of the great 
hall has fallen in, and all the winds from the mountains rushed 
through it last winter, and whistled through the whole castle so, 
that there was no keeping one's self warm, be where one would.  
There, my wife and I used to sit shivering over a great fire in one 
corner of the little hall, ready to die with cold, and'--

'But there are no more repairs wanted,' said Montoni, impatiently.

'O Lord! Your excellenza, yes--the wall of the rampart has tumbled 
down in three places; then, the stairs, that lead to the west 
gallery, have been a long time so bad, that it is dangerous to go up 
them; and the passage leading to the great oak chamber, that 
overhangs the north rampart--one night last winter I ventured to go 
there by myself, and your excellenza'--

'Well, well, enough of this,' said Montoni, with quickness:  'I will 
talk more with thee to-morrow.'

The fire was now lighted; Carlo swept the hearth, placed chairs, 
wiped the dust from a large marble table that stood near it, and then 
left the room.

Montoni and his family drew round the fire.  Madame Montoni made 
several attempts at conversation, but his sullen answers repulsed 
her, while Emily sat endeavouring to acquire courage enough to speak 
to him.  At length, in a tremulous voice, she said, 'May I ask, sir, 
the motive of this sudden journey?'--After a long pause, she 
recovered sufficient courage to repeat the question.

'It does not suit me to answer enquiries,' said Montoni, 'nor does it 
become you to make them; time may unfold them all:  but I desire I 
may be no further harassed, and I recommend it to you to retire to 
your chamber, and to endeavour to adopt a more rational conduct, than 
that of yielding to fancies, and to a sensibility, which, to call it 
by the gentlest name, is only a weakness.'

Emily rose to withdraw.  'Good night, madam,' said she to her aunt, 
with an assumed composure, that could not disguise her emotion.

'Good night, my dear,' said Madame Montoni, in a tone of kindness, 
which her niece had never before heard from her; and the unexpected 
endearment brought tears to Emily's eyes.  She curtsied to Montoni, 
and was retiring; 'But you do not know the way to your chamber,' said 
her aunt.  Montoni called the servant, who waited in the ante-room, 
and bade him send Madame Montoni's woman, with whom, in a few 
minutes, Emily withdrew.

'Do you know which is my room?' said she to Annette, as they crossed 
the hall.

'Yes, I believe I do, ma'amselle; but this is such a strange rambling 
place!  I have been lost in it already:  they call it the double 
chamber, over the south rampart, and I went up this great stair-case 
to it.  My lady's room is at the other end of the castle.'

Emily ascended the marble staircase, and came to the corridor, as 
they passed through which, Annette resumed her chat--'What a wild 
lonely place this is, ma'am!  I shall be quite frightened to live in 
it.  How often, and often have I wished myself in France again!  I 
little thought, when I came with my lady to see the world, that I 
should ever be shut up in such a place as this, or I would never have 
left my own country!  This way, ma'amselle, down this turning.  I can 
almost believe in giants again, and such like, for this is just like 
one of their castles; and, some night or other, I suppose I shall see 
fairies too, hopping about in that great old hall, that looks more 
like a church, with its huge pillars, than any thing else.'

'Yes,' said Emily, smiling, and glad to escape from more serious 
thought, 'if we come to the corridor, about midnight, and look down 
into the hall, we shall certainly see it illuminated with a thousand 
lamps, and the fairies tripping in gay circles to the sound of 
delicious music; for it is in such places as this, you know, that 
they come to hold their revels.  But I am afraid, Annette, you will 
not be able to pay the necessary penance for such a sight:  and, if 
once they hear your voice, the whole scene will vanish in an 
instant.'

'O! if you will bear me company, ma'amselle, I will come to the 
corridor, this very night, and I promise you I will hold my tongue; 
it shall not be my fault if the show vanishes.--But do you think they 
will come?'

'I cannot promise that with certainty, but I will venture to say, it 
will not be your fault if the enchantment should vanish.'

'Well, ma'amselle, that is saying more than I expected of you:  but I 
am not so much afraid of fairies, as of ghosts, and they say there 
are a plentiful many of them about the castle:  now I should be 
frightened to death, if I should chance to see any of them.  But 
hush! ma'amselle, walk softly!  I have thought, several times, 
something passed by me.'

'Ridiculous!' said Emily, 'you must not indulge such fancies.'

'O ma'am! they are not fancies, for aught I know; Benedetto says 
these dismal galleries and halls are fit for nothing but ghosts to 
live in; and I verily believe, if I LIVE long in them I shall turn to 
one myself!'

'I hope,' said Emily, 'you will not suffer Signor Montoni to hear of 
these weak fears; they would highly displease him.'

'What, you know then, ma'amselle, all about it!' rejoined Annette.  
'No, no, I do know better than to do so; though, if the Signor can 
sleep sound, nobody else in the castle has any right to lie awake, I 
am sure.'  Emily did not appear to notice this remark.

'Down this passage, ma'amselle; this leads to a back stair-case.  O! 
if I see any thing, I shall be frightened out of my wits!'

'That will scarcely be possible,' said Emily smiling, as she followed 
the winding of the passage, which opened into another gallery: and 
then Annette, perceiving that she had missed her way, while she had 
been so eloquently haranguing on ghosts and fairies, wandered about 
through other passages and galleries, till, at length, frightened by 
their intricacies and desolation, she called aloud for assistance:  
but they were beyond the hearing of the servants, who were on the 
other side of the castle, and Emily now opened the door of a chamber 
on the left.

'O! do not go in there, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'you will only 
lose yourself further.'

'Bring the light forward,' said Emily, 'we may possibly find our way 
through these rooms.'

Annette stood at the door, in an attitude of hesitation, with the 
light held up to shew the chamber, but the feeble rays spread through 
not half of it.  'Why do you hesitate?' said Emily, 'let me see 
whither this room leads.'

Annette advanced reluctantly.  It opened into a suite of spacious and 
ancient apartments, some of which were hung with tapestry, and others 
wainscoted with cedar and black larch-wood.  What furniture there 
was, seemed to be almost as old as the rooms, and retained an 
appearance of grandeur, though covered with dust, and dropping to 
pieces with the damps, and with age.

'How cold these rooms are, ma'amselle!' said Annette:  'nobody has 
lived in them for many, many years, they say.  Do let us go.'

'They may open upon the great stair-case, perhaps,' said Emily, 
passing on till she came to a chamber, hung with pictures, and took 
the light to examine that of a soldier on horseback in a field of 
battle.--He was darting his spear upon a man, who lay under the feet 
of the horse, and who held up one hand in a supplicating attitude.  
The soldier, whose beaver was up, regarded him with a look of 
vengeance, and the countenance, with that expression, struck Emily as 
resembling Montoni.  She shuddered, and turned from it.  Passing the 
light hastily over several other pictures, she came to one concealed 
by a veil of black silk.  The singularity of the circumstance struck 
her, and she stopped before it, wishing to remove the veil, and 
examine what could thus carefully be concealed, but somewhat wanting 
courage.  'Holy Virgin! what can this mean?' exclaimed Annette.  
'This is surely the picture they told me of at Venice.'

'What picture?' said Emily.  'Why a picture--a picture,' replied 
Annette, hesitatingly--'but I never could make out exactly what it 
was about, either.'

'Remove the veil, Annette.'

'What!  I, ma'amselle!--I! not for the world!'  Emily, turning round, 
saw Annette's countenance grow pale.  'And pray, what have you heard 
of this picture, to terrify you so, my good girl?' said she. 
'Nothing, ma'amselle:  I have heard nothing, only let us find our way 
out.'

'Certainly:  but I wish first to examine the picture; take the light, 
Annette, while I lift the veil.'  Annette took the light, and 
immediately walked away with it, disregarding Emily's call to stay, 
who, not choosing to be left alone in the dark chamber, at length 
followed her.  'What is the reason of this, Annette?' said Emily, 
when she overtook her, 'what have you heard concerning that picture, 
which makes you so unwilling to stay when I bid you?'

'I don't know what is the reason, ma'amselle, replied Annette, 'nor 
any thing about the picture, only I have heard there is something 
very dreadful belonging to it--and that it has been covered up in 
black EVER SINCE--and that nobody has looked at it for a great many 
years--and it somehow has to do with the owner of this castle before 
Signor Montoni came to the possession of it--and'---

'Well, Annette,' said Emily, smiling, 'I perceive it is as you say--
that you know nothing about the picture.'

'No, nothing, indeed, ma'amselle, for they made me promise never to 
tell:--but'--

'Well,' rejoined Emily, who observed that she was struggling between 
her inclination to reveal a secret, and her apprehension for the 
consequence, 'I will enquire no further'---

'No, pray, ma'am, do not.'

'Lest you should tell all,' interrupted Emily.

Annette blushed, and Emily smiled, and they passed on to the 
extremity of this suite of apartments, and found themselves, after 
some further perplexity, once more at the top of the marble stair-
case, where Annette left Emily, while she went to call one of the 
servants of the castle to shew them to the chamber, for which they 
had been seeking.

While she was absent, Emily's thoughts returned to the picture; an 
unwillingness to tamper with the integrity of a servant, had checked 
her enquiries on this subject, as well as concerning some alarming 
hints, which Annette had dropped respecting Montoni; though her 
curiosity was entirely awakened, and she had perceived, that her 
questions might easily be answered.  She was now, however, inclined 
to go back to the apartment and examine the picture; but the 
loneliness of the hour and of the place, with the melancholy silence 
that reigned around her, conspired with a certain degree of awe, 
excited by the mystery attending this picture, to prevent her.  She 
determined, however, when day-light should have re-animated her 
spirits, to go thither and remove the veil.  As she leaned from the 
corridor, over the stair-case, and her eyes wandered round, she again 
observed, with wonder, the vast strength of the walls, now somewhat 
decayed, and the pillars of solid marble, that rose from the hall, 
and supported the roof.

A servant now appeared with Annette, and conducted Emily to her 
chamber, which was in a remote part of the castle, and at the very 
end of the corridor, from whence the suite of apartments opened, 
through which they had been wandering.  The lonely aspect of her room 
made Emily unwilling that Annette should leave her immediately, and 
the dampness of it chilled her with more than fear.  She begged 
Caterina, the servant of the castle, to bring some wood and light a 
fire.

'Aye, lady, it's many a year since a fire was lighted here,' said 
Caterina.

'You need not tell us that, good woman,' said Annette; 'every room in 
the castle feels like a well.  I wonder how you contrive to live 
here; for my part, I wish myself at Venice again.'  Emily waved her 
hand for Caterina to fetch the wood.

'I wonder, ma'am, why they call this the double chamber?' said 
Annette, while Emily surveyed it in silence and saw that it was lofty 
and spacious, like the others she had seen, and, like many of them, 
too, had its walls lined with dark larch-wood.  The bed and other 
furniture was very ancient, and had an air of gloomy grandeur, like 
all that she had seen in the castle.  One of the high casements, 
which she opened, overlooked a rampart, but the view beyond was hid 
in darkness.

In the presence of Annette, Emily tried to support her spirits, and 
to restrain the tears, which, every now and then, came to her eyes.  
She wished much to enquire when Count Morano was expected at the 
castle, but an unwillingness to ask unnecessary questions, and to 
mention family concerns to a servant, withheld her.  Meanwhile, 
Annette's thoughts were engaged upon another subject:  she dearly 
loved the marvellous, and had heard of a circumstance, connected with 
the castle, that highly gratified this taste.  Having been enjoined 
not to mention it, her inclination to tell it was so strong, that she 
was every instant on the point of speaking what she had heard.  Such 
a strange circumstance, too, and to be obliged to conceal it, was a 
severe punishment; but she knew, that Montoni might impose one much 
severer, and she feared to incur it by offending him.

Caterina now brought the wood, and its bright blaze dispelled, for a 
while, the gloom of the chamber.  She told Annette, that her lady had 
enquired for her, and Emily was once again left to her own sad 
reflections.  Her heart was not yet hardened against the stern 
manners of Montoni, and she was nearly as much shocked now, as she 
had been when she first witnessed them.  The tenderness and 
affection, to which she had been accustomed, till she lost her 
parents, had made her particularly sensible to any degree of 
unkindness, and such a reverse as this no apprehension had prepared 
her to support.

To call off her attention from subjects, that pressed heavily on her 
spirits, she rose and again examined her room and its furniture.  As 
she walked round it, she passed a door, that was not quite shut, and, 
perceiving, that it was not the one, through which she entered, she 
brought the light forward to discover whither it led.  She opened it, 
and, going forward, had nearly fallen down a steep, narrow stair-case 
that wound from it, between two stone walls.  She wished to know to 
what it led, and was the more anxious, since it communicated so 
immediately with her apartment; but, in the present state of her 
spirits, she wanted courage to venture into the darkness alone.  
Closing the door, therefore, she endeavoured to fasten it, but, upon 
further examination, perceived, that it had no bolts on the chamber 
side, though it had two on the other.  By placing a heavy chair 
against it, she in some measure remedied the defect; yet she was 
still alarmed at the thought of sleeping in this remote room alone, 
with a door opening she knew not whither, and which could not be 
perfectly fastened on the inside.  Sometimes she wished to entreat of 
Madame Montoni, that Annette might have leave to remain with her all 
night, but was deterred by an apprehension of betraying what would be 
thought childish fears, and by an unwillingness to increase the apt 
terrors of Annette.

Her gloomy reflections were, soon after, interrupted by a footstep in 
the corridor, and she was glad to see Annette enter with some supper, 
sent by Madame Montoni.  Having a table near the fire, she made the 
good girl sit down and sup with her; and, when their little repast 
was over, Annette, encouraged by her kindness and stirring the wood 
into a blaze, drew her chair upon the hearth, nearer to Emily, and 
said--'Did you ever hear, ma'amselle, of the strange accident, that 
made the Signor lord of this castle?'

'What wonderful story have you now to tell?' said Emily, concealing 
the curiosity, occasioned by the mysterious hints she had formerly 
heard on that subject.

'I have heard all about it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, looking round 
the chamber and drawing closer to Emily; 'Benedetto told it me as we 
travelled together:  says he, "Annette, you don't know about this 
castle here, that we are going to?"  No, says I, Mr. Benedetto, pray 
what do you know?  But, ma'amselle, you can keep a secret, or I would 
not tell it you for the world; for I promised never to tell, and they 
say, that the Signor does not like to have it talked of.'

'If you promised to keep this secret,' said Emily, 'you do right not 
to mention it.'

Annette paused a moment, and then said, 'O, but to you, ma'amselle, 
to you I may tell it safely, I know.'

Emily smiled, 'I certainly shall keep it as faithful as yourself, 
Annette.'

Annette replied very gravely, that would do, and proceeded--'This 
castle, you must know, ma'amselle, is very old, and very strong, and 
has stood out many sieges as they say.  Now it was not Signor 
Montoni's always, nor his father's; no; but, by some law or other, it 
was to come to the Signor, if the lady died unmarried.'

'What lady?' said Emily.

'I am not come to that yet,' replied Annette, 'it is the lady I am 
going to tell you about, ma'amselle:  but, as I was saying, this lady 
lived in the castle, and had everything very grand about her, as you 
may suppose, ma'amselle.  The Signor used often to come to see her, 
and was in love with her, and offered to marry her; for, though he 
was somehow related, that did not signify.  But she was in love with 
somebody else, and would not have him, which made him very angry, as 
they say, and you know, ma'amselle, what an ill-looking gentleman he 
is, when he is angry.  Perhaps she saw him in a passion, and 
therefore would not have him.  But, as I was saying, she was very 
melancholy and unhappy, and all that, for a long while, and--Holy 
Virgin! what noise is that? did not you hear a sound, ma'amselle?'

'It was only the wind,' said Emily, 'but do come to the end of your 
story.'

'As I was saying--O, where was I?--as I was saying--she was very 
melancholy and unhappy a long while, and used to walk about upon the 
terrace, there, under the windows, by herself, and cry so! it would 
have done your heart good to hear her.  That is--I don't mean good, 
but it would have made you cry too, as they tell me.'

'Well, but, Annette, do tell me the substance of your tale.'

'All in good time, ma'am; all this I heard before at Venice, but what 
is to come I never heard till to-day.  This happened a great many 
years ago, when Signor Montoni was quite a young man.  The lady--they 
called her Signora Laurentini, was very handsome, but she used to be 
in great passions, too, sometimes, as well as the Signor.  Finding he 
could not make her listen to him--what does he do, but leave the 
castle, and never comes near it for a long time! but it was all one 
to her; she was just as unhappy whether he was here or not, till one 
evening, Holy St. Peter! ma'amselle,' cried Annette, 'look at that 
lamp, see how blue it burns!'  She looked fearfully round the 
chamber.  'Ridiculous girl!' said Emily, 'why will you indulge those 
fancies?  Pray let me hear the end of your story, I am weary.'

Annette still kept her eyes on the lamp, and proceeded in a lower 
voice.  'It was one evening, they say, at the latter end of the year, 
it might be about the middle of September, I suppose, or the 
beginning of October; nay, for that matter, it might be November, for 
that, too, is the latter end of the year, but that I cannot say for 
certain, because they did not tell me for certain themselves.  
However, it was at the latter end of the year, this grand lady walked 
out of the castle into the woods below, as she had often done before, 
all alone, only her maid was with her.  The wind blew cold, and 
strewed the leaves about, and whistled dismally among those great old 
chesnut trees, that we passed, ma'amselle, as we came to the castle--
for Benedetto shewed me the trees as he was talking--the wind blew 
cold, and her woman would have persuaded her to return:  but all 
would not do, for she was fond of walking in the woods, at evening 
time, and, if the leaves were falling about her, so much the better.

'Well, they saw her go down among the woods, but night came, and she 
did not return:  ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock came, 
and no lady!  Well, the servants thought to be sure, some accident 
had befallen her, and they went out to seek her.  They searched all 
night long, but could not find her, or any trace of her; and, from 
that day to this, ma'amselle, she has never been heard of.'

'Is this true, Annette?' said Emily, in much surprise.

'True, ma'am!' said Annette, with a look of horror, 'yes, it is true, 
indeed.  But they do say,' she added, lowering her voice, 'they do 
say, that the Signora has been seen, several times since, walking in 
the woods and about the castle in the night:  several of the old 
servants, who remained here some time after, declare they saw her; 
and, since then, she has been seen by some of the vassals, who have 
happened to be in the castle, at night.  Carlo, the old steward, 
could tell such things, they say, if he would.'

'How contradictory is this, Annette!' said Emily, 'you say nothing 
has been since known of her, and yet she has been seen!'

'But all this was told me for a great secret,' rejoined Annette, 
without noticing the remark, 'and I am sure, ma'am, you would not 
hurt either me or Benedetto, so much as to go and tell it again.'  
Emily remained silent, and Annette repeated her last sentence.

'You have nothing to fear from my indiscretion,' replied Emily, 'and 
let me advise you, my good Annette, be discreet yourself, and never 
mention what you have just told me to any other person.  Signor 
Montoni, as you say, may be angry if he hears of it.  But what 
inquiries were made concerning the lady?'

'O! a great deal, indeed, ma'amselle, for the Signor laid claim to 
the castle directly, as being the next heir, and they said, that is, 
the judges, or the senators, or somebody of that sort, said, he could 
not take possession of it till so many years were gone by, and then, 
if, after all, the lady could not be found, why she would be as good 
as dead, and the castle would be his own; and so it is his own.  But 
the story went round, and many strange reports were spread, so very 
strange, ma'amselle, that I shall not tell them.'

'That is stranger still, Annette,' said Emily, smiling, and rousing 
herself from her reverie.  'But, when Signora Laurentini was 
afterwards seen in the castle, did nobody speak to her?'

'Speak--speak to her!' cried Annette, with a look of terror; 'no, to 
be sure.'

'And why not?' rejoined Emily, willing to hear further.

'Holy Mother! speak to a spirit!'

'But what reason had they to conclude it was a spirit, unless they 
had approached, and spoken to it?'  'O ma'amselle, I cannot tell.  
How can you ask such shocking questions?  But nobody ever saw it come 
in, or go out of the castle; and it was in one place now, and then 
the next minute in quite another part of the castle; and then it 
never spoke, and, if it was alive, what should it do in the castle if 
it never spoke?  Several parts of the castle have never been gone 
into since, they say, for that very reason.'

'What, because it never spoke?' said Emily, trying to laugh away the 
fears that began to steal upon her.--'No, ma'amselle, no;' replied 
Annette, rather angrily 'but because something has been seen there.  
They say, too, there is an old chapel adjoining the west side of the 
castle, where, any time at midnight, you may hear such groans!--it 
makes one shudder to think of them!--and strange sights have been 
seen there--'

'Pr'ythee, Annette, no more of these silly tales,' said Emily.

'Silly tales, ma'amselle!  O, but I will tell you one story about 
this, if you please, that Caterina told me.  It was one cold winter's 
night that Caterina (she often came to the castle then, she says, to 
keep old Carlo and his wife company, and so he recommended her 
afterwards to the Signor, and she has lived here ever since) Caterina 
was sitting with them in the little hall, says Carlo, "I wish we had 
some of those figs to roast, that lie in the store-closet, but it is 
a long way off, and I am loath to fetch them; do, Caterina," says he, 
"for you are young and nimble, do bring us some, the fire is in nice 
trim for roasting them; they lie," says he, "in such a corner of the 
store-room, at the end of the north-gallery; here, take the lamp," 
says he, "and mind, as you go up the great stair-case, that the wind, 
through the roof, does not blow it out."  So, with that, Caterina 
took the lamp--Hush! ma'amselle, I surely heard a noise!'

Emily, whom Annette had now infected with her own terrors, listened 
attentively; but every thing was still, and Annette proceeded:

'Caterina went to the north-gallery, that is the wide gallery we 
passed, ma'am, before we came to the corridor, here.  As she went 
with the lamp in her hand, thinking of nothing at all--There, again!' 
cried Annette suddenly--'I heard it again!--it was not fancy, 
ma'amselle!'

'Hush!' said Emily, trembling.  They listened, and, continuing to sit 
quite still, Emily heard a low knocking against the wall.  It came 
repeatedly.  Annette then screamed loudly, and the chamber door 
slowly opened.--It was Caterina, come to tell Annette, that her lady 
wanted her.  Emily, though she now perceived who it was, could not 
immediately overcome her terror; while Annette, half laughing, half 
crying, scolded Caterina heartily for thus alarming them; and was 
also terrified lest what she had told had been overheard.--Emily, 
whose mind was deeply impressed by the chief circumstance of 
Annette's relation, was unwilling to be left alone, in the present 
state of her spirits; but, to avoid offending Madame Montoni, and 
betraying her own weakness, she struggled to overcome the illusions 
of fear, and dismissed Annette for the night.

When she was alone, her thoughts recurred to the strange history of 
Signora Laurentini and then to her own strange situation, in the wild 
and solitary mountains of a foreign country, in the castle, and the 
power of a man, to whom, only a few preceding months, she was an 
entire stranger; who had already exercised an usurped authority over 
her, and whose character she now regarded, with a degree of terror, 
apparently justified by the fears of others.  She knew, that he had 
invention equal to the conception and talents to the execution of any 
project, and she greatly feared he had a heart too void of feeling to 
oppose the perpetration of whatever his interest might suggest.  She 
had long observed the unhappiness of Madame Montoni, and had often 
been witness to the stern and contemptuous behaviour she received 
from her husband.  To these circumstances, which conspired to give 
her just cause for alarm, were now added those thousand nameless 
terrors, which exist only in active imaginations, and which set 
reason and examination equally at defiance.

Emily remembered all that Valancourt had told her, on the eve of her 
departure from Languedoc, respecting Montoni, and all that he had 
said to dissuade her from venturing on the journey.  His fears had 
often since appeared to her prophetic--now they seemed confirmed.  
Her heart, as it gave her back the image of Valancourt, mourned in 
vain regret, but reason soon came with a consolation which, though 
feeble at first, acquired vigour from reflection.  She considered, 
that, whatever might be her sufferings, she had withheld from 
involving him in misfortune, and that, whatever her future sorrows 
could be, she was, at least, free from self-reproach.

Her melancholy was assisted by the hollow sighings of the wind along 
the corridor and round the castle.  The cheerful blaze of the wood 
had long been extinguished, and she sat with her eyes fixed on the 
dying embers, till a loud gust, that swept through the corridor, and 
shook the doors and casements, alarmed her, for its violence had 
moved the chair she had placed as a fastening, and the door, leading 
to the private stair-case stood half open.  Her curiosity and her 
fears were again awakened.  She took the lamp to the top of the 
steps, and stood hesitating whether to go down; but again the 
profound stillness and the gloom of the place awed her, and, 
determining to enquire further, when day-light might assist the 
search, she closed the door, and placed against it a stronger guard.

She now retired to her bed, leaving the lamp burning on the table; 
but its gloomy light, instead of dispelling her fear, assisted it; 
for, by its uncertain rays, she almost fancied she saw shapes flit 
past her curtains and glide into the remote obscurity of her 
chamber.--The castle clock struck one before she closed her eyes to 
sleep.



CHAPTER VI


      I think it is the weakness of mine eyes,
 That shapes this monstrous apparition.
 It comes upon me!
      JULIUS CAESAR

Daylight dispelled from Emily's mind the glooms of superstition, but 
not those of apprehension.  The Count Morano was the first image, 
that occurred to her waking thoughts, and then came a train of 
anticipated evils, which she could neither conquer, nor avoid.  She 
rose, and, to relieve her mind from the busy ideas, that tormented 
it, compelled herself to notice external objects.  From her casement 
she looked out upon the wild grandeur of the scene, closed nearly on 
all sides by alpine steeps, whose tops, peeping over each other, 
faded from the eye in misty hues, while the promontories below were 
dark with woods, that swept down to their base, and stretched along 
the narrow vallies.  The rich pomp of these woods was particularly 
delightful to Emily; and she viewed with astonishment the 
fortifications of the castle spreading along a vast extent of rock, 
and now partly in decay, the grandeur of the ramparts below, and the 
towers and battlements and various features of the fabric above.  
From these her sight wandered over the cliffs and woods into the 
valley, along which foamed a broad and rapid stream, seen falling 
among the crags of an opposite mountain, now flashing in the sun-
beams, and now shadowed by over-arching pines, till it was entirely 
concealed by their thick foliage.  Again it burst from beneath this 
darkness in one broad sheet of foam, and fell thundering into the 
vale.  Nearer, towards the west, opened the mountain-vista, which 
Emily had viewed with such sublime emotion, on her approach to the 
castle:  a thin dusky vapour, that rose from the valley, overspread 
its features with a sweet obscurity.  As this ascended and caught the 
sun-beams, it kindled into a crimson tint, and touched with exquisite 
beauty the woods and cliffs, over which it passed to the summit of 
the mountains; then, as the veil drew up, it was delightful to watch 
the gleaming objects, that progressively disclosed themselves in the 
valley--the green turf--dark woods--little rocky recesses--a few 
peasants' huts--the foaming stream--a herd of cattle, and various 
images of pastoral beauty.  Then, the pine-forests brightened, and 
then the broad breast of the mountains, till, at length, the mist 
settled round their summit, touching them with a ruddy glow.  The 
features of the vista now appeared distinctly, and the broad deep 
shadows, that fell from the lower cliffs, gave strong effect to the 
streaming splendour above; while the mountains, gradually sinking in 
the perspective, appeared to shelve into the Adriatic sea, for such 
Emily imagined to be the gleam of blueish light, that terminated the 
view.

Thus she endeavoured to amuse her fancy, and was not unsuccessful.  
The breezy freshness of the morning, too, revived her.  She raised 
her thoughts in prayer, which she felt always most disposed to do, 
when viewing the sublimity of nature, and her mind recovered its 
strength.

When she turned from the casement, her eyes glanced upon the door she 
had so carefully guarded, on the preceding night, and she now 
determined to examine whither it led; but, on advancing to remove the 
chairs, she perceived, that they were already moved a little way.  
Her surprise cannot be easily imagined, when, in the next minute, she 
perceived that the door was fastened.--She felt, as if she had seen 
an apparition.  The door of the corridor was locked as she had left 
it, but this door, which could be secured only on the outside, must 
have been bolted, during the night.  She became seriously uneasy at 
the thought of sleeping again in a chamber, thus liable to intrusion, 
so remote, too, as it was from the family, and she determined to 
mention the circumstance to Madame Montoni, and to request a change.

After some perplexity she found her way into the great hall, and to 
the room, which she had left, on the preceding night, where breakfast 
was spread, and her aunt was alone, for Montoni had been walking over 
the environs of the castle, examining the condition of its 
fortifications, and talking for some time with Carlo.  Emily observed 
that her aunt had been weeping, and her heart softened towards her, 
with an affection, that shewed itself in her manner, rather than in 
words, while she carefully avoided the appearance of having noticed, 
that she was unhappy.  She seized the opportunity of Montoni's 
absence to mention the circumstance of the door, to request that she 
might be allowed another apartment, and to enquire again, concerning 
the occasion of their sudden journey.  On the first subject her aunt 
referred her to Montoni, positively refusing to interfere in the 
affair; on the last, she professed utter ignorance.

Emily, then, with a wish of making her aunt more reconciled to her 
situation, praised the grandeur of the castle and the surrounding 
scenery, and endeavoured to soften every unpleasing circumstance 
attending it.  But, though misfortune had somewhat conquered the 
asperities of Madame Montoni's temper, and, by increasing her cares 
for herself, had taught her to feel in some degree for others, the 
capricious love of rule, which nature had planted and habit had 
nourished in her heart, was not subdued.  She could not now deny 
herself the gratification of tyrannizing over the innocent and 
helpless Emily, by attempting to ridicule the taste she could not 
feel.

Her satirical discourse was, however, interrupted by the entrance of 
Montoni, and her countenance immediately assumed a mingled expression 
of fear and resentment, while he seated himself at the breakfast-
table, as if unconscious of there being any person but himself in the 
room.

Emily, as she observed him in silence, saw, that his countenance was 
darker and sterner than usual.  'O could I know,' said she to 
herself, 'what passes in that mind; could I know the thoughts, that 
are known there, I should no longer be condemned to this torturing 
suspense!'  Their breakfast passed in silence, till Emily ventured to 
request, that another apartment might be allotted to her, and related 
the circumstance which made her wish it.

'I have no time to attend to these idle whims,' said Montoni, 'that 
chamber was prepared for you, and you must rest contented with it.  
It is not probable, that any person would take the trouble of going 
to that remote stair-case, for the purpose of fastening a door.  If 
it was not fastened, when you entered the chamber, the wind, perhaps, 
shook the door and made the bolts slide.  But I know not why I should 
undertake to account for so trifling an occurrence.'

This explanation was by no means satisfactory to Emily, who had 
observed, that the bolts were rusted, and consequently could not be 
thus easily moved; but she forbore to say so, and repeated her 
request.


'If you will not release yourself from the slavery of these fears,' 
said Montoni, sternly, 'at least forbear to torment others by the 
mention of them.  Conquer such whims, and endeavour to strengthen 
your mind.  No existence is more contemptible than that, which is 
embittered by fear.'  As he said this, his eye glanced upon Madame 
Montoni, who coloured highly, but was still silent.  Emily, wounded 
and disappointed, thought her fears were, in this instance, too 
reasonable to deserve ridicule; but, perceiving, that, however they 
might oppress her, she must endure them, she tried to withdraw her 
attention from the subject.

Carlo soon after entered with some fruit:

'Your excellenza is tired after your long ramble,' said he, as he set 
the fruit upon the table; 'but you have more to see after breakfast.  
There is a place in the vaulted passage leading to--'

Montoni frowned upon him, and waved his hand for him to leave the 
room.  Carlo stopped, looked down, and then added, as he advanced to 
the breakfast-table, and took up the basket of fruit, 'I made bold, 
your excellenza, to bring some cherries, here, for my honoured lady 
and my young mistress.  Will your ladyship taste them, madam?' said 
Carlo, presenting the basket, 'they are very fine ones, though I 
gathered them myself, and from an old tree, that catches all the 
south sun; they are as big as plums, your ladyship.'

'Very well, old Carlo,' said Madame Montoni; 'I am obliged to you.'

'And the young Signora, too, she may like some of them,' rejoined 
Carlo, turning with the basket to Emily, 'it will do me good to see 
her eat some.'

'Thank you, Carlo,' said Emily, taking some cherries, and smiling 
kindly.

'Come, come,' said Montoni, impatiently, 'enough of this.  Leave the 
room, but be in waiting.  I shall want you presently.'

Carlo obeyed, and Montoni, soon after, went out to examine further 
into the state of the castle; while Emily remained with her aunt, 
patiently enduring her ill humour, and endeavouring, with much 
sweetness, to soothe her affliction, instead of resenting its effect.

When Madame Montoni retired to her dressing-room, Emily endeavoured 
to amuse herself by a view of the castle.  Through a folding door she 
passed from the great hall to the ramparts, which extended along the 
brow of the precipice, round three sides of the edifice; the fourth 
was guarded by the high walls of the courts, and by the gateway, 
through which she had passed, on the preceding evening.  The grandeur 
of the broad ramparts, and the changing scenery they overlooked, 
excited her high admiration; for the extent of the terraces allowed 
the features of the country to be seen in such various points of 
view, that they appeared to form new landscapes.  She often paused to 
examine the gothic magnificence of Udolpho, its proud irregularity, 
its lofty towers and battlements, its high-arched casements, and its 
slender watch-towers, perched upon the corners of turrets.  Then she 
would lean on the wall of the terrace, and, shuddering, measure with 
her eye the precipice below, till the dark summits of the woods 
arrested it.  Wherever she turned, appeared mountain-tops, forests of 
pine and narrow glens, opening among the Apennines and retiring from 
the sight into inaccessible regions.

While she thus leaned, Montoni, followed by two men, appeared, 
ascending a winding path, cut in the rock below.  He stopped upon a 
cliff, and, pointing to the ramparts, turned to his followers, and 
talked with much eagerness of gesticulation.--Emily perceived, that 
one of these men was Carlo; the other was in the dress of a peasant, 
and he alone seemed to be receiving the directions of Montoni.

She withdrew from the walls, and pursued her walk, till she heard at 
a distance the sound of carriage wheels, and then the loud bell of 
the portal, when it instantly occurred to her, that Count Morano was 
arrived.  As she hastily passed the folding doors from the terrace, 
towards her own apartment, several persons entered the hall by an 
opposite door.  She saw them at the extremities of the arcades, and 
immediately retreated; but the agitation of her spirits, and the 
extent and duskiness of the hall, had prevented her from 
distinguishing the persons of the strangers.  Her fears, however, had 
but one object, and they had called up that object to her fancy:--she 
believed that she had seen Count Morano.

When she thought that they had passed the hall, she ventured again to 
the door, and proceeded, unobserved, to her room, where she remained, 
agitated with apprehensions, and listening to every distant sound.  
At length, hearing voices on the rampart, she hastened to her window, 
and observed Montoni, with Signor Cavigni, walking below, conversing 
earnestly, and often stopping and turning towards each other, at 
which time their discourse seemed to be uncommonly interesting.

Of the several persons who had appeared in the hall, here was Cavigni 
alone:  but Emily's alarm was soon after heightened by the steps of 
some one in the corridor, who, she apprehended, brought a message 
from the Count.  In the next moment, Annette appeared.

'Ah! ma'amselle,' said she, 'here is the Signor Cavigni arrived!  I 
am sure I rejoiced to see a christian person in this place; and then 
he is so good natured too, he always takes so much notice of me!--And 
here is also Signor Verezzi, and who do you think besides, 
ma'amselle?'

'I cannot guess, Annette; tell me quickly.'

'Nay, ma'am, do guess once.'

'Well, then,' said Emily, with assumed composure, 'it is--Count 
Morano, I suppose.'

'Holy Virgin!' cried Annette, 'are you ill, ma'amselle? you are going 
to faint! let me get some water.'

Emily sunk into a chair.  'Stay, Annette,' said she, feebly, 'do not 
leave me--I shall soon be better; open the casement.--The Count, you 
say--he is come, then?'

'Who, I!--the Count!  No, ma'amselle, I did not say so.'  'He is NOT 
come then?' said Emily eagerly.  'No, ma'amselle.'

'You are sure of it?'

'Lord bless me!' said Annette, 'you recover very suddenly, ma'am! 
why, I thought you was dying, just now.'

'But the Count--you are sure, is not come?'

'O yes, quite sure of that, ma'amselle.  Why, I was looking out 
through the grate in the north turret, when the carriages drove into 
the court-yard, and I never expected to see such a goodly sight in 
this dismal old castle! but here are masters and servants, too, 
enough to make the place ring again.  O! I was ready to leap through 
the rusty old bars for joy!--O! who would ever have thought of seeing 
a christian face in this huge dreary house?  I could have kissed the 
very horses that brought them.'

'Well, Annette, well, I am better now.'

'Yes, ma'amselle, I see you are.  O! all the servants will lead merry 
lives here, now; we shall have singing and dancing in the little 
hall, for the Signor cannot hear us there--and droll stories--
Ludovico's come, ma'am; yes, there is Ludovico come with them!  You 
remember Ludovico, ma'am--a tall, handsome young man--Signor 
Cavigni's lacquey--who always wears his cloak with such a grace, 
thrown round his left arm, and his hat set on so smartly, all on one 
side, and--'

'No,' said Emily, who was wearied by her loquacity.

'What, ma'amselle, don't you remember Ludovico--who rowed the 
Cavaliero's gondola, at the last regatta, and won the prize?  And who 
used to sing such sweet verses about Orlandos and about the Black-a-
moors, too; and Charly--Charly--magne, yes, that was the name, all 
under my lattice, in the west portico, on the moon-light nights at 
Venice?  O!  I have listened to him!'---

'I fear, to thy peril, my good Annette,' said Emily; 'for it seems 
his verses have stolen thy heart.  But let me advise you; if it is 
so, keep the secret; never let him know it.'

'Ah--ma'amselle!--how can one keep such a secret as that?'

'Well, Annette, I am now so much better, that you may leave me.'

'O, but, ma'amselle, I forgot to ask--how did you sleep in this 
dreary old chamber last night?'--'As well as usual.'--'Did you hear 
no noises?'--'None.'--'Nor see anything?'--'Nothing.'--'Well, that is 
surprising!'--'Not in the least:  and now tell me, why you ask these 
questions.'

'O, ma'amselle!  I would not tell you for the world, nor all I have 
heard about this chamber, either; it would frighten you so.'

'If that is all, you have frightened me already, and may therefore 
tell me what you know, without hurting your conscience.'

'O Lord! they say the room is haunted, and has been so these many 
years.'

'It is by a ghost, then, who can draw bolts,' said Emily, 
endeavouring to laugh away her apprehensions; 'for I left the door 
open, last night, and found it fastened this morning.'

Annette turned pale, and said not a word.

'Do you know whether any of the servants fastened this door in the 
morning, before I rose?'

'No, ma'am, that I will be bound they did not; but I don't know:  
shall I go and ask, ma'amselle?' said Annette, moving hastily towards 
the corridor.

'Stay, Annette, I have another question to ask; tell me what you have 
heard concerning this room, and whither that stair-case leads.'

'I will go and ask it all directly, ma'am; besides, I am sure my lady 
wants me.  I cannot stay now, indeed, ma'am.'

She hurried from the room, without waiting Emily's reply, whose 
heart, lightened by the certainty, that Morano was not arrived, 
allowed her to smile at the superstitious terror, which had seized on 
Annette; for, though she sometimes felt its influence herself, she 
could smile at it, when apparent in other persons.

Montoni having refused Emily another chamber, she determined to bear 
with patience the evil she could not remove, and, in order to make 
the room as comfortable as possible, unpacked her books, her sweet 
delight in happier days, and her soothing resource in the hours of 
moderate sorrow:  but there were hours when even these failed of 
their effect; when the genius, the taste, the enthusiasm of the 
sublimest writers were felt no longer.

Her little library being arranged on a high chest, part of the 
furniture of the room, she took out her drawing utensils, and was 
tranquil enough to be pleased with the thought of sketching the 
sublime scenes, beheld from her windows; but she suddenly checked 
this pleasure, remembering how often she had soothed herself by the 
intention of obtaining amusement of this kind, and had been prevented 
by some new circumstance of misfortune.

'How can I suffer myself to be deluded by hope,' said she, 'and, 
because Count Morano is not yet arrived, feel a momentary happiness?  
Alas! what is it to me, whether he is here to-day, or to-morrow, if 
he comes at all?--and that he will come--it were weakness to doubt.'

To withdraw her thoughts, however, from the subject of her 
misfortunes, she attempted to read, but her attention wandered from 
the page, and, at length, she threw aside the book, and determined to 
explore the adjoining chambers of the castle.  Her imagination was 
pleased with the view of ancient grandeur, and an emotion of 
melancholy awe awakened all its powers, as she walked through rooms, 
obscure and desolate, where no footsteps had passed probably for many 
years, and remembered the strange history of the former possessor of 
the edifice.  This brought to her recollection the veiled picture, 
which had attracted her curiosity, on the preceding night, and she 
resolved to examine it.  As she passed through the chambers, that led 
to this, she found herself somewhat agitated; its connection with the 
late lady of the castle, and the conversation of Annette, together 
with the circumstance of the veil, throwing a mystery over the 
subject, that excited a faint degree of terror.  But a terror of this 
nature, as it occupies and expands the mind, and elevates it to high 
expectation, is purely sublime, and leads us, by a kind of 
fascination, to seek even the object, from which we appear to shrink.

Emily passed on with faltering steps, and having paused a moment at 
the door, before she attempted to open it, she then hastily entered 
the chamber, and went towards the picture, which appeared to be 
enclosed in a frame of uncommon size, that hung in a dark part of the 
room.  She paused again, and then, with a timid hand, lifted the 
veil; but instantly let it fall--perceiving that what it had 
concealed was no picture, and, before she could leave the chamber, 
she dropped senseless on the floor.

When she recovered her recollection, the remembrance of what she had 
seen had nearly deprived her of it a second time.  She had scarcely 
strength to remove from the room, and regain her own; and, when 
arrived there, wanted courage to remain alone.  Horror occupied her 
mind, and excluded, for a time, all sense of past, and dread of 
future misfortune:  she seated herself near the casement, because 
from thence she heard voices, though distant, on the terrace, and 
might see people pass, and these, trifling as they were, were 
reviving circumstances.  When her spirits had recovered their tone, 
she considered, whether she should mention what she had seen to 
Madame Montoni, and various and important motives urged her to do so, 
among which the least was the hope of the relief, which an 
overburdened mind finds in speaking of the subject of its interest.  
But she was aware of the terrible consequences, which such a 
communication might lead to; and, dreading the indiscretion of her 
aunt, at length, endeavoured to arm herself with resolution to 
observe a profound silence, on the subject.  Montoni and Verezzi soon 
after passed under the casement, speaking cheerfully, and their 
voices revived her.  Presently the Signors Bertolini and Cavigni 
joined the party on the terrace, and Emily, supposing that Madame 
Montoni was then alone, went to seek her; for the solitude of her 
chamber, and its proximity to that where she had received so severe a 
shock, again affected her spirit.

She found her aunt in her dressing-room, preparing for dinner.  
Emily's pale and affrighted countenance alarmed even Madame Montoni; 
but she had sufficient strength of mind to be silent on the subject, 
that still made her shudder, and which was ready to burst from her 
lips.  In her aunt's apartment she remained, till they both descended 
to dinner.  There she met the gentlemen lately arrived, who had a 
kind of busy seriousness in their looks, which was somewhat unusual 
with them, while their thoughts seemed too much occupied by some deep 
interest, to suffer them to bestow much attention either on Emily, or 
Madame Montoni.  They spoke little, and Montoni less.  Emily, as she 
now looked on him, shuddered.  The horror of the chamber rushed on 
her mind.  Several times the colour faded from her cheeks, and she 
feared, that illness would betray her emotions, and compel her to 
leave the room; but the strength of her resolution remedied the 
weakness of her frame; she obliged herself to converse, and even 
tried to look cheerful.

Montoni evidently laboured under some vexation, such as would 
probably have agitated a weaker mind, or a more susceptible heart, 
but which appeared, from the sternness of his countenance, only to 
bend up his faculties to energy and fortitude.

It was a comfortless and silent meal.  The gloom of the castle seemed 
to have spread its contagion even over the gay countenance of 
Cavigni, and with this gloom was mingled a fierceness, such as she 
had seldom seen him indicate.  Count Morano was not named, and what 
conversation there was, turned chiefly upon the wars, which at that 
time agitated the Italian states, the strength of the Venetian 
armies, and the characters of their generals.

After dinner, when the servants had withdrawn, Emily learned, that 
the cavalier, who had drawn upon himself the vengeance of Orsino, had 
since died of his wounds, and that strict search was still making for 
his murderer.  The intelligence seemed to disturb Montoni, who mused, 
and then enquired, where Orsino had concealed himself.  His guests, 
who all, except Cavigni, were ignorant, that Montoni had himself 
assisted him to escape from Venice, replied, that he had fled in the 
night with such precipitation and secrecy, that his most intimate 
companions knew not whither.  Montoni blamed himself for having asked 
the question, for a second thought convinced him, that a man of 
Orsino's suspicious temper was not likely to trust any of the persons 
present with the knowledge of his asylum.  He considered himself, 
however, as entitled to his utmost confidence, and did not doubt, 
that he should soon hear of him.

Emily retired with Madame Montoni, soon after the cloth was 
withdrawn, and left the cavaliers to their secret councils, but not 
before the significant frowns of Montoni had warned his wife to 
depart, who passed from the hall to the ramparts, and walked, for 
some time, in silence, which Emily did not interrupt, for her mind 
was also occupied by interests of its own.  It required all her 
resolution, to forbear communicating to Madame Montoni the terrible 
subject, which still thrilled her every nerve with horror; and 
sometimes she was on the point of doing so, merely to obtain the 
relief of a moment; but she knew how wholly she was in the power of 
Montoni, and, considering, that the indiscretion of her aunt might 
prove fatal to them both, she compelled herself to endure a present 
and an inferior evil, rather than to tempt a future and a heavier 
one.  A strange kind of presentiment frequently, on this day, 
occurred to her;--it seemed as if her fate rested here, and was by 
some invisible means connected with this castle.

'Let me not accelerate it,' said she to herself:  'for whatever I may 
be reserved, let me, at least, avoid self-reproach.'

As she looked on the massy walls of the edifice, her melancholy 
spirits represented it to be her prison; and she started as at a new 
suggestion, when she considered how far distant she was from her 
native country, from her little peaceful home, and from her only 
friend--how remote was her hope of happiness, how feeble the 
expectation of again seeing him!  Yet the idea of Valancourt, and her 
confidence in his faithful love, had hitherto been her only solace, 
and she struggled hard to retain them.  A few tears of agony started 
to her eyes, which she turned aside to conceal.

While she afterwards leaned on the wall of the rampart, some 
peasants, at a little distance, were seen examining a breach, before 
which lay a heap of stones, as if to repair it, and a rusty old 
cannon, that appeared to have fallen from its station above.  Madame 
Montoni stopped to speak to the men, and enquired what they were 
going to do.  'To repair the fortifications, your ladyship,' said one 
of them; a labour which she was somewhat surprised, that Montoni 
should think necessary, particularly since he had never spoken of the 
castle, as of a place, at which he meant to reside for any 
considerable time; but she passed on towards a lofty arch, that led 
from the south to the east rampart, and which adjoined the castle, on 
one side, while, on the other, it supported a small watch-tower, that 
entirely commanded the deep valley below.  As she approached this 
arch, she saw, beyond it, winding along the woody descent of a 
distant mountain, a long troop of horse and foot, whom she knew to be 
soldiers, only by the glitter of their pikes and other arms, for the 
distance did not allow her to discover the colour of their liveries.  
As she gazed, the vanguard issued from the woods into the valley, but 
the train still continued to pour over the remote summit of the 
mountain, in endless succession; while, in the front, the military 
uniform became distinguishable, and the commanders, riding first, and 
seeming, by their gestures, to direct the march of those that 
followed, at length, approached very near to the castle.

Such a spectacle, in these solitary regions, both surprised and 
alarmed Madame Montoni, and she hastened towards some peasants, who 
were employed in raising bastions before the south rampart, where the 
rock was less abrupt than elsewhere.  These men could give no 
satisfactory answers to her enquiries, but, being roused by them, 
gazed in stupid astonishment upon the long cavalcade.  Madame 
Montoni, then thinking it necessary to communicate further the object 
of her alarm, sent Emily to say, that she wished to speak to Montoni; 
an errand her niece did not approve, for she dreaded his frowns, 
which she knew this message would provoke; but she obeyed in silence.

As she drew near the apartment, in which he sat with his guests, she 
heard them in earnest and loud dispute, and she paused a moment, 
trembling at the displeasure, which her sudden interruption would 
occasion.  In the next, their voices sunk all together; she then 
ventured to open the door, and, while Montoni turned hastily and 
looked at her, without speaking, she delivered her message.

'Tell Madam Montoni I am engaged,' said he.

Emily then thought it proper to mention the subject of her alarm.  
Montoni and his companions rose instantly and went to the windows, 
but, these not affording them a view of the troops, they at length 
proceeded to the ramparts, where Cavigni conjectured it to be a 
legion of condottieri, on their march towards Modena.

One part of the cavalcade now extended along the valley, and another 
wound among the mountains towards the north, while some troops still 
lingered on the woody precipices, where the first had appeared, so 
that the great length of the procession seemed to include an whole 
army.  While Montoni and his family watched its progress, they heard 
the sound of trumpets and the clash of cymbals in the vale, and then 
others, answering from the heights.  Emily listened with emotion to 
the shrill blast, that woke the echoes of the mountains, and Montoni 
explained the signals, with which he appeared to be well acquainted, 
and which meant nothing hostile.  The uniforms of the troops, and the 
kind of arms they bore, confirmed to him the conjecture of Cavigni, 
and he had the satisfaction to see them pass by, without even 
stopping to gaze upon his castle.  He did not, however, leave the 
rampart, till the bases of the mountains had shut them from his view, 
and the last murmur of the trumpet floated away on the wind.  Cavigni 
and Verezzi were inspirited by this spectacle, which seemed to have 
roused all the fire of their temper; Montoni turned into the castle 
in thoughtful silence.

Emily's mind had not yet sufficiently recovered from its late shock, 
to endure the loneliness of her chamber, and she remained upon the 
ramparts; for Madame Montoni had not invited her to her dressing-
room, whither she had gone evidently in low spirits, and Emily, from 
her late experience, had lost all wish to explore the gloomy and 
mysterious recesses of the castle.  The ramparts, therefore, were 
almost her only retreat, and here she lingered, till the gray haze of 
evening was again spread over the scene.

The cavaliers supped by themselves, and Madame Montoni remained in 
her apartment, whither Emily went, before she retired to her own.  
She found her aunt weeping, and in much agitation.  The tenderness of 
Emily was naturally so soothing, that it seldom failed to give 
comfort to the drooping heart:  but Madame Montoni's was torn, and 
the softest accents of Emily's voice were lost upon it.  With her 
usual delicacy, she did not appear to observe her aunt's distress, 
but it gave an involuntary gentleness to her manners, and an air of 
solicitude to her countenance, which Madame Montoni was vexed to 
perceive, who seemed to feel the pity of her niece to be an insult to 
her pride, and dismissed her as soon as she properly could.  Emily 
did not venture to mention again the reluctance she felt to her 
gloomy chamber, but she requested that Annette might be permitted to 
remain with her till she retired to rest; and the request was 
somewhat reluctantly granted.  Annette, however, was now with the 
servants, and Emily withdrew alone.

With light and hasty steps she passed through the long galleries, 
while the feeble glimmer of the lamp she carried only shewed the 
gloom around her, and the passing air threatened to extinguish it.  
The lonely silence, that reigned in this part of the castle, awed 
her; now and then, indeed, she heard a faint peal of laughter rise 
from a remote part of the edifice, where the servants were assembled, 
but it was soon lost, and a kind of breathless stillness remained.  
As she passed the suite of rooms which she had visited in the 
morning, her eyes glanced fearfully on the door, and she almost 
fancied she heard murmuring sounds within, but she paused not a 
moment to enquire.

Having reached her own apartment, where no blazing wood on the hearth 
dissipated the gloom, she sat down with a book, to enliven her 
attention, till Annette should come, and a fire could be kindled.  
She continued to read till her light was nearly expired, but Annette 
did not appear, and the solitude and obscurity of her chamber again 
affected her spirits, the more, because of its nearness to the scene 
of horror, that she had witnessed in the morning.  Gloomy and 
fantastic images came to her mind.  She looked fearfully towards the 
door of the stair-case, and then, examining whether it was still 
fastened, found that it was so.  Unable to conquer the uneasiness she 
felt at the prospect of sleeping again in this remote and insecure 
apartment, which some person seemed to have entered during the 
preceding night, her impatience to see Annette, whom she had bidden 
to enquire concerning this circumstance, became extremely painful.  
She wished also to question her, as to the object, which had excited 
so much horror in her own mind, and which Annette on the preceding 
evening had appeared to be in part acquainted with, though her words 
were very remote from the truth, and it appeared plainly to Emily, 
that the girl had been purposely misled by a false report:  above all 
she was surprised, that the door of the chamber, which contained it, 
should be left unguarded.  Such an instance of negligence almost 
surpassed belief.  But her light was now expiring; the faint flashes 
it threw upon the walls called up all the terrors of fancy, and she 
rose to find her way to the habitable part of the castle, before it 
was quite extinguished.  As she opened the chamber door, she heard 
remote voices, and, soon after, saw a light issue upon the further 
end of the corridor, which Annette and another servant approached.  
'I am glad you are come,' said Emily:  'what has detained you so 
long?  Pray light me a fire immediately.'

'My lady wanted me, ma'amselle,' replied Annette in some confusion; 
'I will go and get the wood.'

'No,' said Caterina, 'that is my business,' and left the room 
instantly, while Annette would have followed; but, being called back, 
she began to talk very loud, and laugh, and seemed afraid to trust a 
pause of silence.

Caterina soon returned with the wood, and then, when the cheerful 
blaze once more animated the room, and this servant had withdrawn, 
Emily asked Annette, whether she had made the enquiry she bade her.  
'Yes, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'but not a soul knows any thing 
about the matter:  and old Carlo--I watched him well, for they say he 
knows strange things--old Carlo looked so as I don't know how to 
tell, and he asked me again and again, if I was sure the door was 
ever unfastened.  Lord, says I--am I sure I am alive?  And as for me, 
ma'am, I am all astounded, as one may say, and would no more sleep in 
this chamber, than I would on the great cannon at the end of the east 
rampart.'

'And what objection have you to that cannon, more than to any of the 
rest?' said Emily smiling:  'the best would be rather a hard bed.'

'Yes, ma'amselle, any of them would be hard enough for that matter; 
but they do say, that something has been seen in the dead of night, 
standing beside the great cannon, as if to guard it.'

'Well! my good Annette, the people who tell such stories, are happy 
in having you for an auditor, for I perceive you believe them all.'

'Dear ma'amselle!  I will shew you the very cannon; you can see it 
from these windows!'

'Well,' said Emily, 'but that does not prove, that an apparition 
guards it.'

'What! not if I shew you the very cannon!  Dear ma'am, you will 
believe nothing.'

'Nothing probably upon this subject, but what I see,' said Emily.--
'Well, ma'am, but you shall see it, if you will only step this way to 
the casement.'--Emily could not forbear laughing, and Annette looked 
surprised.  Perceiving her extreme aptitude to credit the marvellous, 
Emily forbore to mention the subject she had intended, lest it should 
overcome her with idle terrors, and she began to speak on a lively 
topic--the regattas of Venice.

'Aye, ma'amselle, those rowing matches,' said Annette, 'and the fine 
moon-light nights, are all, that are worth seeing in Venice.  To be 
sure the moon is brighter than any I ever saw; and then to hear such 
sweet music, too, as Ludovico has often and often sung under the 
lattice by the west portico!  Ma'amselle, it was Ludovico, that told 
me about that picture, which you wanted so to look at last night, 
and---'

'What picture?' said Emily, wishing Annette to explain herself.

'O! that terrible picture with the black veil over it.'

'You never saw it, then?' said Emily.

'Who, I!--No, ma'amselle, I never did.  But this morning,' continued 
Annette, lowering her voice, and looking round the room, 'this 
morning, as it was broad daylight, do you know, ma'am, I took a 
strange fancy to see it, as I had heard such odd hints about it, and 
I got as far as the door, and should have opened it, if it had not 
been locked!'

Emily, endeavouring to conceal the emotion this circumstance 
occasioned, enquired at what hour she went to the chamber, and found, 
that it was soon after herself had been there.  She also asked 
further questions, and the answers convinced her, that Annette, and 
probably her informer, were ignorant of the terrible truth, though in 
Annette's account something very like the truth, now and then, 
mingled with the falsehood.  Emily now began to fear, that her visit 
to the chamber had been observed, since the door had been closed, so 
immediately after her departure; and dreaded lest this should draw 
upon her the vengeance of Montoni.  Her anxiety, also, was excited to 
know whence, and for what purpose, the delusive report, which had 
been imposed upon Annette, had originated, since Montoni could only 
have wished for silence and secrecy; but she felt, that the subject 
was too terrible for this lonely hour, and she compelled herself to 
leave it, to converse with Annette, whose chat, simple as it was, she 
preferred to the stillness of total solitude.

Thus they sat, till near midnight, but not without many hints from 
Annette, that she wished to go.  The embers were now nearly burnt 
out; and Emily heard, at a distance, the thundering sound of the hall 
doors, as they were shut for the night.  She, therefore, prepared for 
rest, but was still unwilling that Annette should leave her.  At this 
instant, the great bell of the portal sounded.  They listened in 
fearful expectation, when, after a long pause of silence, it sounded 
again.  Soon after, they heard the noise of carriage wheels in the 
court-yard.  Emily sunk almost lifeless in her chair; 'It is the 
Count,' said she.

'What, at this time of night, ma'am!' said Annette:  'no, my dear 
lady.  But, for that matter, it is a strange time of night for any 
body to come!'

'Nay, pr'ythee, good Annette, stay not talking,' said Emily in a 
voice of agony--'Go, pr'ythee, go, and see who it is.'

Annette left the room, and carried with her the light, leaving Emily 
in darkness, which a few moments before would have terrified her in 
this room, but was now scarcely observed by her.  She listened and 
waited, in breathless expectation, and heard distant noises, but 
Annette did not return.  Her patience, at length, exhausted, she 
tried to find her way to the corridor, but it was long before she 
could touch the door of the chamber, and, when she had opened it, the 
total darkness without made her fear to proceed.  Voices were now 
heard, and Emily even thought she distinguished those of Count 
Morano, and Montoni.  Soon after, she heard steps approaching, and 
then a ray of light streamed through the darkness, and Annette 
appeared, whom Emily went to meet.

'Yes, ma'amselle,' said she, 'you was right, it is the Count sure 
enough.'

'It is he!' exclaimed Emily, lifting her eyes towards heaven and 
supporting herself by Annette's arm.

'Good Lord! my dear lady, don't be in such a FLUSTER, and look so 
pale, we shall soon hear more.'

'We shall, indeed!' said Emily, moving as fast as she was able 
towards her apartment.  'I am not well; give me air.'  Annette opened 
a casement, and brought water.  The faintness soon left Emily, but 
she desired Annette would not go till she heard from Montoni.

'Dear ma'amselle! he surely will not disturb you at this time of 
night; why he must think you are asleep.'

'Stay with me till I am so, then,' said Emily, who felt temporary 
relief from this suggestion, which appeared probable enough, though 
her fears had prevented its occurring to her.  Annette, with secret 
reluctance, consented to stay, and Emily was now composed enough to 
ask her some questions; among others, whether she had seen the Count.

'Yes, ma'am, I saw him alight, for I went from hence to the grate in 
the north turret, that overlooks the inner court-yard, you know.  
There I saw the Count's carriage, and the Count in it, waiting at the 
great door,--for the porter was just gone to bed--with several men on 
horseback all by the light of the torches they carried.'  Emily was 
compelled to smile.  'When the door was opened, the Count said 
something, that I could not make out, and then got out, and another 
gentleman with him.  I thought, to be sure, the Signor was gone to 
bed, and I hastened away to my lady's dressing-room, to see what I 
could hear.  But in the way I met Ludovico, and he told me that the 
Signor was up, counselling with his master and the other Signors, in 
the room at the end of the north gallery; and Ludovico held up his 
finger, and laid it on his lips, as much as to say--There is more 
going on, than you think of, Annette, but you must hold your tongue.  
And so I did hold my tongue, ma'amselle, and came away to tell you 
directly.'

Emily enquired who the cavalier was, that accompanied the Count, and 
how Montoni received them; but Annette could not inform her.

'Ludovico,' she added, 'had just been to call Signor Montoni's valet, 
that he might tell him they were arrived, when I met him.'

Emily sat musing, for some time, and then her anxiety was so much 
increased, that she desired Annette would go to the servants' hall, 
where it was possible she might hear something of the Count's 
intention, respecting his stay at the castle.

'Yes, ma'am,' said Annette with readiness; 'but how am I to find the 
way, if I leave the lamp with you?'

Emily said she would light her, and they immediately quitted the 
chamber.  When they had reached the top of the great stair-case, 
Emily recollected, that she might be seen by the Count, and, to avoid 
the great hall, Annette conducted her through some private passages 
to a back stair-case, which led directly to that of the servants.

As she returned towards her chamber, Emily began to fear, that she 
might again lose herself in the intricacies of the castle, and again 
be shocked by some mysterious spectacle; and, though she was already 
perplexed by the numerous turnings, she feared to open one of the 
many doors that offered.  While she stepped thoughtfully along, she 
fancied, that she heard a low moaning at no great distance, and, 
having paused a moment, she heard it again and distinctly.  Several 
doors appeared on the right hand of the passage.  She advanced, and 
listened.  When she came to the second, she heard a voice, apparently 
in complaint, within, to which she continued to listen, afraid to 
open the door, and unwilling to leave it.  Convulsive sobs followed, 
and then the piercing accents of an agonizing spirit burst forth.  
Emily stood appalled, and looked through the gloom, that surrounded 
her, in fearful expectation.  The lamentations continued.  Pity now 
began to subdue terror; it was possible she might administer comfort 
to the sufferer, at least, by expressing sympathy, and she laid her 
hand on the door.  While she hesitated she thought she knew this 
voice, disguised as it was by tones of grief.  Having, therefore, set 
down the lamp in the passage, she gently opened the door, within 
which all was dark, except that from an inner apartment a partial 
light appeared; and she stepped softly on.  Before she reached it, 
the appearance of Madame Montoni, leaning on her dressing-table, 
weeping, and with a handkerchief held to her eyes, struck her, and 
she paused.

Some person was seated in a chair by the fire, but who it was she 
could not distinguish.  He spoke, now and then, in a low voice, that 
did not allow Emily to hear what was uttered, but she thought, that 
Madame Montoni, at those times, wept the more, who was too much 
occupied by her own distress, to observe Emily, while the latter, 
though anxious to know what occasioned this, and who was the person 
admitted at so late an hour to her aunt's dressing-room, forbore to 
add to her sufferings by surprising her, or to take advantage of her 
situation, by listening to a private discourse.  She, therefore, 
stepped softly back, and, after some further difficulty, found the 
way to her own chamber, where nearer interests, at length, excluded 
the surprise and concern she had felt, respecting Madame Montoni.

Annette, however, returned without satisfactory intelligence, for the 
servants, among whom she had been, were either entirely ignorant, or 
affected to be so, concerning the Count's intended stay at the 
castle.  They could talk only of the steep and broken road they had 
just passed, and of the numerous dangers they had escaped and express 
wonder how their lord could choose to encounter all these, in the 
darkness of night; for they scarcely allowed, that the torches had 
served for any other purpose but that of shewing the dreariness of 
the mountains.  Annette, finding she could gain no information, left 
them, making noisy petitions, for more wood on the fire and more 
supper on the table.

'And now, ma'amselle,' added she, 'I am so sleepy!--I am sure, if you 
was so sleepy, you would not desire me to sit up with you.'

Emily, indeed, began to think it was cruel to wish it; she had also 
waited so long, without receiving a summons from Montoni, that it 
appeared he did not mean to disturb her, at this late hour, and she 
determined to dismiss Annette.  But, when she again looked round her 
gloomy chamber, and recollected certain circumstances, fear seized 
her spirits, and she hesitated.

'And yet it were cruel of me to ask you to stay, till I am asleep, 
Annette,' said she, 'for I fear it will be very long before I forget 
myself in sleep.'

'I dare say it will be very long, ma'amselle,' said Annette.

'But, before you go,' rejoined Emily, 'let me ask you--Had Signor 
Montoni left Count Morano, when you quitted the hall?'

'O no, ma'am, they were alone together.'

'Have you been in my aunt's dressing-room, since you left me?'

'No, ma'amselle, I called at the door as I passed, but it was 
fastened; so I thought my lady was gone to bed.'

'Who, then, was with your lady just now?' said Emily, forgetting, in 
surprise, her usual prudence.

'Nobody, I believe, ma'am,' replied Annette, 'nobody has been with 
her, I believe, since I left you.'

Emily took no further notice of the subject, and, after some struggle 
with imaginary fears, her good nature prevailed over them so far, 
that she dismissed Annette for the night.  She then sat, musing upon 
her own circumstances and those of Madame Montoni, till her eye 
rested on the miniature picture, which she had found, after her 
father's death, among the papers he had enjoined her to destroy.  It 
was open upon the table, before her, among some loose drawings, 
having, with them, been taken out of a little box by Emily, some 
hours before.  The sight of it called up many interesting 
reflections, but the melancholy sweetness of the countenance soothed 
the emotions, which these had occasioned.  It was the same style of 
countenance as that of her late father, and, while she gazed on it 
with fondness on this account, she even fancied a resemblance in the 
features.  But this tranquillity was suddenly interrupted, when she 
recollected the words in the manuscript, that had been found with 
this picture, and which had formerly occasioned her so much doubt and 
horror.  At length, she roused herself from the deep reverie, into 
which this remembrance had thrown her; but, when she rose to undress, 
the silence and solitude, to which she was left, at this midnight 
hour, for not even a distant sound was now heard, conspired with the 
impression the subject she had been considering had given to her 
mind, to appall her.  Annette's hints, too, concerning this chamber, 
simple as they were, had not failed to affect her, since they 
followed a circumstance of peculiar horror, which she herself had 
witnessed, and since the scene of this was a chamber nearly adjoining 
her own.

The door of the stair-case was, perhaps, a subject of more reasonable 
alarm, and she now began to apprehend, such was the aptitude of her 
fears, that this stair-case had some private communication with the 
apartment, which she shuddered even to remember.  Determined not to 
undress, she lay down to sleep in her clothes, with her late father's 
dog, the faithful MANCHON, at the foot of the bed, whom she 
considered as a kind of guard.

Thus circumstanced, she tried to banish reflection, but her busy 
fancy would still hover over the subjects of her interest, and she 
heard the clock of the castle strike two, before she closed her eyes.

From the disturbed slumber, into which she then sunk, she was soon 
awakened by a noise, which seemed to arise within her chamber; but 
the silence, that prevailed, as she fearfully listened, inclined her 
to believe, that she had been alarmed by such sounds as sometimes 
occur in dreams, and she laid her head again upon the pillow.

A return of the noise again disturbed her; it seemed to come from 
that part of the room, which communicated with the private stair-
case, and she instantly remembered the odd circumstance of the door 
having been fastened, during the preceding night, by some unknown 
hand.  Her late alarming suspicion, concerning its communication, 
also occurred to her.  Her heart became faint with terror.  Half 
raising herself from the bed, and gently drawing aside the curtain, 
she looked towards the door of the stair-case, but the lamp, that 
burnt on the hearth, spread so feeble a light through the apartment, 
that the remote parts of it were lost in shadow.  The noise, however, 
which, she was convinced, came from the door, continued.  It seemed 
like that made by the undrawing of rusty bolts, and often ceased, and 
was then renewed more gently, as if the hand, that occasioned it, was 
restrained by a fear of discovery.

While Emily kept her eyes fixed on the spot, she saw the door move, 
and then slowly open, and perceived something enter the room, but the 
extreme duskiness prevented her distinguishing what it was.  Almost 
fainting with terror, she had yet sufficient command over herself, to 
check the shriek, that was escaping from her lips, and, letting the 
curtain drop from her hand, continued to observe in silence the 
motions of the mysterious form she saw.  It seemed to glide along the 
remote obscurity of the apartment, then paused, and, as it approached 
the hearth, she perceived, in the stronger light, what appeared to be 
a human figure.  Certain remembrances now struck upon her heart, and 
almost subdued the feeble remains of her spirits; she continued, 
however, to watch the figure, which remained for some time 
motionless, but then, advancing slowly towards the bed, stood 
silently at the feet, where the curtains, being a little open, 
allowed her still to see it; terror, however, had now deprived her of 
the power of discrimination, as well as of that of utterance.

Having continued there a moment, the form retreated towards the 
hearth, when it took the lamp, held it up, surveyed the chamber, for 
a few moments, and then again advanced towards the bed.  The light at 
that instant awakening the dog, that had slept at Emily's feet, he 
barked loudly, and, jumping to the floor, flew at the stranger, who 
struck the animal smartly with a sheathed sword, and, springing 
towards the bed, Emily discovered--Count Morano!

She gazed at him for a moment in speechless affright, while he, 
throwing himself on his knee at the bed-side, besought her to fear 
nothing, and, having thrown down his sword, would have taken her 
hand, when the faculties, that terror had suspended, suddenly 
returned, and she sprung from the bed, in the dress, which surely a 
kind of prophetic apprehension had prevented her, on this night, from 
throwing aside.

Morano rose, followed her to the door, through which he had entered, 
and caught her hand, as she reached the top of the stair-case, but 
not before she had discovered, by the gleam of a lamp, another man 
half-way down the steps.  She now screamed in despair, and, believing 
herself given up by Montoni, saw, indeed, no possibility of escape.

The Count, who still held her hand, led her back into the chamber.

'Why all this terror?' said he, in a tremulous voice.  'Hear me, 
Emily:  I come not to alarm you; no, by Heaven!  I love you too well-
-too well for my own peace.'

Emily looked at him for a moment, in fearful doubt.

'Then leave me, sir,' said she, 'leave me instantly.'

'Hear me, Emily,' resumed Morano, 'hear me!  I love, and am in 
despair--yes--in despair.  How can I gaze upon you, and know, that it 
is, perhaps, for the last time, without suffering all the phrensy of 
despair?  But it shall not be so; you shall be mine, in spite of 
Montoni and all his villany.'

'In spite of Montoni!' cried Emily eagerly:  'what is it I hear?'

'You hear, that Montoni is a villain,' exclaimed Morano with 
vehemence,--'a villain who would have sold you to my love!--Who---'

'And is he less, who would have bought me?' said Emily, fixing on the 
Count an eye of calm contempt.  'Leave the room, sir, instantly,' she 
continued in a voice, trembling between joy and fear, 'or I will 
alarm the family, and you may receive that from Signor Montoni's 
vengeance, which I have vainly supplicated from his pity.'  But Emily 
knew, that she was beyond the hearing of those, who might protect 
her.

'You can never hope any thing from his pity,' said Morano, 'he has 
used me infamously, and my vengeance shall pursue him.  And for you, 
Emily, for you, he has new plans more profitable than the last, no 
doubt.'  The gleam of hope, which the Count's former speech had 
revived, was now nearly extinguished by the latter; and, while 
Emily's countenance betrayed the emotions of her mind, he endeavoured 
to take advantage of the discovery.

'I lose time,' said he:  'I came not to exclaim against Montoni; I 
came to solicit, to plead--to Emily; to tell her all I suffer, to 
entreat her to save me from despair, and herself from destruction.  
Emily! the schemes of Montoni are insearchable, but, I warn you, they 
are terrible; he has no principle, when interest, or ambition leads.  
Can I love you, and abandon you to his power?  Fly, then, fly from 
this gloomy prison, with a lover, who adores you!  I have bribed a 
servant of the castle to open the gates, and, before tomorrow's dawn, 
you shall be far on the way to Venice.'

Emily, overcome by the sudden shock she had received, at the moment, 
too, when she had begun to hope for better days, now thought she saw 
destruction surround her on every side.  Unable to reply, and almost 
to think, she threw herself into a chair, pale and breathless.  That 
Montoni had formerly sold her to Morano, was very probable; that he 
had now withdrawn his consent to the marriage, was evident from the 
Count's present conduct; and it was nearly certain, that a scheme of 
stronger interest only could have induced the selfish Montoni to 
forego a plan, which he had hitherto so strenuously pursued.  These 
reflections made her tremble at the hints, which Morano had just 
given, which she no longer hesitated to believe; and, while she 
shrunk from the new scenes of misery and oppression, that might await 
her in the castle of Udolpho, she was compelled to observe, that 
almost her only means of escaping them was by submitting herself to 
the protection of this man, with whom evils more certain and not less 
terrible appeared,--evils, upon which she could not endure to pause 
for an instant.

Her silence, though it was that of agony, encouraged the hopes of 
Morano, who watched her countenance with impatience, took again the 
resisting hand she had withdrawn, and, as he pressed it to his heart, 
again conjured her to determine immediately.  'Every moment we lose, 
will make our departure more dangerous,' said he:  'these few moments 
lost may enable Montoni to overtake us.'

'I beseech you, sir, be silent,' said Emily faintly:  'I am indeed 
very wretched, and wretched I must remain.  Leave me--I command you, 
leave me to my fate.'

'Never!' cried the Count vehemently:  'let me perish first!  But 
forgive my violence! the thought of losing you is madness.  You 
cannot be ignorant of Montoni's character, you may be ignorant of his 
schemes--nay, you must be so, or you would not hesitate between my 
love and his power.'

'Nor do I hesitate,' said Emily.

'Let us go, then,' said Morano, eagerly kissing her hand, and rising, 
'my carriage waits, below the castle walls.'

'You mistake me, sir,' said Emily.  'Allow me to thank you for the 
interest you express in my welfare, and to decide by my own choice.  
I shall remain under the protection of Signor Montoni.'

'Under his protection!' exclaimed Morano, proudly, 'his PROTECTION!  
Emily, why will you suffer yourself to be thus deluded?  I have 
already told you what you have to expect from his PROTECTION.'

'And pardon me, sir, if, in this instance, I doubt mere assertion, 
and, to be convinced, require something approaching to proof.'

'I have now neither the time, or the means of adducing proof,' 
replied the Count.

'Nor have I, sir, the inclination to listen to it, if you had.'

'But you trifle with my patience and my distress,' continued Morano.  
'Is a marriage with a man, who adores you, so very terrible in your 
eyes, that you would prefer to it all the misery, to which Montoni 
may condemn you in this remote prison?  Some wretch must have stolen 
those affections, which ought to be mine, or you would not thus 
obstinately persist in refusing an offer, that would place you beyond 
the reach of oppression.'  Morano walked about the room, with quick 
steps, and a disturbed air.

'This discourse, Count Morano, sufficiently proves, that my 
affections ought not to be yours,' said Emily, mildly, 'and this 
conduct, that I should not be placed beyond the reach of oppression, 
so long as I remained in your power.  If you wish me to believe 
otherwise, cease to oppress me any longer by your presence.  If you 
refuse this, you will compel me to expose you to the resentment of 
Signor Montoni.'

'Yes, let him come,' cried Morano furiously, 'and brave MY 
resentment!  Let him dare to face once more the man he has so 
courageously injured; danger shall teach him morality, and vengeance 
justice--let him come, and receive my sword in his heart!'

The vehemence, with which this was uttered, gave Emily new cause of 
alarm, who arose from her chair, but her trembling frame refused to 
support her, and she resumed her seat;--the words died on her lips, 
and, when she looked wistfully towards the door of the corridor, 
which was locked, she considered it was impossible for her to leave 
the apartment, before Morano would be apprised of, and able to 
counteract, her intention.

Without observing her agitation, he continued to pace the room in the 
utmost perturbation of spirits.  His darkened countenance expressed 
all the rage of jealousy and revenge; and a person, who had seen his 
features under the smile of ineffable tenderness, which he so lately 
assumed, would now scarcely have believed them to be the same.

'Count Morano,' said Emily, at length recovering her voice, 'calm, I 
entreat you, these transports, and listen to reason, if you will not 
to pity.  You have equally misplaced your love, and your hatred.--I 
never could have returned the affection, with which you honour me, 
and certainly have never encouraged it; neither has Signor Montoni 
injured you, for you must have known, that he had no right to dispose 
of my hand, had he even possessed the power to do so.  Leave, then, 
leave the castle, while you may with safety.  Spare yourself the 
dreadful consequences of an unjust revenge, and the remorse of having 
prolonged to me these moments of suffering.'

'Is it for mine, or for Montoni's safety, that you are thus alarmed?' 
said Morano, coldly, and turning towards her with a look of acrimony.

'For both,' replied Emily, in a trembling voice.

'Unjust revenge!' cried the Count, resuming the abrupt tones of 
passion.  'Who, that looks upon that face, can imagine a punishment 
adequate to the injury he would have done me?  Yes, I will leave the 
castle; but it shall not be alone.  I have trifled too long.  Since 
my prayers and my sufferings cannot prevail, force shall.  I have 
people in waiting, who shall convey you to my carriage.  Your voice 
will bring no succour; it cannot be heard from this remote part of 
the castle; submit, therefore, in silence, to go with me.'

This was an unnecessary injunction, at present; for Emily was too 
certain, that her call would avail her nothing; and terror had so 
entirely disordered her thoughts, that she knew not how to plead to 
Morano, but sat, mute and trembling, in her chair, till he advanced 
to lift her from it, when she suddenly raised herself, and, with a 
repulsive gesture, and a countenance of forced serenity, said, 'Count 
Morano!  I am now in your power; but you will observe, that this is 
not the conduct which can win the esteem you appear so solicitous to 
obtain, and that you are preparing for yourself a load of remorse, in 
the miseries of a friendless orphan, which can never leave you.  Do 
you believe your heart to be, indeed, so hardened, that you can look 
without emotion on the suffering, to which you would condemn me?'---

Emily was interrupted by the growling of the dog, who now came again 
from the bed, and Morano looked towards the door of the stair-case, 
where no person appearing, he called aloud, 'Cesario!'

'Emily,' said the Count, 'why will you reduce me to adopt this 
conduct?  How much more willingly would I persuade, than compel you 
to become my wife! but, by Heaven! I will not leave you to be sold by 
Montoni.  Yet a thought glances across my mind, that brings madness 
with it.  I know not how to name it.  It is preposterous--it cannot 
be.--Yet you tremble--you grow pale!  It is! it is so;--you--you--
love Montoni!' cried Morano, grasping Emily's wrist, and stamping his 
foot on the floor.

An involuntary air of surprise appeared on her countenance.  'If you 
have indeed believed so,' said she, 'believe so still.'

'That look, those words confirm it,' exclaimed Morano, furiously.  
'No, no, no, Montoni had a richer prize in view, than gold.  But he 
shall not live to triumph over me!--This very instant---'

He was interrupted by the loud barking of the dog.

'Stay, Count Morano,' said Emily, terrified by his words, and by the 
fury expressed in his eyes, 'I will save you from this error.--Of all 
men, Signor Montoni is not your rival; though, if I find all other 
means of saving myself vain, I will try whether my voice may not 
arouse his servants to my succour.'

'Assertion,' replied Morano, 'at such a moment, is not to be depended 
upon.  How could I suffer myself to doubt, even for an instant, that 
he could see you, and not love?--But my first care shall be to convey 
you from the castle.  Cesario! ho,--Cesario!'

A man now appeared at the door of the stair-case, and other steps 
were heard ascending.  Emily uttered a loud shriek, as Morano hurried 
her across the chamber, and, at the same moment, she heard a noise at 
the door, that opened upon the corridor.  The Count paused an 
instant, as if his mind was suspended between love and the desire of 
vengeance; and, in that instant, the door gave way, and Montoni, 
followed by the old steward and several other persons, burst into the 
room.

'Draw!' cried Montoni to the Count, who did not pause for a second 
bidding, but, giving Emily into the hands of the people, that 
appeared from the stair-case, turned fiercely round.  'This in thine 
heart, villain!' said he, as he made a thrust at Montoni with his 
sword, who parried the blow, and aimed another, while some of the 
persons, who had followed him into the room, endeavoured to part the 
combatants, and others rescued Emily from the hands of Morano's 
servants.

'Was it for this, Count Morano,' said Montoni, in a cool sarcastic 
tone of voice, 'that I received you under my roof, and permitted you, 
though my declared enemy, to remain under it for the night?  Was it, 
that you might repay my hospitality with the treachery of a fiend, 
and rob me of my niece?'

'Who talks of treachery?' said Morano, in a tone of unrestrained 
vehemence.  'Let him that does, shew an unblushing face of innocence.  
Montoni, you are a villain!  If there is treachery in this affair, 
look to yourself as the author of it.  IF--do I say?  I--whom you 
have wronged with unexampled baseness, whom you have injured almost 
beyond redress!  But why do I use words?--Come on, coward, and 
receive justice at my hands!'

'Coward!' cried Montoni, bursting from the people who held him, and 
rushing on the Count, when they both retreated into the corridor, 
where the fight continued so desperately, that none of the spectators 
dared approach them, Montoni swearing, that the first who interfered, 
should fall by his sword.

Jealousy and revenge lent all their fury to Morano, while the 
superior skill and the temperance of Montoni enabled him to wound his 
adversary, whom his servants now attempted to seize, but he would not 
be restrained, and, regardless of his wound, continued to fight.  He 
seemed to be insensible both of pain and loss of blood, and alive 
only to the energy of his passions.  Montoni, on the contrary, 
persevered in the combat, with a fierce, yet wary, valour; he 
received the point of Morano's sword on his arm, but, almost in the 
same instant, severely wounded and disarmed him.  The Count then fell 
back into the arms of his servant, while Montoni held his sword over 
him, and bade him ask his life.  Morano, sinking under the anguish of 
his wound, had scarcely replied by a gesture, and by a few words, 
feebly articulated, that he would not--when he fainted; and Montoni 
was then going to have plunged the sword into his breast, as he lay 
senseless, but his arm was arrested by Cavigni.  To the interruption 
he yielded without much difficulty, but his complexion changed almost 
to blackness, as he looked upon his fallen adversary, and ordered, 
that he should be carried instantly from the castle.

In the mean time, Emily, who had been with-held from leaving the 
chamber during the affray, now came forward into the corridor, and 
pleaded a cause of common humanity, with the feelings of the warmest 
benevolence, when she entreated Montoni to allow Morano the 
assistance in the castle, which his situation required.  But Montoni, 
who had seldom listened to pity, now seemed rapacious of vengeance, 
and, with a monster's cruelty, again ordered his defeated enemy to be 
taken from the castle, in his present state, though there were only 
the woods, or a solitary neighbouring cottage, to shelter him from 
the night.

The Count's servants having declared, that they would not move him 
till he revived, Montoni's stood inactive, Cavigni remonstrating, and 
Emily, superior to Montoni's menaces, giving water to Morano, and 
directing the attendants to bind up his wound.  At length, Montoni 
had leisure to feel pain from his own hurt, and he withdrew to 
examine it.

The Count, meanwhile, having slowly recovered, the first object he 
saw, on raising his eyes, was Emily, bending over him with a 
countenance strongly expressive of solicitude.  He surveyed her with 
a look of anguish.

'I have deserved this,' said he, 'but not from Montoni.  It is from 
you, Emily, that I have deserved punishment, yet I receive only 
pity!'  He paused, for he had spoken with difficulty.  After a 
moment, he proceeded.  'I must resign you, but not to Montoni.  
Forgive me the sufferings I have already occasioned you!  But for 
THAT villain--his infamy shall not go unpunished.  Carry me from this 
place,' said he to his servants.  'I am in no condition to travel:  
you must, therefore, take me to the nearest cottage, for I will not 
pass the night under his roof, although I may expire on the way from 
it.'

Cesario proposed to go out, and enquire for a cottage, that might 
receive his master, before he attempted to remove him:  but Morano 
was impatient to be gone; the anguish of his mind seemed to be even 
greater than that of his wound, and he rejected, with disdain, the 
offer of Cavigni to entreat Montoni, that he might be suffered to 
pass the night in the castle.  Cesario was now going to call up the 
carriage to the great gate, but the Count forbade him.  'I cannot 
bear the motion of a carriage,' said he:  'call some others of my 
people, that they may assist in bearing me in their arms.'

At length, however, Morano submitted to reason, and consented, that 
Cesario should first prepare some cottage to receive him.  Emily, now 
that he had recovered his senses, was about to withdraw from the 
corridor, when a message from Montoni commanded her to do so, and 
also that the Count, if he was not already gone, should quit the 
castle immediately.  Indignation flashed from Morano's eyes, and 
flushed his cheeks.

'Tell Montoni,' said he, 'that I shall go when it suits my own 
convenience; that I quit the castle, he dares to call his, as I would 
the nest of a serpent, and that this is not the last he shall hear 
from me.  Tell him, I will not leave ANOTHER murder on his 
conscience, if I can help it.'

'Count Morano! do you know what you say?' said Cavigni.

'Yes, Signor, I know well what I say, and he will understand well 
what I mean.  His conscience will assist his understanding, on this 
occasion.'

'Count Morano,' said Verezzi, who had hitherto silently observed him, 
'dare again to insult my friend, and I will plunge this sword in your 
body.'

'It would be an action worthy the friend of a villain!' said Morano, 
as the strong impulse of his indignation enabled him to raise himself 
from the arms of his servants; but the energy was momentary, and he 
sunk back, exhausted by the effort.  Montoni's people, meanwhile, 
held Verezzi, who seemed inclined, even in this instant, to execute 
his threat; and Cavigni, who was not so depraved as to abet the 
cowardly malignity of Verezzi, endeavoured to withdraw him from the 
corridor; and Emily, whom a compassionate interest had thus long 
detained, was now quitting it in new terror, when the supplicating 
voice of Morano arrested her, and, by a feeble gesture, he beckoned 
her to draw nearer.  She advanced with timid steps, but the fainting 
languor of his countenance again awakened her pity, and overcame her 
terror.

'I am going from hence for ever,' said he:  'perhaps, I shall never 
see you again.  I would carry with me your forgiveness, Emily; nay 
more--I would also carry your good wishes.'

'You have my forgiveness, then,' said Emily, 'and my sincere wishes 
for your recovery.'

'And only for my recovery?' said Morano, with a sigh.  'For your 
general welfare,' added Emily.

'Perhaps I ought to be contented with this,' he resumed; 'I certainly 
have not deserved more; but I would ask you, Emily, sometimes to 
think of me, and, forgetting my offence, to remember only the passion 
which occasioned it.  I would ask, alas! impossibilities:  I would 
ask you to love me!  At this moment, when I am about to part with 
you, and that, perhaps, for ever, I am scarcely myself.  Emily--may 
you never know the torture of a passion like mine!  What do I say?  
O, that, for me, you might be sensible of such a passion!'

Emily looked impatient to be gone.  'I entreat you, Count, to consult 
your own safety,' said she, 'and linger here no longer.  I tremble 
for the consequences of Signor Verezzi's passion, and of Montoni's 
resentment, should he learn that you are still here.'

Morano's face was overspread with a momentary crimson, his eyes 
sparkled, but he seemed endeavouring to conquer his emotion, and 
replied in a calm voice, 'Since you are interested for my safety, I 
will regard it, and be gone.  But, before I go, let me again hear you 
say, that you wish me well,' said he, fixing on her an earnest and 
mournful look.

Emily repeated her assurances.  He took her hand, which she scarcely 
attempted to withdraw, and put it to his lips.  'Farewell, Count 
Morano!' said Emily; and she turned to go, when a second message 
arrived from Montoni, and she again conjured Morano, as he valued his 
life, to quit the castle immediately.  He regarded her in silence, 
with a look of fixed despair.  But she had no time to enforce her 
compassionate entreaties, and, not daring to disobey the second 
command of Montoni, she left the corridor, to attend him.

He was in the cedar parlour, that adjoined the great hall, laid upon 
a couch, and suffering a degree of anguish from his wound, which few 
persons could have disguised, as he did.  His countenance, which was 
stern, but calm, expressed the dark passion of revenge, but no 
symptom of pain; bodily pain, indeed, he had always despised, and had 
yielded only to the strong and terrible energies of the soul.  He was 
attended by old Carlo and by Signor Bertolini, but Madame Montoni was 
not with him.

Emily trembled, as she approached and received his severe rebuke, for 
not having obeyed his first summons; and perceived, also, that he 
attributed her stay in the corridor to a motive, that had not even 
occurred to her artless mind.

'This is an instance of female caprice,' said he, 'which I ought to 
have foreseen.  Count Morano, whose suit you obstinately rejected, so 
long as it was countenanced by me, you favour, it seems, since you 
find I have dismissed him.'

Emily looked astonished.  'I do not comprehend you, sir,' said she:  
'You certainly do not mean to imply, that the design of the Count to 
visit the double-chamber, was founded upon any approbation of mine.'

'To that I reply nothing,' said Montoni; 'but it must certainly be a 
more than common interest, that made you plead so warmly in his 
cause, and that could detain you thus long in his presence, contrary 
to my express order--in the presence of a man, whom you have 
hitherto, on all occasions, most scrupulously shunned!'

'I fear, sir, it was a more than common interest, that detained me,' 
said Emily calmly; 'for of late I have been inclined to think, that 
of compassion is an uncommon one.  But how could I, could YOU, sir, 
witness Count Morano's deplorable condition, and not wish to relieve 
it?'

'You add hypocrisy to caprice,' said Montoni, frowning, 'and an 
attempt at satire, to both; but, before you undertake to regulate the 
morals of other persons, you should learn and practise the virtues, 
which are indispensable to a woman--sincerity, uniformity of conduct 
and obedience.'

Emily, who had always endeavoured to regulate her conduct by the 
nicest laws, and whose mind was finely sensible, not only of what is 
just in morals, but of whatever is beautiful in the female character, 
was shocked by these words; yet, in the next moment, her heart 
swelled with the consciousness of having deserved praise, instead of 
censure, and she was proudly silent.  Montoni, acquainted with the 
delicacy of her mind, knew how keenly she would feel his rebuke; but 
he was a stranger to the luxury of conscious worth, and, therefore, 
did not foresee the energy of that sentiment, which now repelled his 
satire.  Turning to a servant who had lately entered the room, he 
asked whether Morano had quitted the castle.  The man answered, that 
his servants were then removing him, on a couch, to a neighbouring 
cottage.  Montoni seemed somewhat appeased, on hearing this; and, 
when Ludovico appeared, a few moments after, and said, that Morano 
was gone, he told Emily she might retire to her apartment.

She withdrew willingly from his presence; but the thought of passing 
the remainder of the night in a chamber, which the door from the 
stair-case made liable to the intrusion of any person, now alarmed 
her more than ever, and she determined to call at Madame Montoni's 
room, and request, that Annette might be permitted to be with her.

On reaching the great gallery, she heard voices seemingly in dispute, 
and, her spirits now apt to take alarm, she paused, but soon 
distinguished some words of Cavigni and Verezzi, and went towards 
them, in the hope of conciliating their difference.  They were alone.  
Verezzi's face was still flushed with rage; and, as the first object 
of it was now removed from him, he appeared willing to transfer his 
resentment to Cavigni, who seemed to be expostulating, rather than 
disputing, with him.

Verezzi was protesting, that he would instantly inform Montoni of the 
insult, which Morano had thrown out against him, and above all, that, 
wherein he had accused him of murder.

'There is no answering,' said Cavigni, 'for the words of a man in a 
passion; little serious regard ought to be paid to them.  If you 
persist in your resolution, the consequences may be fatal to both.  
We have now more serious interests to pursue, than those of a petty 
revenge.'

Emily joined her entreaties to Cavigni's arguments, and they, at 
length, prevailed so far, as that Verezzi consented to retire, 
without seeing Montoni.

On calling at her aunt's apartment, she found it fastened.  In a few 
minutes, however, it was opened by Madame Montoni herself.

It may be remembered, that it was by a door leading into the bedroom 
from a back passage, that Emily had secretly entered a few hours 
preceding.  She now conjectured, by the calmness of Madame Montoni's 
air, that she was not apprised of the accident, which had befallen 
her husband, and was beginning to inform her of it, in the tenderest 
manner she could, when her aunt interrupted her, by saying, she was 
acquainted with the whole affair.

Emily knew indeed, that she had little reason to love Montoni, but 
could scarcely have believed her capable of such perfect apathy, as 
she now discovered towards him; having obtained permission, however, 
for Annette to sleep in her chamber, she went thither immediately.

A track of blood appeared along the corridor, leading to it; and on 
the spot, where the Count and Montoni had fought, the whole floor was 
stained.  Emily shuddered, and leaned on Annette, as she passed.  
When she reached her apartment, she instantly determined, since the 
door of the stair-case had been left open, and that Annette was now 
with her, to explore whither it led,--a circumstance now materially 
connected with her own safety.  Annette accordingly, half curious and 
half afraid, proposed to descend the stairs; but, on approaching the 
door, they perceived, that it was already fastened without, and their 
care was then directed to the securing it on the inside also, by 
placing against it as much of the heavy furniture of the room, as 
they could lift.  Emily then retired to bed, and Annette continued on 
a chair by the hearth, where some feeble embers remained.



CHAPTER VII


 Of aery tongues, that syllable men's names
 On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.
      MILTON

It is now necessary to mention some circumstances, which could not be 
related amidst the events of Emily's hasty departure from Venice, or 
together with those, which so rapidly succeeded to her arrival in the 
castle.

On the morning of her journey, Count Morano had gone at the appointed 
hour to the mansion of Montoni, to demand his bride.  When he reached 
it, he was somewhat surprised by the silence and solitary air of the 
portico, where Montoni's lacqueys usually loitered; but surprise was 
soon changed to astonishment, and astonishment to the rage of 
disappointment, when the door was opened by an old woman, who told 
his servants, that her master and his family had left Venice, early 
in the morning, for terra-firma.  Scarcely believing what his 
servants told, he left his gondola, and rushed into the hall to 
enquire further.  The old woman, who was the only person left in care 
of the mansion, persisted in her story, which the silent and deserted 
apartments soon convinced him was no fiction.  He then seized her 
with a menacing air, as if he meant to wreak all his vengeance upon 
her, at the same time asking her twenty questions in a breath, and 
all these with a gesticulation so furious, that she was deprived of 
the power of answering them; then suddenly letting her go, he stamped 
about the hall, like a madman, cursing Montoni and his own folly.

When the good woman was at liberty, and had somewhat recovered from 
her fright, she told him all she knew of the affair, which was, 
indeed, very little, but enough to enable Morano to discover, that 
Montoni was gone to his castle on the Apennine.  Thither he followed, 
as soon as his servants could complete the necessary preparation for 
the journey, accompanied by a friend, and attended by a number of his 
people, determined to obtain Emily, or a full revenge on Montoni.  
When his mind had recovered from the first effervescence of rage, and 
his thoughts became less obscured, his conscience hinted to him 
certain circumstances, which, in some measure, explained the conduct 
of Montoni:  but how the latter could have been led to suspect an 
intention, which, he had believed, was known only to himself, he 
could not even guess.  On this occasion, however, he had been partly 
betrayed by that sympathetic intelligence, which may be said to exist 
between bad minds, and which teaches one man to judge what another 
will do in the same circumstances.  Thus it was with Montoni, who had 
now received indisputable proof of a truth, which he had some time 
suspected--that Morano's circumstances, instead of being affluent, as 
he had been bidden to believe, were greatly involved.  Montoni had 
been interested in his suit, by motives entirely selfish, those of 
avarice and pride; the last of which would have been gratified by an 
alliance with a Venetian nobleman, the former by Emily's estate in 
Gascony, which he had stipulated, as the price of his favour, should 
be delivered up to him from the day of her marriage.  In the 
meantime, he had been led to suspect the consequence of the Count's 
boundless extravagance; but it was not till the evening, preceding 
the intended nuptials, that he obtained certain information of his 
distressed circumstances.  He did not hesitate then to infer, that 
Morano designed to defraud him of Emily's estate; and in this 
supposition he was confirmed, and with apparent reason, by the 
subsequent conduct of the Count, who, after having appointed to meet 
him on that night, for the purpose of signing the instrument, which 
was to secure to him his reward, failed in his engagement.  Such a 
circumstance, indeed, in a man of Morano's gay and thoughtless 
character, and at a time when his mind was engaged by the bustle of 
preparation for his nuptials, might have been attributed to a cause 
less decisive, than design; but Montoni did not hesitate an instant 
to interpret it his own way, and, after vainly waiting the Count's 
arrival, for several hours, he gave orders for his people to be in 
readiness to set off at a moment's notice.  By hastening to Udolpho 
he intended to remove Emily from the reach of Morano, as well as to 
break off the affair, without submitting himself to useless 
altercation:  and, if the Count meant what he called honourably, he 
would doubtless follow Emily, and sign the writings in question.  If 
this was done, so little consideration had Montoni for her welfare, 
that he would not have scrupled to sacrifice her to a man of ruined 
fortune, since by that means he could enrich himself; and he forbore 
to mention to her the motive of his sudden journey, lest the hope it 
might revive should render her more intractable, when submission 
would be required.

With these considerations, he had left Venice; and, with others 
totally different, Morano had, soon after, pursued his steps across 
the rugged Apennines.  When his arrival was announced at the castle, 
Montoni did not believe, that he would have presumed to shew himself, 
unless he had meant to fulfil his engagement, and he, therefore, 
readily admitted him; but the enraged countenance and expressions of 
Morano, as he entered the apartment, instantly undeceived him; and, 
when Montoni had explained, in part, the motives of his abrupt 
departure from Venice, the Count still persisted in demanding Emily, 
and reproaching Montoni, without even naming the former stipulation.

Montoni, at length, weary of the dispute, deferred the settling of it 
till the morrow, and Morano retired with some hope, suggested by 
Montoni's apparent indecision.  When, however, in the silence of his 
own apartment, he began to consider the past conversation, the 
character of Montoni, and some former instances of his duplicity, the 
hope, which he had admitted, vanished, and he determined not to 
neglect the present possibility of obtaining Emily by other means.  
To his confidential valet he told his design of carrying away Emily, 
and sent him back to Montoni's servants to find out one among them, 
who might enable him to execute it.  The choice of this person he 
entrusted to the fellow's own discernment, and not imprudently; for 
he discovered a man, whom Montoni had, on some former occasion, 
treated harshly, and who was now ready to betray him.  This man 
conducted Cesario round the castle, through a private passage, to the 
stair-case, that led to Emily's chamber; then shewed him a short way 
out of the building, and afterwards procured him the keys, that would 
secure his retreat.  The man was well rewarded for his trouble; how 
the Count was rewarded for his treachery, had already appeared.

Meanwhile, old Carlo had overheard two of Morano's servants, who had 
been ordered to be in waiting with the carriage, beyond the castle 
walls, expressing their surprise at their master's sudden, and secret 
departure, for the valet had entrusted them with no more of Morano's 
designs, than it was necessary for them to execute.  They, however, 
indulged themselves in surmises, and in expressing them to each 
other; and from these Carlo had drawn a just conclusion.  But, before 
he ventured to disclose his apprehensions to Montoni, he endeavoured 
to obtain further confirmation of them, and, for this purpose, placed 
himself, with one of his fellow-servants, at the door of Emily's 
apartment, that opened upon the corridor.  He did not watch long in 
vain, though the growling of the dog had once nearly betrayed him.  
When he was convinced, that Morano was in the room, and had listened 
long enough to his conversation, to understand his scheme, he 
immediately alarmed Montoni, and thus rescued Emily from the designs 
of the Count.

Montoni, on the following morning, appeared as usual, except that he 
wore his wounded arm in a sling; he went out upon the ramparts; 
overlooked the men employed in repairing them; gave orders for 
additional workmen, and then came into the castle to give audience to 
several persons, who were just arrived, and who were shewn into a 
private apartment, where he communicated with them, for near an hour.  
Carlo was then summoned, and ordered to conduct the strangers to a 
part of the castle, which, in former times, had been occupied by the 
upper servants of the family, and to provide them with every 
necessary refreshment.--When he had done this, he was bidden to 
return to his master.

Meanwhile, the Count remained in a cottage in the skirts of the woods 
below, suffering under bodily and mental pain, and meditating deep 
revenge against Montoni.  His servant, whom he had dispatched for a 
surgeon to the nearest town, which was, however, at a considerable 
distance, did not return till the following day, when, his wounds 
being examined and dressed, the practitioner refused to deliver any 
positive opinion, concerning the degree of danger attending them; but 
giving his patient a composing draught and ordering him to be quiet, 
remained at the cottage to watch the event.

Emily, for the remainder of the late eventful night, had been 
suffered to sleep, undisturbed; and, when her mind recovered from the 
confusion of slumber, and she remembered, that she was now released 
from the addresses of Count Morano, her spirits were suddenly 
relieved from a part of the terrible anxiety, that had long oppressed 
them; that which remained, arose chiefly from a recollection of 
Morano's assertions, concerning the schemes of Montoni.  He had said, 
that plans of the latter, concerning Emily, were insearchable, yet 
that he knew them to be terrible.  At the time he uttered this, she 
almost believed it to be designed for the purpose of prevailing with 
her to throw herself into his protection, and she still thought it 
might be chiefly so accounted for; but his assertions had left an 
impression on her mind, which a consideration of the character and 
former conduct of Montoni did not contribute to efface.  She, 
however, checked her propensity to anticipate evil; and, determined 
to enjoy this respite from actual misfortune, tried to dismiss 
thought, took her instruments for drawing, and placed herself at a 
window, to select into a landscape some features of the scenery 
without.

As she was thus employed, she saw, walking on the rampart below, the 
men, who had so lately arrived at the castle.  The sight of strangers 
surprised her, but still more, of strangers such as these.  There was 
a singularity in their dress, and a certain fierceness in their air, 
that fixed all her attention.  She withdrew from the casement, while 
they passed, but soon returned to observe them further.  Their 
figures seemed so well suited to the wildness of the surrounding 
objects, that, as they stood surveying the castle, she sketched them 
for banditti, amid the mountain-view of her picture, when she had 
finished which, she was surprised to observe the spirit of her group.  
But she had copied from nature.

Carlo, when he had placed refreshment before these men in the 
apartment assigned to them, returned, as he was ordered, to Montoni, 
who was anxious to discover by what servant the keys of the castle 
had been delivered to Morano, on the preceding night.  But this man, 
though he was too faithful to his master quietly to see him injured, 
would not betray a fellow-servant even to justice; he, therefore, 
pretended to be ignorant who it was, that had conspired with Count 
Morano, and related, as before, that he had only overheard some of 
the strangers describing the plot.

Montoni's suspicions naturally fell upon the porter, whom he ordered 
now to attend.  Carlo hesitated, and then with slow steps went to 
seek him.

Barnardine, the porter, denied the accusation with a countenance so 
steady and undaunted, that Montoni could scarcely believe him guilty, 
though he knew not how to think him innocent.  At length, the man was 
dismissed from his presence, and, though the real offender, escaped 
detection.

Montoni then went to his wife's apartment, whither Emily followed 
soon after, but, finding them in high dispute, was instantly leaving 
the room, when her aunt called her back, and desired her to stay.--
'You shall be a witness,' said she, 'of my opposition.  Now, sir, 
repeat the command, I have so often refused to obey.'

Montoni turned, with a stern countenance, to Emily, and bade her quit 
the apartment, while his wife persisted in desiring, that she would 
stay.  Emily was eager to escape from this scene of contention, and 
anxious, also, to serve her aunt; but she despaired of conciliating 
Montoni, in whose eyes the rising tempest of his soul flashed 
terribly.

'Leave the room,' said he, in a voice of thunder.  Emily obeyed, and, 
walking down to the rampart, which the strangers had now left, 
continued to meditate on the unhappy marriage of her father's sister, 
and on her own desolate situation, occasioned by the ridiculous 
imprudence of her, whom she had always wished to respect and love.  
Madame Montoni's conduct had, indeed, rendered it impossible for 
Emily to do either; but her gentle heart was touched by her distress, 
and, in the pity thus awakened, she forgot the injurious treatment 
she had received from her.

As she sauntered on the rampart, Annette appeared at the hall door, 
looked cautiously round, and then advanced to meet her.

'Dear ma'amselle, I have been looking for you all over the castle,' 
said she.  'If you will step this way, I will shew you a picture.'

'A picture!' exclaimed Emily, and shuddered.

'Yes, ma'am, a picture of the late lady of this place.  Old Carlo 
just now told me it was her, and I thought you would be curious to 
see it.  As to my lady, you know, ma'amselle, one cannot talk about 
such things to her.'--

'And so,' said Emily smilingly, 'as you must talk of them to 
somebody--'

'Why, yes, ma'amselle; what can one do in such a place as this, if 
one must not talk?  If I was in a dungeon, if they would let me talk-
-it would be some comfort; nay, I would talk, if it was only to the 
walls.  But come, ma'amselle, we lose time--let me shew you to the 
picture.'

'Is it veiled?' said Emily, pausing.

'Dear ma'amselle!' said Annette, fixing her eyes on Emily's face, 
'what makes you look so pale?--are you ill?'

'No, Annette, I am well enough, but I have no desire to see this 
picture; return into the hall.'

'What! ma'am, not to see the lady of this castle?' said the girl--
'the lady, who disappeared to strangely?  Well! now, I would have run 
to the furthest mountain we can see, yonder, to have got a sight of 
such a picture; and, to speak my mind, that strange story is all, 
that makes me care about this old castle, though it makes me thrill 
all over, as it were, whenever I think of it.'

'Yes, Annette, you love the wonderful; but do you know, that, unless 
you guard against this inclination, it will lead you into all the 
misery of superstition?'

Annette might have smiled in her turn, at this sage observation of 
Emily, who could tremble with ideal terrors, as much as herself, and 
listen almost as eagerly to the recital of a mysterious story.  
Annette urged her request.

'Are you sure it is a picture?' said Emily, 'Have you seen it?--Is it 
veiled?'

'Holy Maria! ma'amselle, yes, no, yes.  I am sure it is a picture--I 
have seen it, and it is not veiled!'

The tone and look of surprise, with which this was uttered, recalled 
Emily's prudence; who concealed her emotion under a smile, and bade 
Annette lead her to the picture.  It was in an obscure chamber, 
adjoining that part of the castle, allotted to the servants.  Several 
other portraits hung on the walls, covered, like this, with dust and 
cobweb.

'That is it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, in a low voice, and pointing.  
Emily advanced, and surveyed the picture.  It represented a lady in 
the flower of youth and beauty; her features were handsome and noble, 
full of strong expression, but had little of the captivating 
sweetness, that Emily had looked for, and still less of the pensive 
mildness she loved.  It was a countenance, which spoke the language 
of passion, rather than that of sentiment; a haughty impatience of 
misfortune--not the placid melancholy of a spirit injured, yet 
resigned.

'How many years have passed, since this lady disappeared, Annette?' 
said Emily.

'Twenty years, ma'amselle, or thereabout, as they tell me; I know it 
is a long while ago.'  Emily continued to gaze upon the portrait.

'I think,' resumed Annette, 'the Signor would do well to hang it in a 
better place, than this old chamber.  Now, in my mind, he ought to 
place the picture of a lady, who gave him all these riches, in the 
handsomest room in the castle.  But he may have good reasons for what 
he does:  and some people do say that he has lost his riches, as well 
as his gratitude.  But hush, ma'am, not a word!' added Annette, 
laying her finger on her lips.  Emily was too much absorbed in 
thought, to hear what she said.

''Tis a handsome lady, I am sure,' continued Annette:  'the Signor 
need not be ashamed to put her in the great apartment, where the 
veiled picture hangs.'  Emily turned round.  'But for that matter, 
she would be as little seen there, as here, for the door is always 
locked, I find.'

'Let us leave this chamber,' said Emily:  'and let me caution you 
again, Annette; be guarded in your conversation, and never tell, that 
you know any thing of that picture.'

'Holy Mother!' exclaimed Annette, 'it is no secret; why all the 
servants have seen it already!'

Emily started.  'How is this?' said she--'Have seen it!  When?--how?'

'Dear, ma'amselle, there is nothing surprising in that; we had all a 
little more CURIOUSNESS than you had.'

'I thought you told me, the door was kept locked?' said Emily.

'If that was the case, ma'amselle,' replied Annette, looking about 
her, 'how could we get here?'

'Oh, you mean THIS picture,' said Emily, with returning calmness.  
'Well, Annette, here is nothing more to engage my attention; we will 
go.'

Emily, as she passed to her own apartment, saw Montoni go down to the 
hall, and she turned into her aunt's dressing-room, whom she found 
weeping and alone, grief and resentment struggling on her 
countenance.  Pride had hitherto restrained complaint.  Judging of 
Emily's disposition from her own, and from a consciousness of what 
her treatment of her deserved, she had believed, that her griefs 
would be cause of triumph to her niece, rather than of sympathy; that 
she would despise, not pity her.  But she knew not the tenderness and 
benevolence of Emily's heart, that had always taught her to forget 
her own injuries in the misfortunes of her enemy.  The sufferings of 
others, whoever they might be, called forth her ready compassion, 
which dissipated at once every obscuring cloud to goodness, that 
passion or prejudice might have raised in her mind.

Madame Montoni's sufferings, at length, rose above her pride, and, 
when Emily had before entered the room, she would have told them all, 
had not her husband prevented her; now that she was no longer 
restrained by his presence, she poured forth all her complaints to 
her niece.

'O Emily!' she exclaimed, 'I am the most wretched of women--I am 
indeed cruelly treated!  Who, with my prospects of happiness, could 
have foreseen such a wretched fate as this?--who could have thought, 
when I married such a man as the Signor, I should ever have to bewail 
my lot?  But there is no judging what is for the best--there is no 
knowing what is for our good!  The most flattering prospects often 
change--the best judgments may be deceived--who could have foreseen, 
when I married the Signor, that I should ever repent my GENEROSITY?'

Emily thought she might have foreseen it, but this was not a thought 
of triumph.  She placed herself in a chair near her aunt, took her 
hand, and, with one of those looks of soft compassion, which might 
characterize the countenance of a guardian angel, spoke to her in the 
tenderest accents.  But these did not sooth Madame Montoni, whom 
impatience to talk made unwilling to listen.  She wanted to complain, 
not to be consoled; and it was by exclamations of complaint only, 
that Emily learned the particular circumstances of her affliction.

'Ungrateful man!' said Madame Montoni, 'he has deceived me in every 
respect; and now he has taken me from my country and friends, to shut 
me up in this old castle; and, here he thinks he can compel me to do 
whatever he designs!  But he shall find himself mistaken, he shall 
find that no threats can alter--But who would have believed! who 
would have supposed, that a man of his family and apparent wealth had 
absolutely no fortune?--no, scarcely a sequin of his own!  I did all 
for the best; I thought he was a man of consequence, of great 
property, or I am sure I would never have married him,--ungrateful, 
artful man!'  She paused to take breath.

'Dear Madam, be composed,' said Emily:  'the Signor may not be so 
rich as you had reason to expect, but surely he cannot be very poor, 
since this castle and the mansion at Venice are his.  May I ask what 
are the circumstances, that particularly affect you?'

'What are the circumstances!' exclaimed Madame Montoni with 
resentment:  'why is it not sufficient, that he had long ago ruined 
his own fortune by play, and that he has since lost what I brought 
him--and that now he would compel me to sign away my settlement (it 
was well I had the chief of my property settled on myself!) that he 
may lose this also, or throw it away in wild schemes, which nobody 
can understand but himself?  And, and--is not all this sufficient?'

'It is, indeed,' said Emily, 'but you must recollect, dear madam, 
that I knew nothing of all this.'

'Well, and is it not sufficient,' rejoined her aunt, 'that he is also 
absolutely ruined, that he is sunk deeply in debt, and that neither 
this castle, or the mansion at Venice, is his own, if all his debts, 
honourable and dishonourable, were paid!'

'I am shocked by what you tell me, madam,' said Emily.

'And is it not enough,' interrupted Madame Montoni, 'that he has 
treated me with neglect, with cruelty, because I refused to 
relinquish my settlements, and, instead of being frightened by his 
menaces, resolutely defied him, and upbraided him with his shameful 
conduct?  But I bore all meekly,--you know, niece, I never uttered a 
word of complaint, till now; no!  That such a disposition as mine 
should be so imposed upon!  That I, whose only faults are too much 
kindness, too much generosity, should be chained for life to such a 
vile, deceitful, cruel monster!'

Want of breath compelled Madame Montoni to stop.  If any thing could 
have made Emily smile in these moments, it would have been this 
speech of her aunt, delivered in a voice very little below a scream, 
and with a vehemence of gesticulation and of countenance, that turned 
the whole into burlesque.  Emily saw, that her misfortunes did not 
admit of real consolation, and, contemning the commonplace terms of 
superficial comfort, she was silent; while Madame Montoni, jealous of 
her own consequence, mistook this for the silence of indifference, or 
of contempt, and reproached her with want of duty and feeling.

'O! I suspected what all this boasted sensibility would prove to be!' 
rejoined she; 'I thought it would not teach you to feel either duty, 
or affection, for your relations, who have treated you like their own 
daughter!'

'Pardon me, madam,' said Emily, mildly, 'it is not natural to me to 
boast, and if it was, I am sure I would not boast of sensibility--a 
quality, perhaps, more to be feared, than desired.'

'Well, well, niece, I will not dispute with you.  But, as I said, 
Montoni threatens me with violence, if I any longer refuse to sign 
away my settlements, and this was the subject of our contest, when 
you came into the room before.  Now, I am determined no power on 
earth shall make me do this.  Neither will I bear all this tamely.  
He shall hear his true character from me; I will tell him all he 
deserves, in spite of his threats and cruel treatment.'

Emily seized a pause of Madame Montoni's voice, to speak.  'Dear 
madam,' said she, 'but will not this serve to irritate the Signor 
unnecessarily? will it not provoke the harsh treatment you dread?'

'I do not care,' replied Madame Montoni, 'it does not signify:  I 
will not submit to such usage.  You would have me give up my 
settlements, too, I suppose!'

'No, madam, I do not exactly mean that.'

'What is it you do mean then?'

'You spoke of reproaching the Signor,'--said Emily, with hesitation.  
'Why, does he not deserve reproaches?' said her aunt.

'Certainly he does; but will it be prudent in you, madam, to make 
them?'

'Prudent!' exclaimed Madame Montoni.  'Is this a time to talk of 
prudence, when one is threatened with all sorts of violence?'

'It is to avoid that violence, that prudence is necessary.' said 
Emily.

'Of prudence!' continued Madame Montoni, without attending to her, 
'of prudence towards a man, who does not scruple to break all the 
common ties of humanity in his conduct to me!  And is it for me to 
consider prudence in my behaviour towards him!  I am not so mean.'

'It is for your own sake, not for the Signor's, madam,' said Emily 
modestly, 'that you should consult prudence.  Your reproaches, 
however just, cannot punish him, but they may provoke him to further 
violence against you.'

'What! would you have me submit, then, to whatever he commands--would 
you have me kneel down at his feet, and thank him for his cruelties?  
Would you have me give up my settlements?'

'How much you mistake me, madam!' said Emily, 'I am unequal to advise 
you on a point so important as the last:  but you will pardon me for 
saying, that, if you consult your own peace, you will try to 
conciliate Signor Montoni, rather than to irritate him by 
reproaches.'

'Conciliate indeed!  I tell you, niece, it is utterly impossible; I 
disdain to attempt it.'

Emily was shocked to observe the perverted understanding and 
obstinate temper of Madame Montoni; but, not less grieved for her 
sufferings, she looked round for some alleviating circumstance to 
offer her.  'Your situation is, perhaps, not so desperate, dear 
madam,' said Emily, 'as you may imagine.  The Signor may represent 
his affairs to be worse than they are, for the purpose of pleading a 
stronger necessity for his possession of your settlement.  Besides, 
so long as you keep this, you may look forward to it as a resource, 
at least, that will afford you a competence, should the Signor's 
future conduct compel you to sue for separation.'

Madame Montoni impatiently interrupted her.  'Unfeeling, cruel girl!' 
said she, 'and so you would persuade me, that I have no reason to 
complain; that the Signor is in very flourishing circumstances, that 
my future prospects promise nothing but comfort, and that my griefs 
are as fanciful and romantic as your own!  Is it the way to console 
me, to endeavour to persuade me out of my senses and my feelings, 
because you happen to have no feelings yourself?  I thought I was 
opening my heart to a person, who could sympathize in my distress, 
but I find, that your people of sensibility can feel for nobody but 
themselves!  You may retire to your chamber.'

Emily, without replying, immediately left the room, with a mingled 
emotion of pity and contempt, and hastened to her own, where she 
yielded to the mournful reflections, which a knowledge of her aunt's 
situation had occasioned.  The conversation of the Italian with 
Valancourt, in France, again occurred to her.  His hints, respecting 
the broken fortunes of Montoni, were now completely justified; those, 
also, concerning his character, appeared not less so, though the 
particular circumstances, connected with his fame, to which the 
stranger had alluded, yet remained to be explained.  Notwithstanding, 
that her own observations and the words of Count Morano had convinced 
her, that Montoni's situation was not what it formerly appeared to 
be, the intelligence she had just received from her aunt on this 
point, struck her with all the force of astonishment, which was not 
weakened, when she considered the present style of Montoni's living, 
the number of servants he maintained, and the new expences he was 
incurring, by repairing and fortifying his castle.  Her anxiety for 
her aunt and for herself increased with reflection.  Several 
assertions of Morano, which, on the preceding night, she had believed 
were prompted either by interest, or by resentment, now returned to 
her mind with the strength of truth.  She could not doubt, that 
Montoni had formerly agreed to give her to the Count, for a pecuniary 
reward;--his character, and his distressed circumstances justified 
the belief; these, also, seemed to confirm Morano's assertion, that 
he now designed to dispose of her, more advantageously for himself, 
to a richer suitor.

Amidst the reproaches, which Morano had thrown out against Montoni, 
he had said--he would not quit the castle HE DARED TO CALL HIS, nor 
willingly leave ANOTHER murder on his conscience--hints, which might 
have no other origin than the passion of the moment:  but Emily was 
now inclined to account for them more seriously, and she shuddered to 
think, that she was in the hands of a man, to whom it was even 
possible they could apply.  At length, considering, that reflection 
could neither release her from her melancholy situation, or enable 
her to bear it with greater fortitude, she tried to divert her 
anxiety, and took down from her little library a volume of her 
favourite Ariosto; but his wild imagery and rich invention could not 
long enchant her attention; his spells did not reach her heart, and 
over her sleeping fancy they played, without awakening it.

She now put aside the book, and took her lute, for it was seldom that 
her sufferings refused to yield to the magic of sweet sounds; when 
they did so, she was oppressed by sorrow, that came from excess of 
tenderness and regret; and there were times, when music had increased 
such sorrow to a degree, that was scarcely endurable; when, if it had 
not suddenly ceased, she might have lost her reason.  Such was the 
time, when she mourned for her father, and heard the midnight 
strains, that floated by her window near the convent in Languedoc, on 
the night that followed his death.

She continued to play, till Annette brought dinner into her chamber, 
at which Emily was surprised, and enquired whose order she obeyed.  
'My lady's, ma'amselle,' replied Annette:  'the Signor ordered her 
dinner to be carried to her own apartment, and so she has sent you 
yours.  There have been sad doings between them, worse than ever, I 
think.'

Emily, not appearing to notice what she said, sat down to the little 
table, that was spread for her.  But Annette was not to be silenced 
thus easily.  While she waited, she told of the arrival of the men, 
whom Emily had observed on the ramparts, and expressed much surprise 
at their strange appearance, as well as at the manner, in which they 
had been attended by Montoni's order.  'Do they dine with the Signor, 
then?' said Emily.

'No, ma'amselle, they dined long ago, in an apartment at the north 
end of the castle, but I know not when they are to go, for the Signor 
told old Carlo to see them provided with every thing necessary.  They 
have been walking all about the castle, and asking questions of the 
workmen on the ramparts.  I never saw such strange-looking men in my 
life; I am frightened whenever I see them.'

Emily enquired, if she had heard of Count Morano, and whether he was 
likely to recover:  but Annette only knew, that he was lodged in a 
cottage in the wood below, and that every body said he must die.  
Emily's countenance discovered her emotion.

'Dear ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'to see how young ladies will 
disguise themselves, when they are in love!  I thought you hated the 
Count, or I am sure I would not have told you; and I am sure you have 
cause enough to hate him.'

'I hope I hate nobody,' replied Emily, trying to smile; 'but 
certainly I do not love Count Morano.  I should be shocked to hear of 
any person dying by violent means.'

'Yes, ma'amselle, but it is his own fault.'

Emily looked displeased; and Annette, mistaking the cause of her 
displeasure, immediately began to excuse the Count, in her way.  'To 
be sure, it was very ungenteel behaviour,' said she, 'to break into a 
lady's room, and then, when he found his discoursing was not 
agreeable to her, to refuse to go; and then, when the gentleman of 
the castle comes to desire him to walk about his business--to turn 
round, and draw his sword, and swear he'll run him through the body!-
-To be sure it was very ungenteel behaviour, but then he was 
disguised in love, and so did not know what he was about.'

'Enough of this,' said Emily, who now smiled without an effort; and 
Annette returned to a mention of the disagreement between Montoni, 
and her lady.  'It is nothing new,' said she:  'we saw and heard 
enough of this at Venice, though I never told you of it, ma'amselle.'

'Well, Annette, it was very prudent of you not to mention it then:  
be as prudent now; the subject is an unpleasant one.'

'Ah dear, ma'amselle!--to see now how considerate you can be about 
some folks, who care so little about you!  I cannot bear to see you 
so deceived, and I must tell you.  But it is all for your own good, 
and not to spite my lady, though, to speak truth, I have little 
reason to love her; but--'

'You are not speaking thus of my aunt, I hope, Annette?' said Emily, 
gravely.

'Yes, ma'amselle, but I am, though; and if you knew as much as I do, 
you would not look so angry.  I have often, and often, heard the 
Signor and her talking over your marriage with the Count, and she 
always advised him never to give up to your foolish whims, as she was 
pleased to call them, but to be resolute, and compel you to be 
obedient, whether you would, or no.  And I am sure, my heart has 
ached a thousand times, and I have thought, when she was so unhappy 
herself, she might have felt a little for other people, and--'

'I thank you for your pity, Annette,' said Emily, interrupting her:  
'but my aunt was unhappy then, and that disturbed her temper perhaps, 
or I think--I am sure--You may take away, Annette, I have done.'

'Dear ma'amselle, you have eat nothing at all!  Do try, and take a 
little bit more.  Disturbed her temper truly! why, her temper is 
always disturbed, I think.  And at Tholouse too I have heard my lady 
talking of you and Mons. Valancourt to Madame Merveille and Madame 
Vaison, often and often, in a very ill-natured way, as I thought, 
telling them what a deal of trouble she had to keep you in order, and 
what a fatigue and distress it was to her, and that she believed you 
would run away with Mons. Valancourt, if she was not to watch you 
closely; and that you connived at his coming about the house at 
night, and--'

'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, blushing deeply, 'it is surely 
impossible my aunt could thus have represented me!'

'Indeed, ma'am, I say nothing more than the truth, and not all of 
that.  But I thought, myself, she might have found something better 
to discourse about, than the faults of her own niece, even if you had 
been in fault, ma'amselle; but I did not believe a word of what she 
said.  But my lady does not care what she says against any body, for 
that matter.'

'However that may be, Annette,' interrupted Emily, recovering her 
composure, 'it does not become you to speak of the faults of my aunt 
to me.  I know you have meant well, but--say no more.--I have quite 
dined.'

Annette blushed, looked down, and then began slowly to clear the 
table.

'Is this, then, the reward of my ingenuousness?' said Emily, when she 
was alone; 'the treatment I am to receive from a relation--an aunt--
who ought to have been the guardian, not the slanderer of my 
reputation,--who, as a woman, ought to have respected the delicacy of 
female honour, and, as a relation, should have protected mine!  But, 
to utter falsehoods on so nice a subject--to repay the openness, and, 
I may say with honest pride, the propriety of my conduct, with 
slanders--required a depravity of heart, such as I could scarcely 
have believed existed, such as I weep to find in a relation.  O! what 
a contrast does her character present to that of my beloved father; 
while envy and low cunning form the chief traits of hers, his was 
distinguished by benevolence and philosophic wisdom!  But now, let me 
only remember, if possible, that she is unfortunate.'

Emily threw her veil over her, and went down to walk upon the 
ramparts, the only walk, indeed, which was open to her, though she 
often wished, that she might be permitted to ramble among the woods 
below, and still more, that she might sometimes explore the sublime 
scenes of the surrounding country.  But, as Montoni would not suffer 
her to pass the gates of the castle, she tried to be contented with 
the romantic views she beheld from the walls.  The peasants, who had 
been employed on the fortifications, had left their work, and the 
ramparts were silent and solitary.  Their lonely appearance, together 
with the gloom of a lowering sky, assisted the musings of her mind, 
and threw over it a kind of melancholy tranquillity, such as she 
often loved to indulge.  She turned to observe a fine effect of the 
sun, as his rays, suddenly streaming from behind a heavy cloud, 
lighted up the west towers of the castle, while the rest of the 
edifice was in deep shade, except, that, through a lofty gothic arch, 
adjoining the tower, which led to another terrace, the beams darted 
in full splendour, and shewed the three strangers she had observed in 
the morning.  Perceiving them, she started, and a momentary fear came 
over her, as she looked up the long rampart, and saw no other 
persons.  While she hesitated, they approached.  The gate at the end 
of the terrace, whither they were advancing, she knew, was always 
locked, and she could not depart by the opposite extremity, without 
meeting them; but, before she passed them, she hastily drew a thin 
veil over her face, which did, indeed, but ill conceal her beauty.  
They looked earnestly at her, and spoke to each other in bad Italian, 
of which she caught only a few words; but the fierceness of their 
countenances, now that she was near enough to discriminate them, 
struck her yet more than the wild singularity of their air and dress 
had formerly done.  It was the countenance and figure of him, who 
walked between the other two, that chiefly seized her attention, 
which expressed a sullen haughtiness and a kind of dark watchful 
villany, that gave a thrill of horror to her heart.  All this was so 
legibly written on his features, as to be seen by a single glance, 
for she passed the group swiftly, and her timid eyes scarcely rested 
on them a moment.  Having reached the terrace, she stopped, and 
perceived the strangers standing in the shadow of one of the turrets, 
gazing after her, and seemingly, by their action, in earnest 
conversation.  She immediately left the rampart, and retired to her 
apartment.

In the evening, Montoni sat late, carousing with his guests in the 
cedar chamber.  His recent triumph over Count Morano, or, perhaps, 
some other circumstance, contributed to elevate his spirits to an 
unusual height.  He filled the goblet often, and gave a loose to 
merriment and talk.  The gaiety of Cavigni, on the contrary, was 
somewhat clouded by anxiety.  He kept a watchful eye upon Verezzi, 
whom, with the utmost difficulty, he had hitherto restrained from 
exasperating Montoni further against Morano, by a mention of his late 
taunting words.

One of the company exultingly recurred to the event of the preceding 
evening.  Verezzi's eyes sparkled.  The mention of Morano led to that 
of Emily, of whom they were all profuse in the praise, except 
Montoni, who sat silent, and then interrupted the subject.

When the servants had withdrawn, Montoni and his friends entered into 
close conversation, which was sometimes checked by the irascible 
temper of Verezzi, but in which Montoni displayed his conscious 
superiority, by that decisive look and manner, which always 
accompanied the vigour of his thought, and to which most of his 
companions submitted, as to a power, that they had no right to 
question, though of each other's self-importance they were jealously 
scrupulous.  Amidst this conversation, one of them imprudently 
introduced again the name of Morano; and Verezzi, now more heated by 
wine, disregarded the expressive looks of Cavigni, and gave some dark 
hints of what had passed on the preceding night.  These, however, 
Montoni did not appear to understand, for he continued silent in his 
chair, without discovering any emotion, while, the choler of Verezzi 
increasing with the apparent insensibility of Montoni, he at length 
told the suggestion of Morano, that this castle did not lawfully 
belong to him, and that he would not willingly leave another murder 
on his conscience.

'Am I to be insulted at my own table, and by my own friends?' said 
Montoni, with a countenance pale in anger.  'Why are the words of 
that madman repeated to me?'  Verezzi, who had expected to hear 
Montoni's indignation poured forth against Morano, and answered by 
thanks to himself, looked with astonishment at Cavigni, who enjoyed 
his confusion.  'Can you be weak enough to credit the assertions of a 
madman?' rejoined Montoni, 'or, what is the same thing, a man 
possessed by the spirit of vengeance?  But he has succeeded too well; 
you believe what he said.'

'Signor,' said Verezzi, 'we believe only what we know.'--'How!' 
interrupted Montoni, sternly:  'produce your proof.'

'We believe only what we know,' repeated Verezzi, 'and we know 
nothing of what Morano asserts.'  Montoni seemed to recover himself.  
'I am hasty, my friends,' said he, 'with respect to my honour; no man 
shall question it with impunity--you did not mean to question it.  
These foolish words are not worth your remembrance, or my resentment.  
Verezzi, here is to your first exploit.'

'Success to your first exploit,' re-echoed the whole company.

'Noble Signor,' replied Verezzi, glad to find he had escaped 
Montoni's resentment, 'with my good will, you shall build your 
ramparts of gold.'  

'Pass the goblet,' cried Montoni.  'We will drink to Signora St. 
Aubert,' said Cavigni.  'By your leave we will first drink to the 
lady of the castle.' said Bertolini.--Montoni was silent.  'To the 
lady of the castle,' said his guests.  He bowed his head.

'It much surprises me, Signor,' said Bertolini, 'that you have so 
long neglected this castle; it is a noble edifice.'

'It suits our purpose,' replied Montoni, 'and IS a noble edifice.  
You know not, it seems, by what mischance it came to me.'

'It was a lucky mischance, be it what it may, Signor,' replied 
Bertolini, smiling.  'I would, that one so lucky had befallen me.'

Montoni looked gravely at him.  'If you will attend to what I say,' 
he resumed, 'you shall hear the story.'

The countenances of Bertolini and Verezzi expressed something more 
than curiosity; Cavigni, who seemed to feel none, had probably heard 
the relation before.

'It is now near twenty years,' said Montoni, 'since this castle came 
into my possession.  I inherit it by the female line.  The lady, my 
predecessor, was only distantly related to me; I am the last of her 
family.  She was beautiful and rich; I wooed her; but her heart was 
fixed upon another, and she rejected me.  It is probable, however, 
that she was herself rejected of the person, whoever he might be, on 
whom she bestowed her favour, for a deep and settled melancholy took 
possession of her; and I have reason to believe she put a period to 
her own life.  I was not at the castle at the time; but, as there are 
some singular and mysterious circumstances attending that event, I 
shall repeat them.'

'Repeat them!' said a voice.

Montoni was silent; the guests looked at each other, to know who 
spoke; but they perceived, that each was making the same enquiry.  
Montoni, at length, recovered himself.  'We are overheard,' said he:  
'we will finish this subject another time.  Pass the goblet.'

The cavaliers looked round the wide chamber.

'Here is no person, but ourselves,' said Verezzi:  'pray, Signor, 
proceed.'

'Did you hear any thing?' said Montoni.

'We did,' said Bertolini.

'It could be only fancy,' said Verezzi, looking round again.  'We see 
no person besides ourselves; and the sound I thought I heard seemed 
within the room.  Pray, Signor, go on.'

Montoni paused a moment, and then proceeded in a lowered voice, while 
the cavaliers drew nearer to attend.

'Ye are to know, Signors, that the Lady Laurentini had for some 
months shewn symptoms of a dejected mind, nay, of a disturbed 
imagination.  Her mood was very unequal; sometimes she was sunk in 
calm melancholy, and, at others, as I have been told, she betrayed 
all the symptoms of frantic madness.  It was one night in the month 
of October, after she had recovered from one of those fits of excess, 
and had sunk again into her usual melancholy, that she retired alone 
to her chamber, and forbade all interruption.  It was the chamber at 
the end of the corridor, Signors, where we had the affray, last 
night.  From that hour, she was seen no more.'

'How! seen no more!' said Bertolini, 'was not her body found in the 
chamber?'

'Were her remains never found?' cried the rest of the company all 
together.

'Never!' replied Montoni.

'What reasons were there to suppose she destroyed herself, then?' 
said Bertolini.--'Aye, what reasons?' said Verezzi.--'How happened 
it, that her remains were never found?  Although she killed herself, 
she could not bury herself.'  Montoni looked indignantly at Verezzi, 
who began to apologize.  'Your pardon, Signor,' said he:  'I did not 
consider, that the lady was your relative, when I spoke of her so 
lightly.'

Montoni accepted the apology.

'But the Signor will oblige us with the reasons, which urged him to 
believe, that the lady committed suicide.'

'Those I will explain hereafter,' said Montoni:  'at present let me 
relate a most extraordinary circumstance.  This conversation goes no 
further, Signors.  Listen, then, to what I am going to say.'

'Listen!' said a voice.

They were all again silent, and the countenance of Montoni changed.  
'This is no illusion of the fancy,' said Cavigni, at length breaking 
the profound silence.--'No,' said Bertolini; 'I heard it myself, now.  
Yet here is no person in the room but ourselves!'

'This is very extraordinary,' said Montoni, suddenly rising.  'This 
is not to be borne; here is some deception, some trick.  I will know 
what it means.'

All the company rose from their chairs in confusion.

'It is very odd!' said Bertolini.  'Here is really no stranger in the 
room.  If it is a trick, Signor, you will do well to punish the 
author of it severely.'

'A trick! what else can it be?' said Cavigni, affecting a laugh.

The servants were now summoned, and the chamber was searched, but no 
person was found.  The surprise and consternation of the company 
increased.  Montoni was discomposed.  'We will leave this room,' said 
he, 'and the subject of our conversation also; it is too solemn.'  
His guests were equally ready to quit the apartment; but the subject 
had roused their curiosity, and they entreated Montoni to withdraw to 
another chamber, and finish it; no entreaties could, however, prevail 
with him.  Notwithstanding his efforts to appear at ease, he was 
visibly and greatly disordered.

'Why, Signor, you are not superstitious,' cried Verezzi, jeeringly; 
'you, who have so often laughed at the credulity of others!'

'I am not superstitious,' replied Montoni, regarding him with stern 
displeasure, 'though I know how to despise the common-place 
sentences, which are frequently uttered against superstition.  I will 
enquire further into this affair.'  He then left the room; and his 
guests, separating for the night, retired to their respective 
apartments.



CHAPTER VIII


 He wears the rose of youth upon his cheek.
     SHAKESPEARE

We now return to Valancourt, who, it may be remembered, remained at 
Tholouse, some time after the departure of Emily, restless and 
miserable.  Each morrow that approached, he designed should carry him 
from thence; yet to-morrow and to-morrow came, and still saw him 
lingering in the scene of his former happiness.  He could not 
immediately tear himself from the spot, where he had been accustomed 
to converse with Emily, or from the objects they had viewed together, 
which appeared to him memorials of her affection, as well as a kind 
of surety for its faithfulness; and, next to the pain of bidding her 
adieu, was that of leaving the scenes which so powerfully awakened 
her image.  Sometimes he had bribed a servant, who had been left in 
the care of Madame Montoni's chateau, to permit him to visit the 
gardens, and there he would wander, for hours together, rapt in a 
melancholy, not unpleasing.  The terrace, and the pavilion at the end 
of it, where he had taken leave of Emily, on the eve of her departure 
from Tholouse, were his most favourite haunts.  There, as he walked, 
or leaned from the window of the building, he would endeavour to 
recollect all she had said, on that night; to catch the tones of her 
voice, as they faintly vibrated on his memory, and to remember the 
exact expression of her countenance, which sometimes came suddenly to 
his fancy, like a vision; that beautiful countenance, which awakened, 
as by instantaneous magic, all the tenderness of his heart, and 
seemed to tell with irresistible eloquence--that he had lost her 
forever!  At these moments, his hurried steps would have discovered 
to a spectator the despair of his heart.  The character of Montoni, 
such as he had received from hints, and such as his fears represented 
it, would rise to his view, together with all the dangers it seemed 
to threaten to Emily and to his love.  He blamed himself, that he had 
not urged these more forcibly to her, while it might have been in his 
power to detain her, and that he had suffered an absurd and criminal 
delicacy, as he termed it, to conquer so soon the reasonable 
arguments he had opposed to this journey.  Any evil, that might have 
attended their marriage, seemed so inferior to those, which now 
threatened their love, or even to the sufferings, that absence 
occasioned, that he wondered how he could have ceased to urge his 
suit, till he had convinced her of its propriety; and he would 
certainly now have followed her to Italy, if he could have been 
spared from his regiment for so long a journey.  His regiment, 
indeed, soon reminded him, that he had other duties to attend, than 
those of love.

A short time after his arrival at his brother's house, he was 
summoned to join his brother officers, and he accompanied a battalion 
to Paris; where a scene of novelty and gaiety opened upon him, such 
as, till then, he had only a faint idea of.  But gaiety disgusted, 
and company fatigued, his sick mind; and he became an object of 
unceasing raillery to his companions, from whom, whenever he could 
steal an opportunity, he escaped, to think of Emily.  The scenes 
around him, however, and the company with whom he was obliged to 
mingle, engaged his attention, though they failed to amuse his fancy, 
and thus gradually weakened the habit of yielding to lamentation, 
till it appeared less a duty to his love to indulge it.  Among his 
brother-officers were many, who added to the ordinary character of a 
French soldier's gaiety some of those fascinating qualities, which 
too frequently throw a veil over folly, and sometimes even soften the 
features of vice into smiles.  To these men the reserved and 
thoughtful manners of Valancourt were a kind of tacit censure on 
their own, for which they rallied him when present, and plotted 
against him when absent; they gloried in the thought of reducing him 
to their own level, and, considering it to be a spirited frolic, 
determined to accomplish it.

Valancourt was a stranger to the gradual progress of scheme and 
intrigue, against which he could not be on his guard.  He had not 
been accustomed to receive ridicule, and he could ill endure its 
sting; he resented it, and this only drew upon him a louder laugh.  
To escape from such scenes, he fled into solitude, and there the 
image of Emily met him, and revived the pangs of love and despair.  
He then sought to renew those tasteful studies, which had been the 
delight of his early years; but his mind had lost the tranquillity, 
which is necessary for their enjoyment.  To forget himself and the 
grief and anxiety, which the idea of her recalled, he would quit his 
solitude, and again mingle in the crowd--glad of a temporary relief, 
and rejoicing to snatch amusement for the moment.

Thus passed weeks after weeks, time gradually softening his sorrow, 
and habit strengthening his desire of amusement, till the scenes 
around him seemed to awaken into a new character, and Valancourt, to 
have fallen among them from the clouds.

His figure and address made him a welcome visitor, wherever he had 
been introduced, and he soon frequented the most gay and fashionable 
circles of Paris.  Among these, was the assembly of the Countess 
Lacleur, a woman of eminent beauty and captivating manners.  She had 
passed the spring of youth, but her wit prolonged the triumph of its 
reign, and they mutually assisted the fame of each other; for those, 
who were charmed by her loveliness, spoke with enthusiasm of her 
talents; and others, who admired her playful imagination, declared, 
that her personal graces were unrivalled.  But her imagination was 
merely playful, and her wit, if such it could be called, was 
brilliant, rather than just; it dazzled, and its fallacy escaped the 
detection of the moment; for the accents, in which she pronounced it, 
and the smile, that accompanied them, were a spell upon the judgment 
of the auditors.  Her petits soupers were the most tasteful of any in 
Paris, and were frequented by many of the second class of literati.  
She was fond of music, was herself a scientific performer, and had 
frequently concerts at her house.  Valancourt, who passionately loved 
music, and who sometimes assisted at these concerts, admired her 
execution, but remembered with a sigh the eloquent simplicity of 
Emily's songs and the natural expression of her manner, which waited 
not to be approved by the judgment, but found their way at once to 
the heart.

Madame La Comtesse had often deep play at her house, which she 
affected to restrain, but secretly encouraged; and it was well known 
among her friends, that the splendour of her establishment was 
chiefly supplied from the profits of her tables.  But her petits 
soupers were the most charming imaginable!  Here were all the 
delicacies of the four quarters of the world, all the wit and the 
lighter efforts of genius, all the graces of conversation--the smiles 
of beauty, and the charm of music; and Valancourt passed his 
pleasantest, as well as most dangerous hours in these parties.

His brother, who remained with his family in Gascony, had contented 
himself with giving him letters of introduction to such of his 
relations, residing at Paris, as the latter was not already known to.  
All these were persons of some distinction; and, as neither the 
person, mind, or manners of Valancourt the younger threatened to 
disgrace their alliance, they received him with as much kindness as 
their nature, hardened by uninterrupted prosperity, would admit of; 
but their attentions did not extend to acts of real friendship; for 
they were too much occupied by their own pursuits, to feel any 
interest in his; and thus he was set down in the midst of Paris, in 
the pride of youth, with an open, unsuspicious temper and ardent 
affections, without one friend, to warn him of the dangers, to which 
he was exposed.  Emily, who, had she been present, would have saved 
him from these evils by awakening his heart, and engaging him in 
worthy pursuits, now only increased his danger;--it was to lose the 
grief, which the remembrance of her occasioned, that he first sought 
amusement; and for this end he pursued it, till habit made it an 
object of abstract interest.

There was also a Marchioness Champfort, a young widow, at whose 
assemblies he passed much of his time.  She was handsome, still more 
artful, gay and fond of intrigue.  The society, which she drew round 
her, was less elegant and more vicious, than that of the Countess 
Lacleur:  but, as she had address enough to throw a veil, though but 
a slight one, over the worst part of her character, she was still 
visited by many persons of what is called distinction.  Valancourt 
was introduced to her parties by two of his brother officers, whose 
late ridicule he had now forgiven so far, that he could sometimes 
join in the laugh, which a mention of his former manners would renew.

The gaiety of the most splendid court in Europe, the magnificence of 
the palaces, entertainments, and equipages, that surrounded him--all 
conspired to dazzle his imagination, and re-animate his spirits, and 
the example and maxims of his military associates to delude his mind.  
Emily's image, indeed, still lived there; but it was no longer the 
friend, the monitor, that saved him from himself, and to which he 
retired to weep the sweet, yet melancholy, tears of tenderness.  When 
he had recourse to it, it assumed a countenance of mild reproach, 
that wrung his soul, and called forth tears of unmixed misery; his 
only escape from which was to forget the object of it, and he 
endeavoured, therefore, to think of Emily as seldom as he could.

Thus dangerously circumstanced was Valancourt, at the time, when 
Emily was suffering at Venice, from the persecuting addresses of 
Count Morano, and the unjust authority of Montoni; at which period we 
leave him.



CHAPTER IX


 The image of a wicked, heinous fault
 Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his
 Does shew the mood of a much-troubled breast.
     KING JOHN

Leaving the gay scenes of Paris, we return to those of the gloomy 
Apennine, where Emily's thoughts were still faithful to Valancourt.  
Looking to him as to her only hope, she recollected, with jealous 
exactness, every assurance and every proof she had witnessed of his 
affection; read again and again the letters she had received from 
him; weighed, with intense anxiety, the force of every word, that 
spoke of his attachment; and dried her tears, as she trusted in his 
truth.

Montoni, meanwhile, had made strict enquiry concerning the strange 
circumstance of his alarm, without obtaining information; and was, at 
length, obliged to account for it by the reasonable supposition, that 
it was a mischievous trick played off by one of his domestics.  His 
disagreements with Madame Montoni, on the subject of her settlements, 
were now more frequent than ever; he even confined her entirely to 
her own apartment, and did not scruple to threaten her with much 
greater severity, should she persevere in a refusal.

Reason, had she consulted it, would now have perplexed her in the 
choice of a conduct to be adopted.  It would have pointed out the 
danger of irritating by further opposition a man, such as Montoni had 
proved himself to be, and to whose power she had so entirely 
committed herself; and it would also have told her, of what extreme 
importance to her future comfort it was, to reserve for herself those 
possessions, which would enable her to live independently of Montoni, 
should she ever escape from his immediate controul.  But she was 
directed by a more decisive guide than reason--the spirit of revenge, 
which urged her to oppose violence to violence, and obstinacy to 
obstinacy.

Wholly confined to the solitude of her apartment, she was now reduced 
to solicit the society she had lately rejected; for Emily was the 
only person, except Annette, with whom she was permitted to converse.

Generously anxious for her peace, Emily, therefore, tried to 
persuade, when she could not convince, and sought by every gentle 
means to induce her to forbear that asperity of reply, which so 
greatly irritated Montoni.  The pride of her aunt did sometimes 
soften to the soothing voice of Emily, and there even were moments, 
when she regarded her affectionate attentions with goodwill.

The scenes of terrible contention, to which Emily was frequently 
compelled to be witness, exhausted her spirits more than any 
circumstances, that had occurred since her departure from Tholouse.  
The gentleness and goodness of her parents, together with the scenes 
of her early happiness, often stole on her mind, like the visions of 
a higher world; while the characters and circumstances, now passing 
beneath her eye, excited both terror and surprise.  She could 
scarcely have imagined, that passions so fierce and so various, as 
those which Montoni exhibited, could have been concentrated in one 
individual; yet what more surprised her, was, that, on great 
occasions, he could bend these passions, wild as they were, to the 
cause of his interest, and generally could disguise in his 
countenance their operation on his mind; but she had seen him too 
often, when he had thought it unnecessary to conceal his nature, to 
be deceived on such occasions.

Her present life appeared like the dream of a distempered 
imagination, or like one of those frightful fictions, in which the 
wild genius of the poets sometimes delighted.  Reflection brought 
only regret, and anticipation terror.  How often did she wish to 
'steal the lark's wing, and mount the swiftest gale,' that Languedoc 
and repose might once more be hers!

Of Count Morano's health she made frequent enquiry; but Annette heard 
only vague reports of his danger, and that his surgeon had said he 
would never leave the cottage alive; while Emily could not but be 
shocked to think, that she, however innocently, might be the means of 
his death; and Annette, who did not fail to observe her emotion, 
interpreted it in her own way.

But a circumstance soon occurred, which entirely withdrew Annette's 
attention from this subject, and awakened the surprise and curiosity 
so natural to her.  Coming one day to Emily's apartment, with a 
countenance full of importance, 'What can all this mean, ma'amselle?' 
said she.  'Would I was once safe in Languedoc again, they should 
never catch me going on my travels any more!  I must think it a fine 
thing, truly, to come abroad, and see foreign parts!  I little 
thought I was coming to be catched up in a old castle, among such 
dreary mountains, with the chance of being murdered, or, what is as 
good, having my throat cut!'

'What can all this mean, indeed, Annette?' said Emily, in 
astonishment.

'Aye, ma'amselle, you may look surprised; but you won't believe it, 
perhaps, till they have murdered you, too.  You would not believe 
about the ghost I told you of, though I shewed you the very place, 
where it used to appear!--You will believe nothing, ma'amselle.'

'Not till you speak more reasonably, Annette; for Heaven's sake, 
explain your meaning.  You spoke of murder!'

'Aye, ma'amselle, they are coming to murder us all, perhaps; but what 
signifies explaining?--you will not believe.'

Emily again desired her to relate what she had seen, or heard.

'O, I have seen enough, ma'am, and heard too much, as Ludovico can 
prove.  Poor soul! they will murder him, too!  I little thought, when 
he sung those sweet verses under my lattice, at Venice!'--Emily 
looked impatient and displeased.  'Well, ma'amselle, as I was saying, 
these preparations about the castle, and these strange-looking 
people, that are calling here every day, and the Signor's cruel usage 
of my lady, and his odd goings-on--all these, as I told Ludovico, can 
bode no good.  And he bid me hold my tongue.  So, says I, the 
Signor's strangely altered, Ludovico, in this gloomy castle, to what 
he was in France; there, all so gay!  Nobody so gallant to my lady, 
then; and he could smile, too, upon a poor servant, sometimes, and 
jeer her, too, good-naturedly enough.  I remember once, when he said 
to me, as I was going out of my lady's dressing-room--Annette, says 
he--'

'Never mind what the Signor said,' interrupted Emily; 'but tell me, 
at once, the circumstance, which has thus alarmed you.'

'Aye, ma'amselle,' rejoined Annette, 'that is just what Ludovico 
said:  says he, Never mind what the Signor says to you.  So I told 
him what I thought about the Signor.  He is so strangely altered, 
said I:  for now he is so haughty, and so commanding, and so sharp 
with my lady; and, if he meets one, he'll scarcely look at one, 
unless it be to frown.  So much the better, says Ludovico, so much 
the better.  And to tell you the truth, ma'amselle, I thought this 
was a very ill-natured speech of Ludovico:  but I went on.  And then, 
says I, he is always knitting his brows; and if one speaks to him, he 
does not hear; and then he sits up counselling so, of a night, with 
the other Signors--there they are, till long past midnight, 
discoursing together!  Aye, but says Ludovico, you don't know what 
they are counselling about.  No, said I, but I can guess--it is about 
my young lady.  Upon that, Ludovico burst out a-laughing, quite loud; 
so he put me in a huff, for I did not like that either I or you, 
ma'amselle, should be laughed at; and I turned away quick, but he 
stopped me.  "Don't be affronted, Annette," said he, "but I cannot 
help laughing;" and with that he laughed again.  "What!" says he, "do 
you think the Signors sit up, night after night, only to counsel 
about thy young lady!  No, no, there is something more in the wind 
than that.  And these repairs about the castle, and these 
preparations about the ramparts--they are not making about young 
ladies."  Why, surely, said I, the Signor, my master, is not going to 
make war?  "Make war!" said Ludovico, "what, upon the mountains and 
the woods? for here is no living soul to make war upon that I see."

'What are these preparations for, then? said I; why surely nobody is 
coming to take away my master's castle!  "Then there are so many ill-
looking fellows coming to the castle every day," says Ludovico, 
without answering my question, "and the Signor sees them all, and 
talks with them all, and they all stay in the neighbourhood!  By holy 
St. Marco! some of them are the most cut-throat-looking dogs I ever 
set my eyes upon."

'I asked Ludovico again, if he thought they were coming to take away 
my master's castle; and he said, No, he did not think they were, but 
he did not know for certain.  "Then yesterday," said he, but you must 
not tell this, ma'amselle, "yesterday, a party of these men came, and 
left all their horses in the castle stables, where, it seems, they 
are to stay, for the Signor ordered them all to be entertained with 
the best provender in the manger; but the men are, most of them, in 
the neighbouring cottages."

'So, ma'amselle, I came to tell you all this, for I never heard any 
thing so strange in my life.  But what can these ill-looking men be 
come about, if it is not to murder us?  And the Signor knows this, or 
why should he be so civil to them?  And why should he fortify the 
castle, and counsel so much with the other Signors, and be so 
thoughtful?'

'Is this all you have to tell, Annette?' said Emily.  'Have you heard 
nothing else, that alarms you?'

'Nothing else, ma'amselle!' said Annette; 'why, is not this enough?'  
'Quite enough for my patience, Annette, but not quite enough to 
convince me we are all to be murdered, though I acknowledge here is 
sufficient food for curiosity.'  She forbore to speak her 
apprehensions, because she would not encourage Annette's wild 
terrors; but the present circumstances of the castle both surprised, 
and alarmed her.  Annette, having told her tale, left the chamber, on 
the wing for new wonders.

In the evening, Emily had passed some melancholy hours with Madame 
Montoni, and was retiring to rest, when she was alarmed by a strange 
and loud knocking at her chamber door, and then a heavy weight fell 
against it, that almost burst it open.  She called to know who was 
there, and receiving no answer, repeated the call; but a chilling 
silence followed.  It occurred to her--for, at this moment, she could 
not reason on the probability of circumstances--that some one of the 
strangers, lately arrived at the castle, had discovered her 
apartment, and was come with such intent, as their looks rendered too 
possible--to rob, perhaps to murder, her.  The moment she admitted 
this possibility, terror supplied the place of conviction, and a kind 
of instinctive remembrance of her remote situation from the family 
heightened it to a degree, that almost overcame her senses.  She 
looked at the door, which led to the staircase, expecting to see it 
open, and listening, in fearful silence, for a return of the noise, 
till she began to think it had proceeded from this door, and a wish 
of escaping through the opposite one rushed upon her mind.  She went 
to the gallery door, and then, fearing to open it, lest some person 
might be silently lurking for her without, she stopped, but with her 
eyes fixed in expectation upon the opposite door of the stair-case.  
As thus she stood, she heard a faint breathing near her, and became 
convinced, that some person was on the other side of the door, which 
was already locked.  She sought for other fastening, but there was 
none.

While she yet listened, the breathing was distinctly heard, and her 
terror was not soothed, when, looking round her wide and lonely 
chamber, she again considered her remote situation.  As she stood 
hesitating whether to call for assistance, the continuance of the 
stillness surprised her; and her spirits would have revived, had she 
not continued to hear the faint breathing, that convinced her, the 
person, whoever it was, had not quitted the door.

At length, worn out with anxiety, she determined to call loudly for 
assistance from her casement, and was advancing to it, when, whether 
the terror of her mind gave her ideal sounds, or that real ones did 
come, she thought footsteps were ascending the private stair-case; 
and, expecting to see its door unclose, she forgot all other cause of 
alarm, and retreated towards the corridor.  Here she endeavoured to 
make her escape, but, on opening the door, was very near falling over 
a person, who lay on the floor without.  She screamed, and would have 
passed, but her trembling frame refused to support her; and the 
moment, in which she leaned against the wall of the gallery, allowed 
her leisure to observe the figure before her, and to recognise the 
features of Annette.  Fear instantly yielded to surprise.  She spoke 
in vain to the poor girl, who remained senseless on the floor, and 
then, losing all consciousness of her own weakness, hurried to her 
assistance.

When Annette recovered, she was helped by Emily into the chamber, but 
was still unable to speak, and looked round her, as if her eyes 
followed some person in the room.  Emily tried to sooth her disturbed 
spirits, and forbore, at present, to ask her any questions; but the 
faculty of speech was never long with-held from Annette, and she 
explained, in broken sentences, and in her tedious way, the occasion 
of her disorder.  She affirmed, and with a solemnity of conviction, 
that almost staggered the incredulity of Emily, that she had seen an 
apparition, as she was passing to her bedroom, through the corridor.

'I had heard strange stories of that chamber before,' said Annette:  
'but as it was so near yours, ma'amselle, I would not tell them to 
you, because they would frighten you.  The servants had told me, 
often and often, that it was haunted, and that was the reason why it 
was shut up:  nay, for that matter, why the whole string of these 
rooms, here, are shut up.  I quaked whenever I went by, and I must 
say, I did sometimes think I heard odd noises within it.  But, as I 
said, as I was passing along the corridor, and not thinking a word 
about the matter, or even of the strange voice that the Signors heard 
the other night, all of a sudden comes a great light, and, looking 
behind me, there was a tall figure, (I saw it as plainly, ma'amselle, 
as I see you at this moment), a tall figure gliding along (Oh! I 
cannot describe how!) into the room, that is always shut up, and 
nobody has the key of it but the Signor, and the door shut directly.'

'Then it doubtless was the Signor,' said Emily.

'O no, ma'amselle, it could not be him, for I left him busy a-
quarrelling in my lady's dressing-room!'

'You bring me strange tales, Annette,' said Emily:  'it was but this 
morning, that you would have terrified me with the apprehension of 
murder; and now you would persuade me, you have seen a ghost!  These 
wonderful stories come too quickly.'

'Nay, ma'amselle, I will say no more, only, if I had not been 
frightened, I should not have fainted dead away, so.  I ran as fast 
as I could, to get to your door; but, what was worst of all, I could 
not call out; then I thought something must be strangely the matter 
with me, and directly I dropt down.'

'Was it the chamber where the black veil hangs?' said Emily.  'O! no, 
ma'amselle, it was one nearer to this.  What shall I do, to get to my 
room?  I would not go out into the corridor again, for the whole 
world!'  Emily, whose spirits had been severely shocked, and who, 
therefore, did not like the thought of passing the night alone, told 
her she might sleep where she was.  'O, no, ma'amselle,' replied 
Annette, 'I would not sleep in the room, now, for a thousand 
sequins!'

Wearied and disappointed, Emily first ridiculed, though she shared, 
her fears, and then tried to sooth them; but neither attempt 
succeeded, and the girl persisted in believing and affirming, that 
what she had seen was nothing human.  It was not till some time after 
Emily had recovered her composure, that she recollected the steps she 
had heard on the stair-case--a remembrance, however, which made her 
insist that Annette should pass the night with her, and, with much 
difficulty, she, at length, prevailed, assisted by that part of the 
girl's fear, which concerned the corridor.

Early on the following morning, as Emily crossed the hall to the 
ramparts, she heard a noisy bustle in the court-yard, and the clatter 
of horses' hoofs.  Such unusual sounds excited her curiosity; and, 
instead of going to the ramparts, she went to an upper casement, from 
whence she saw, in the court below, a large party of horsemen, 
dressed in a singular, but uniform, habit, and completely, though 
variously, armed.  They wore a kind of short jacket, composed of 
black and scarlet, and several of them had a cloak, of plain black, 
which, covering the person entirely, hung down to the stirrups.  As 
one of these cloaks glanced aside, she saw, beneath, daggers, 
apparently of different sizes, tucked into the horseman's belt.  She 
further observed, that these were carried, in the same manner, by 
many of the horsemen without cloaks, most of whom bore also pikes, or 
javelins.  On their heads, were the small Italian caps, some of which 
were distinguished by black feathers.  Whether these caps gave a 
fierce air to the countenance, or that the countenances they 
surmounted had naturally such an appearance, Emily thought she had 
never, till then, seen an assemblage of faces so savage and terrific.  
While she gazed, she almost fancied herself surrounded by banditti; 
and a vague thought glanced athwart her fancy--that Montoni was the 
captain of the group before her, and that this castle was to be the 
place of rendezvous.  The strange and horrible supposition was but 
momentary, though her reason could supply none more probable, and 
though she discovered, among the band, the strangers she had formerly 
noticed with so much alarm, who were now distinguished by the black 
plume.

While she continued gazing, Cavigni, Verezzi, and Bertolini came 
forth from the hall, habited like the rest, except that they wore 
hats, with a mixed plume of black and scarlet, and that their arms 
differed from those of the rest of the party.  As they mounted their 
horses, Emily was struck with the exulting joy, expressed on the 
visage of Verezzi, while Cavigni was gay, yet with a shade of thought 
on his countenance; and, as he managed his horse with dexterity, his 
graceful and commanding figure, which exhibited the majesty of a 
hero, had never appeared to more advantage.  Emily, as she observed 
him, thought he somewhat resembled Valancourt, in the spirit and 
dignity of his person; but she looked in vain for the noble, 
benevolent countenance--the soul's intelligence, which overspread the 
features of the latter.

As she was hoping, she scarcely knew why, that Montoni would 
accompany the party, he appeared at the hall door, but un-accoutred.  
Having carefully observed the horsemen, conversed awhile with the 
cavaliers, and bidden them farewel, the band wheeled round the court, 
and, led by Verezzi, issued forth under the portcullis; Montoni 
following to the portal, and gazing after them for some time.  Emily 
then retired from the casement, and, now certain of being unmolested, 
went to walk on the ramparts, from whence she soon after saw the 
party winding among the mountains to the west, appearing and 
disappearing between the woods, till distance confused their figures, 
consolidated their numbers, and only a dingy mass appeared moving 
along the heights.

Emily observed, that no workmen were on the ramparts, and that the 
repairs of the fortifications seemed to be completed.  While she 
sauntered thoughtfully on, she heard distant footsteps, and, raising 
her eyes, saw several men lurking under the castle walls, who were 
evidently not workmen, but looked as if they would have accorded well 
with the party, which was gone.  Wondering where Annette had hid 
herself so long, who might have explained some of the late 
circumstances, and then considering that Madame Montoni was probably 
risen, she went to her dressing-room, where she mentioned what had 
occurred; but Madame Montoni either would not, or could not, give any 
explanation of the event.  The Signor's reserve to his wife, on this 
subject, was probably nothing more than usual; yet, to Emily, it gave 
an air of mystery to the whole affair, that seemed to hint, there was 
danger, if not villany, in his schemes.

Annette presently came, and, as usual, was full of alarm; to her 
lady's eager enquiries of what she had heard among the servants, she 
replied:

'Ah, madam! nobody knows what it is all about, but old Carlo; he 
knows well enough, I dare say, but he is as close as his master.  
Some say the Signor is going out to frighten the enemy, as they call 
it:  but where is the enemy?  Then others say, he is going to take 
away some body's castle:  but I am sure he has room enough in his 
own, without taking other people's; and I am sure I should like it a 
great deal better, if there were more people to fill it.'

'Ah! you will soon have your wish, I fear,' replied Madame Montoni.

'No, madam, but such ill-looking fellows are not worth having.  I 
mean such gallant, smart, merry fellows as Ludovico, who is always 
telling droll stories, to make one laugh.  It was but yesterday, he 
told me such a HUMOURSOME tale!  I can't help laughing at it now.--
Says he--'

'Well, we can dispense with the story,' said her lady.  'Ah!' 
continued Annette, 'he sees a great way further than other people!  
Now he sees into all the Signor's meaning, without knowing a word 
about the matter!'

'How is that?' said Madame Montoni.

'Why he says--but he made me promise not to tell, and I would not 
disoblige him for the world.'

'What is it he made you promise not to tell?' said her lady, sternly.  
'I insist upon knowing immediately--what is it he made you promise?'

'O madam,' cried Annette, 'I would not tell for the universe!'  'I 
insist upon your telling this instant,' said Madame Montoni.  'O dear 
madam!  I would not tell for a hundred sequins!  You would not have 
me forswear myself madam!' exclaimed Annette.

'I will not wait another moment,' said Madame Montoni.  Annette was 
silent.

'The Signor shall be informed of this directly,' rejoined her 
mistress:  'he will make you discover all.'

'It is Ludovico, who has discovered,' said Annette:  'but for mercy's 
sake, madam, don't tell the Signor, and you shall know all directly.'  
Madame Montoni said, that she would not.

'Well then, madam, Ludovico says, that the Signor, my master, is--is-
-that is, he only thinks so, and any body, you know, madam, is free 
to think--that the Signor, my master, is--is--'

'Is what?' said her lady, impatiently.

'That the Signor, my master, is going to be--a great robber--that is-
-he is going to rob on his own account;--to be, (but I am sure I 
don't understand what he means) to be a--captain of--robbers.'

'Art thou in thy senses, Annette?' said Madame Montoni; 'or is this a 
trick to deceive me?  Tell me, this instant, what Ludovico DID say to 
thee;--no equivocation;--this instant.'

'Nay, madam,' cried Annette, 'if this is all I am to get for having 
told the secret'--Her mistress thus continued to insist, and Annette 
to protest, till Montoni, himself, appeared, who bade the latter 
leave the room, and she withdrew, trembling for the fate of her 
story.  Emily also was retiring, but her aunt desired she would stay; 
and Montoni had so often made her a witness of their contention, that 
he no longer had scruples on that account.

'I insist upon knowing this instant, Signor, what all this means:'  
said his wife--'what are all these armed men, whom they tell me of, 
gone out about?'  Montoni answered her only with a look of scorn; and 
Emily whispered something to her.  'It does not signify,' said her 
aunt:  'I will know; and I will know, too, what the castle has been 
fortified for.'

'Come, come,' said Montoni, 'other business brought me here.  I must 
be trifled with no longer.  I have immediate occasion for what I 
demand--those estates must be given up, without further contention; 
or I may find a way--'

'They never shall be given up,' interrupted Madame Montoni:  'they 
never shall enable you to carry on your wild schemes;--but what are 
these?  I will know.  Do you expect the castle to be attacked?  Do 
you expect enemies?  Am I to be shut up here, to be killed in a 
siege?'

'Sign the writings,' said Montoni, 'and you shall know more.'

'What enemy can be coming?' continued his wife.  'Have you entered 
into the service of the state?  Am I to be blocked up here to die?'

'That may possibly happen,' said Montoni, 'unless you yield to my 
demand:  for, come what may, you shall not quit the castle till 
then.'  Madame Montoni burst into loud lamentation, which she as 
suddenly checked, considering, that her husband's assertions might be 
only artifices, employed to extort her consent.  She hinted this 
suspicion, and, in the next moment, told him also, that his designs 
were not so honourable as to serve the state, and that she believed 
he had only commenced a captain of banditti, to join the enemies of 
Venice, in plundering and laying waste the surrounding country.

Montoni looked at her for a moment with a steady and stern 
countenance; while Emily trembled, and his wife, for once, thought 
she had said too much.  'You shall be removed, this night,' said he, 
'to the east turret:  there, perhaps, you may understand the danger 
of offending a man, who has an unlimited power over you.'

Emily now fell at his feet, and, with tears of terror, supplicated 
for her aunt, who sat, trembling with fear, and indignation; now 
ready to pour forth execrations, and now to join the intercessions of 
Emily.  Montoni, however, soon interrupted these entreaties with an 
horrible oath; and, as he burst from Emily, leaving his cloak, in her 
hand, she fell to the floor, with a force, that occasioned her a 
severe blow on the forehead.  But he quitted the room, without 
attempting to raise her, whose attention was called from herself, by 
a deep groan from Madame Montoni, who continued otherwise unmoved in 
her chair, and had not fainted.  Emily, hastening to her assistance, 
saw her eyes rolling, and her features convulsed.

Having spoken to her, without receiving an answer, she brought water, 
and supported her head, while she held it to her lips; but the 
increasing convulsions soon compelled Emily to call for assistance.  
On her way through the hall, in search of Annette, she met Montoni, 
whom she told what had happened, and conjured to return and comfort 
her aunt; but he turned silently away, with a look of indifference, 
and went out upon the ramparts.  At length she found old Carlo and 
Annette, and they hastened to the dressing-room, where Madame Montoni 
had fallen on the floor, and was lying in strong convulsions.  Having 
lifted her into the adjoining room, and laid her on the bed, the 
force of her disorder still made all their strength necessary to hold 
her, while Annette trembled and sobbed, and old Carlo looked silently 
and piteously on, as his feeble hands grasped those of his mistress, 
till, turning his eyes upon Emily, he exclaimed, 'Good God! Signora, 
what is the matter?'

Emily looked calmly at him, and saw his enquiring eyes fixed on her:  
and Annette, looking up, screamed loudly; for Emily's face was 
stained with blood, which continued to fall slowly from her forehead:  
but her attention had been so entirely occupied by the scene before 
her, that she had felt no pain from the wound.  She now held an 
handkerchief to her face, and, notwithstanding her faintness, 
continued to watch Madame Montoni, the violence of whose convulsions 
was abating, till at length they ceased, and left her in a kind of 
stupor.

'My aunt must remain quiet,' said Emily.  'Go, good Carlo; if we 
should want your assistance, I will send for you.  In the mean time, 
if you have an opportunity, speak kindly of your mistress to your 
master.'

'Alas!' said Carlo, 'I have seen too much!  I have little influence 
with the Signor.  But do, dear young lady, take some care of 
yourself; that is an ugly wound, and you look sadly.'

'Thank you, my friend, for your consideration,' said Emily, smiling 
kindly:  'the wound is trifling, it came by a fall.'

Carlo shook his head, and left the room; and Emily, with Annette, 
continued to watch by her aunt.  'Did my lady tell the Signor what 
Ludovico said, ma'amselle?' asked Annette in a whisper; but Emily 
quieted her fears on the subject.

'I thought what this quarrelling would come to,' continued Annette:  
'I suppose the Signor has been beating my lady.'

'No, no, Annette, you are totally mistaken, nothing extra-ordinary 
has happened.'

'Why, extraordinary things happen here so often, ma'amselle, that 
there is nothing in them.  Here is another legion of those ill-
looking fellows, come to the castle, this morning.'

'Hush!  Annette, you will disturb my aunt; we will talk of that by 
and bye.'

They continued watching silently, till Madame Montoni uttered a low 
sigh, when Emily took her hand, and spoke soothingly to her; but the 
former gazed with unconscious eyes, and it was long before she knew 
her niece.  Her first words then enquired for Montoni; to which Emily 
replied by an entreaty, that she would compose her spirits, and 
consent to be kept quiet, adding, that, if she wished any message to 
be conveyed to him, she would herself deliver it.  'No,' said her 
aunt faintly, 'no--I have nothing new to tell him.  Does he persist 
in saying I shall be removed from my chamber?'

Emily replied, that he had not spoken, on the subject, since Madame 
Montoni heard him; and then she tried to divert her attention to some 
other topic; but her aunt seemed to be inattentive to what she said, 
and lost in secret thoughts.  Emily, having brought her some 
refreshment, now left her to the care of Annette, and went in search 
of Montoni, whom she found on a remote part of the rampart, 
conversing among a group of the men described by Annette.  They stood 
round him with fierce, yet subjugated, looks, while he, speaking 
earnestly, and pointing to the walls, did not perceive Emily, who 
remained at some distance, waiting till he should be at leisure, and 
observing involuntarily the appearance of one man, more savage than 
his fellows, who stood resting on his pike, and looking, over the 
shoulders of a comrade, at Montoni, to whom he listened with uncommon 
earnestness.  This man was apparently of low condition; yet his looks 
appeared not to acknowledge the superiority of Montoni, as did those 
of his companions; and sometimes they even assumed an air of 
authority, which the decisive manner of the Signor could not repress.  
Some few words of Montoni then passed in the wind; and, as the men 
were separating, she heard him say, 'This evening, then, begin the 
watch at sun-set.'

'At sun-set, Signor,' replied one or two of them, and walked away; 
while Emily approached Montoni, who appeared desirous of avoiding 
her:  but, though she observed this, she had courage to proceed.  She 
endeavoured to intercede once more for her aunt, represented to him 
her sufferings, and urged the danger of exposing her to a cold 
apartment in her present state.  'She suffers by her own folly,' said 
Montoni, 'and is not to be pitied;--she knows how she may avoid these 
sufferings in future--if she is removed to the turret, it will be her 
own fault.  Let her be obedient, and sign the writings you heard of, 
and I will think no more of it.'

When Emily ventured still to plead, he sternly silenced and rebuked 
her for interfering in his domestic affairs, but, at length, 
dismissed her with this concession--That he would not remove Madame 
Montoni, on the ensuing night, but allow her till the next to 
consider, whether she would resign her settlements, or be imprisoned 
in the east turret of the castle, 'where she shall find,' he added, 
'a punishment she may not expect.'

Emily then hastened to inform her aunt of this short respite and of 
the alternative, that awaited her, to which the latter made no reply, 
but appeared thoughtful, while Emily, in consideration of her extreme 
languor, wished to sooth her mind by leading it to less interesting 
topics:  and, though these efforts were unsuccessful, and Madame 
Montoni became peevish, her resolution, on the contended point, 
seemed somewhat to relax, and Emily recommended, as her only means of 
safety, that she should submit to Montoni's demand.  'You know not 
what you advise,' said her aunt.  'Do you understand, that these 
estates will descend to you at my death, if I persist in a refusal?'

'I was ignorant of that circumstance, madam,' replied Emily, 'but the 
knowledge of it cannot with-hold me from advising you to adopt the 
conduct, which not only your peace, but, I fear, your safety 
requires, and I entreat, that you will not suffer a consideration 
comparatively so trifling, to make you hesitate a moment in resigning 
them.'

'Are you sincere, niece?'  'Is it possible you can doubt it, madam?'  
Her aunt appeared to be affected.  'You are not unworthy of these 
estates, niece,' said she:  'I would wish to keep them for your sake-
-you shew a virtue I did not expect.'

'How have I deserved this reproof, madam?' said Emily sorrowfully.

'Reproof!' replied Madame Montoni:  'I meant to praise your virtue.'

'Alas! here is no exertion of virtue,' rejoined Emily, 'for here is 
no temptation to be overcome.'

'Yet Monsieur Valancourt'--said her aunt.  'O, madam!' interrupted 
Emily, anticipating what she would have said, 'do not let me glance 
on that subject:  do not let my mind be stained with a wish so 
shockingly self-interested.'  She immediately changed the topic, and 
continued with Madame Montoni, till she withdrew to her apartment for 
the night.

At that hour, the castle was perfectly still, and every inhabitant of 
it, except herself, seemed to have retired to rest.  As she passed 
along the wide and lonely galleries, dusky and silent, she felt 
forlorn and apprehensive of--she scarcely knew what; but when, 
entering the corridor, she recollected the incident of the preceding 
night, a dread seized her, lest a subject of alarm, similar to that, 
which had befallen Annette, should occur to her, and which, whether 
real, or ideal, would, she felt, have an almost equal effect upon her 
weakened spirits.  The chamber, to which Annette had alluded, she did 
not exactly know, but understood it to be one of those she must pass 
in the way to her own; and, sending a fearful look forward into the 
gloom, she stepped lightly and cautiously along, till, coming to a 
door, from whence issued a low sound, she hesitated and paused; and, 
during the delay of that moment, her fears so much increased, that 
she had no power to move from the spot.  Believing, that she heard a 
human voice within, she was somewhat revived; but, in the next 
moment, the door was opened, and a person, whom she conceived to be 
Montoni, appeared, who instantly started back, and closed it, though 
not before she had seen, by the light that burned in the chamber, 
another person, sitting in a melancholy attitude by the fire.  Her 
terror vanished, but her astonishment only began, which was now 
roused by the mysterious secrecy of Montoni's manner, and by the 
discovery of a person, whom he thus visited at midnight, in an 
apartment, which had long been shut up, and of which such 
extraordinary reports were circulated.

While she thus continued hesitating, strongly prompted to watch 
Montoni's motions, yet fearing to irritate him by appearing to notice 
them, the door was again opened cautiously, and as instantly closed 
as before.  She then stepped softly to her chamber, which was the 
next but one to this, but, having put down her lamp, returned to an 
obscure corner of the corridor, to observe the proceedings of this 
half-seen person, and to ascertain, whether it was indeed Montoni.

Having waited in silent expectation for a few minutes, with her eyes 
fixed on the door, it was again opened, and the same person appeared, 
whom she now knew to be Montoni.  He looked cautiously round, without 
perceiving her, then, stepping forward, closed the door, and left the 
corridor.  Soon after, Emily heard the door fastened on the inside, 
and she withdrew to her chamber, wondering at what she had witnessed.

It was now twelve o'clock.  As she closed her casement, she heard 
footsteps on the terrace below, and saw imperfectly, through the 
gloom, several persons advancing, who passed under the casement.  She 
then heard the clink of arms, and, in the next moment, the watch-
word; when, recollecting the command she had overheard from Montoni, 
and the hour of the night, she understood, that these men were, for 
the first time, relieving guard in the castle.  Having listened till 
all was again still, she retired to sleep.



CHAPTER X


 And shall no lay of death
 With pleasing murmur sooth
 Her parted soul?
 Shall no tear wet her grave?
     SAYERS

On the following morning, Emily went early to the apartment of Madame 
Montoni, who had slept well, and was much recovered.  Her spirits had 
also returned with her health, and her resolution to oppose Montoni's 
demands revived, though it yet struggled with her fears, which Emily, 
who trembled for the consequence of further opposition, endeavoured 
to confirm.

Her aunt, as has been already shewn, had a disposition, which 
delighted in contradiction, and which taught her, when unpleasant 
circumstances were offered to her understanding, not to enquire into 
their truth, but to seek for arguments, by which she might make them 
appear false.  Long habit had so entirely confirmed this natural 
propensity, that she was not conscious of possessing it.  Emily's 
remonstrances and representations, therefore, roused her pride, 
instead of alarming, or convincing her judgment, and she still relied 
upon the discovery of some means, by which she might yet avoid 
submitting to the demand of her husband.  Considering, that, if she 
could once escape from his castle, she might defy his power, and, 
obtaining a decisive separation, live in comfort on the estates, that 
yet remained for her, she mentioned this to her niece, who accorded 
with her in the wish, but differed from her, as to the probability of 
its completion.  She represented the impossibility of passing the 
gates, secured and guarded as they were, and the extreme danger of 
committing her design to the discretion of a servant, who might 
either purposely betray, or accidentally disclose it.--Montoni's 
vengeance would also disdain restraint, if her intention was 
detected:  and, though Emily wished, as fervently as she could do, to 
regain her freedom, and return to France, she consulted only Madame 
Montoni's safety, and persevered in advising her to relinquish her 
settlement, without braving further outrage.

The struggle of contrary emotions, however, continued to rage in her 
aunt's bosom, and she still brooded over the chance of effecting an 
escape.  While she thus sat, Montoni entered the room, and, without 
noticing his wife's indisposition, said, that he came to remind her 
of the impolicy of trifling with him, and that he gave her only till 
the evening to determine, whether she would consent to his demand, or 
compel him, by a refusal, to remove her to the east turret.  He 
added, that a party of cavaliers would dine with him, that day, and 
that he expected that she would sit at the head of the table, where 
Emily, also, must be present.  Madame Montoni was now on the point of 
uttering an absolute refusal, but, suddenly considering, that her 
liberty, during this entertainment, though circumscribed, might 
favour her further plans, she acquiesced, with seeming reluctance, 
and Montoni, soon after, left the apartment.  His command struck 
Emily with surprise and apprehension, who shrank from the thought of 
being exposed to the gaze of strangers, such as her fancy represented 
these to be, and the words of Count Morano, now again recollected, 
did not sooth her fears.

When she withdrew to prepare for dinner, she dressed herself with 
even more simplicity than usual, that she might escape observation--a 
policy, which did not avail her, for, as she re-passed to her aunt's 
apartment, she was met by Montoni, who censured what he called her 
prudish appearance, and insisted, that she should wear the most 
splendid dress she had, even that, which had been prepared for her 
intended nuptials with Count Morano, and which, it now appeared, her 
aunt had carefully brought with her from Venice.  This was made, not 
in the Venetian, but, in the Neapolitan fashion, so as to set off the 
shape and figure, to the utmost advantage.  In it, her beautiful 
chestnut tresses were negligently bound up in pearls, and suffered to 
fall back again on her neck.  The simplicity of a better taste, than 
Madame Montoni's, was conspicuous in this dress, splendid as it was, 
and Emily's unaffected beauty never had appeared more captivatingly.  
She had now only to hope, that Montoni's order was prompted, not by 
any extraordinary design, but by an ostentation of displaying his 
family, richly attired, to the eyes of strangers; yet nothing less 
than his absolute command could have prevailed with her to wear a 
dress, that had been designed for such an offensive purpose, much 
less to have worn it on this occasion.  As she descended to dinner, 
the emotion of her mind threw a faint blush over her countenance, and 
heightened its interesting expression; for timidity had made her 
linger in her apartment, till the utmost moment, and, when she 
entered the hall, in which a kind of state dinner was spread, Montoni 
and his guests were already seated at the table.  She was then going 
to place herself by her aunt; but Montoni waved his hand, and two of 
the cavaliers rose, and seated her between them.

The eldest of these was a tall man, with strong Italian features, an 
aquiline nose, and dark penetrating eyes, that flashed with fire, 
when his mind was agitated, and, even in its state of rest, retained 
somewhat of the wildness of the passions.  His visage was long and 
narrow, and his complexion of a sickly yellow.

The other, who appeared to be about forty, had features of a 
different cast, yet Italian, and his look was slow, subtle and 
penetrating; his eyes, of a dark grey, were small, and hollow; his 
complexion was a sun-burnt brown, and the contour of his face, though 
inclined to oval, was irregular and ill-formed.

Eight other guests sat round the table, who were all dressed in an 
uniform, and had all an expression, more or less, of wild fierceness, 
of subtle design, or of licentious passions.  As Emily timidly 
surveyed them, she remembered the scene of the preceding morning, and 
again almost fancied herself surrounded by banditti; then, looking 
back to the tranquillity of her early life, she felt scarcely less 
astonishment, than grief, at her present situation.  The scene, in 
which they sat, assisted the illusion; it was an antient hall, gloomy 
from the style of its architecture, from its great extent, and 
because almost the only light it received was from one large gothic 
window, and from a pair of folding doors, which, being open, admitted 
likewise a view of the west rampart, with the wild mountains of the 
Apennine beyond.

The middle compartment of this hall rose into a vaulted roof, 
enriched with fretwork, and supported, on three sides, by pillars of 
marble; beyond these, long colonades retired in gloomy grandeur, till 
their extent was lost in twilight.  The lightest footsteps of the 
servants, as they advanced through these, were returned in whispering 
echoes, and their figures, seen at a distance imperfectly through the 
dusk, frequently awakened Emily's imagination.  She looked 
alternately at Montoni, at his guests and on the surrounding scene; 
and then, remembering her dear native province, her pleasant home and 
the simplicity and goodness of the friends, whom she had lost, grief 
and surprise again occupied her mind.

When her thoughts could return from these considerations, she fancied 
she observed an air of authority towards his guests, such as she had 
never before seen him assume, though he had always been distinguished 
by an haughty carriage; there was something also in the manners of 
the strangers, that seemed perfectly, though not servilely, to 
acknowledge his superiority.

During dinner, the conversation was chiefly on war and politics.  
They talked with energy of the state of Venice, its dangers, the 
character of the reigning Doge and of the chief senators; and then 
spoke of the state of Rome.  When the repast was over, they rose, 
and, each filling his goblet with wine from the gilded ewer, that 
stood beside him, drank 'Success to our exploits!'  Montoni was 
lifting his goblet to his lips to drink this toast, when suddenly the 
wine hissed, rose to the brim, and, as he held the glass from him, it 
burst into a thousand pieces.

To him, who constantly used that sort of Venice glass, which had the 
quality of breaking, upon receiving poisoned liquor, a suspicion, 
that some of his guests had endeavoured to betray him, instantly 
occurred, and he ordered all the gates to be closed, drew his sword, 
and, looking round on them, who stood in silent amazement, exclaimed, 
'Here is a traitor among us; let those, that are innocent, assist in 
discovering the guilty.'

Indignation flashed from the eyes of the cavaliers, who all drew 
their swords; and Madame Montoni, terrified at what might ensue, was 
hastening from the hall, when her husband commanded her to stay; but 
his further words could not now be distinguished, for the voice of 
every person rose together.  His order, that all the servants should 
appear, was at length obeyed, and they declared their ignorance of 
any deceit--a protestation which could not be believed; for it was 
evident, that, as Montoni's liquor, and his only, had been poisoned, 
a deliberate design had been formed against his life, which could not 
have been carried so far towards its accomplishment, without the 
connivance of the servant, who had the care of the wine ewers.

This man, with another, whose face betrayed either the consciousness 
of guilt, or the fear of punishment, Montoni ordered to be chained 
instantly, and confined in a strong room, which had formerly been 
used as a prison.  Thither, likewise, he would have sent all his 
guests, had he not foreseen the consequence of so bold and 
unjustifiable a proceeding.  As to those, therefore, he contented 
himself with swearing, that no man should pass the gates, till this 
extraordinary affair had been investigated, and then sternly bade his 
wife retire to her apartment, whither he suffered Emily to attend 
her.

In about half an hour, he followed to the dressing-room; and Emily 
observed, with horror, his dark countenance and quivering lip, and 
heard him denounce vengeance on her aunt.

'It will avail you nothing,' said he to his wife, 'to deny the fact; 
I have proof of your guilt.  Your only chance of mercy rests on a 
full confession;--there is nothing to hope from sullenness, or 
falsehood; your accomplice has confessed all.'

Emily's fainting spirits were roused by astonishment, as she heard 
her aunt accused of a crime so atrocious, and she could not, for a 
moment, admit the possibility of her guilt.  Meanwhile Madame 
Montoni's agitation did not permit her to reply; alternately her 
complexion varied from livid paleness to a crimson flush; and she 
trembled,--but, whether with fear, or with indignation, it were 
difficult to decide.

'Spare your words,' said Montoni, seeing her about to speak, 'your 
countenance makes full confession of your crime.--You shall be 
instantly removed to the east turret.'

'This accusation,' said Madame Montoni, speaking with difficulty, 'is 
used only as an excuse for your cruelty; I disdain to reply to it.  
You do not believe me guilty.'

'Signor!' said Emily solemnly, 'this dreadful charge, I would answer 
with my life, is false.  Nay, Signor,' she added, observing the 
severity of his countenance, 'this is no moment for restraint, on my 
part; I do not scruple to tell you, that you are deceived--most 
wickedly deceived, by the suggestion of some person, who aims at the 
ruin of my aunt:--it is impossible, that you could yourself have 
imagined a crime so hideous.'

Montoni, his lips trembling more than before, replied only, 'If you 
value your own safety,' addressing Emily, 'you will be silent.  I 
shall know how to interpret your remonstrances, should you persevere 
in them.'

Emily raised her eyes calmly to heaven.  'Here is, indeed, then, 
nothing to hope!' said she.

'Peace!' cried Montoni, 'or you shall find there is something to 
fear.'

He turned to his wife, who had now recovered her spirits, and who 
vehemently and wildly remonstrated upon this mysterious suspicion:  
but Montoni's rage heightened with her indignation, and Emily, 
dreading the event of it, threw herself between them, and clasped his 
knees in silence, looking up in his face with an expression, that 
might have softened the heart of a fiend.  Whether his was hardened 
by a conviction of Madame Montoni's guilt, or that a bare suspicion 
of it made him eager to exercise vengeance, he was totally and alike 
insensible to the distress of his wife, and to the pleading looks of 
Emily, whom he made no attempt to raise, but was vehemently menacing 
both, when he was called out of the room by some person at the door.  
As he shut the door, Emily heard him turn the lock and take out the 
key; so that Madame Montoni and herself were now prisoners; and she 
saw that his designs became more and more terrible.  Her endeavours 
to explain his motives for this circumstance were almost as 
ineffectual as those to sooth the distress of her aunt, whose 
innocence she could not doubt; but she, at length, accounted for 
Montoni's readiness to suspect his wife by his own consciousness of 
cruelty towards her, and for the sudden violence of his present 
conduct against both, before even his suspicions could be completely 
formed, by his general eagerness to effect suddenly whatever he was 
led to desire and his carelessness of justice, or humanity, in 
accomplishing it.

Madame Montoni, after some time, again looked round, in search of a 
possibility of escape from the castle, and conversed with Emily on 
the subject, who was now willing to encounter any hazard, though she 
forbore to encourage a hope in her aunt, which she herself did not 
admit.  How strongly the edifice was secured, and how vigilantly 
guarded, she knew too well; and trembled to commit their safety to 
the caprice of the servant, whose assistance they must solicit.  Old 
Carlo was compassionate, but he seemed to be too much in his master's 
interest to be trusted by them; Annette could of herself do little, 
and Emily knew Ludovico only from her report.  At present, however, 
these considerations were useless, Madame Montoni and her niece being 
shut up from all intercourse, even with the persons, whom there might 
be these reasons to reject.

In the hall, confusion and tumult still reigned.  Emily, as she 
listened anxiously to the murmur, that sounded along the gallery, 
sometimes fancied she heard the clashing of swords, and, when she 
considered the nature of the provocation, given by Montoni, and his 
impetuosity, it appeared probable, that nothing less than arms would 
terminate the contention.  Madame Montoni, having exhausted all her 
expressions of indignation, and Emily, hers of comfort, they remained 
silent, in that kind of breathless stillness, which, in nature, often 
succeeds to the uproar of conflicting elements; a stillness, like the 
morning, that dawns upon the ruins of an earthquake.

An uncertain kind of terror pervaded Emily's mind; the circumstances 
of the past hour still came dimly and confusedly to her memory; and 
her thoughts were various and rapid, though without tumult.

From this state of waking visions she was recalled by a knocking at 
the chamber-door, and, enquiring who was there, heard the whispering 
voice of Annette.

'Dear madam, let me come in, I have a great deal to say,' said the 
poor girl.

'The door is locked,' answered the lady.

'Yes, ma'am, but do pray open it.'

'The Signor has the key,' said Madame Montoni.

'O blessed Virgin! what will become of us?' exclaimed Annette.

'Assist us to escape,' said her mistress.  'Where is Ludovico?'

'Below in the hall, ma'am, amongst them all, fighting with the best 
of them!'

'Fighting!  Who are fighting?' cried Madame Montoni.

'Why the Signor, ma'am, and all the Signors, and a great many more.'

'Is any person much hurt?' said Emily, in a tremulous voice.  'Hurt!  
Yes, ma'amselle,--there they lie bleeding, and the swords are 
clashing, and--O holy saints!  Do let me in, ma'am, they are coming 
this way--I shall be murdered!'

'Fly!' cried Emily, 'fly! we cannot open the door.'

Annette repeated, that they were coming, and in the same moment fled.

'Be calm, madam,' said Emily, turning to her aunt, 'I entreat you to 
be calm, I am not frightened--not frightened in the least, do not you 
be alarmed.'

'You can scarcely support yourself,' replied her aunt; 'Merciful God! 
what is it they mean to do with us?'

'They come, perhaps, to liberate us,' said Emily, 'Signor Montoni 
perhaps is--is conquered.'

The belief of his death gave her spirits a sudden shock, and she grew 
faint as she saw him in imagination, expiring at her feet.

'They are coming!' cried Madame Montoni--'I hear their steps--they 
are at the door!'

Emily turned her languid eyes to the door, but terror deprived her of 
utterance.  The key sounded in the lock; the door opened, and Montoni 
appeared, followed by three ruffian-like men.  'Execute your orders,' 
said he, turning to them, and pointing to his wife, who shrieked, but 
was immediately carried from the room; while Emily sunk, senseless, 
on a couch, by which she had endeavoured to support herself.  When 
she recovered, she was alone, and recollected only, that Madame 
Montoni had been there, together with some unconnected particulars of 
the preceding transaction, which were, however, sufficient to renew 
all her terror.  She looked wildly round the apartment, as if in 
search of some means of intelligence, concerning her aunt, while 
neither her own danger, or an idea of escaping from the room, 
immediately occurred.

When her recollection was more complete, she raised herself and went, 
but with only a faint hope, to examine whether the door was 
unfastened.  It was so, and she then stepped timidly out into the 
gallery, but paused there, uncertain which way she should proceed.  
Her first wish was to gather some information, as to her aunt, and 
she, at length, turned her steps to go to the lesser hall, where 
Annette and the other servants usually waited.

Every where, as she passed, she heard, from a distance, the uproar of 
contention, and the figures and faces, which she met, hurrying along 
the passages, struck her mind with dismay.  Emily might now have 
appeared, like an angel of light, encompassed by fiends.  At length, 
she reached the lesser hall, which was silent and deserted, but, 
panting for breath, she sat down to recover herself.  The total 
stillness of this place was as awful as the tumult, from which she 
had escaped:  but she had now time to recall her scattered thoughts, 
to remember her personal danger, and to consider of some means of 
safety.  She perceived, that it was useless to seek Madame Montoni, 
through the wide extent and intricacies of the castle, now, too, when 
every avenue seemed to be beset by ruffians; in this hall she could 
not resolve to stay, for she knew not how soon it might become their 
place of rendezvous; and, though she wished to go to her chamber, she 
dreaded again to encounter them on the way.

Thus she sat, trembling and hesitating, when a distant murmur broke 
on the silence, and grew louder and louder, till she distinguished 
voices and steps approaching.  She then rose to go, but the sounds 
came along the only passage, by which she could depart, and she was 
compelled to await in the hall, the arrival of the persons, whose 
steps she heard.  As these advanced, she distinguished groans, and 
then saw a man borne slowly along by four others.  Her spirits 
faltered at the sight, and she leaned against the wall for support.  
The bearers, meanwhile, entered the hall, and, being too busily 
occupied to detain, or even notice Emily, she attempted to leave it, 
but her strength failed, and she again sat down on the bench.  A damp 
chillness came over her; her sight became confused; she knew not what 
had passed, or where she was, yet the groans of the wounded person 
still vibrated on her heart.  In a few moments, the tide of life 
seemed again to flow; she began to breathe more freely, and her 
senses revived.  She had not fainted, nor had ever totally lost her 
consciousness, but had contrived to support herself on the bench; 
still without courage to turn her eyes upon the unfortunate object, 
which remained near her, and about whom the men were yet too much 
engaged to attend to her.

When her strength returned, she rose, and was suffered to leave the 
hall, though her anxiety, having produced some vain enquiries, 
concerning Madame Montoni, had thus made a discovery of herself.  
Towards her chamber she now hastened, as fast as her steps would bear 
her, for she still perceived, upon her passage, the sounds of 
confusion at a distance, and she endeavoured, by taking her way 
through some obscure rooms, to avoid encountering the persons, whose 
looks had terrified her before, as well as those parts of the castle, 
where the tumult might still rage.

At length, she reached her chamber, and, having secured the door of 
the corridor, felt herself, for a moment, in safety.  A profound 
stillness reigned in this remote apartment, which not even the faint 
murmur of the most distant sounds now reached.  She sat down, near 
one of the casements, and, as she gazed on the mountain-view beyond, 
the deep repose of its beauty struck her with all the force of 
contrast, and she could scarcely believe herself so near a scene of 
savage discord.  The contending elements seemed to have retired from 
their natural spheres, and to have collected themselves into the 
minds of men, for there alone the tempest now reigned.

Emily tried to tranquillize her spirits, but anxiety made her 
constantly listen for some sound, and often look out upon the 
ramparts, where all, however, was lonely and still.  As a sense of 
her own immediate danger had decreased, her apprehension concerning 
Madame Montoni heightened, who, she remembered, had been fiercely 
threatened with confinement in the east turret, and it was possible, 
that her husband had satisfied his present vengeance with this 
punishment.  She, therefore, determined, when night should return, 
and the inhabitants of the castle should be asleep, to explore the 
way to the turret, which, as the direction it stood in was mentioned, 
appeared not very difficult to be done.  She knew, indeed, that 
although her aunt might be there, she could afford her no effectual 
assistance, but it might give her some comfort even to know, that she 
was discovered, and to hear the sound of her niece's voice; for 
herself, any certainty, concerning Madame Montoni's fate, appeared 
more tolerable, than this exhausting suspense.

Meanwhile, Annette did not appear, and Emily was surprised, and 
somewhat alarmed for her, whom, in the confusion of the late scene, 
various accidents might have befallen, and it was improbable, that 
she would have failed to come to her apartment, unless something 
unfortunate had happened.

Thus the hours passed in solitude, in silence, and in anxious 
conjecturing.  Being not once disturbed by a message, or a sound, it 
appeared, that Montoni had wholly forgotten her, and it gave her some 
comfort to find, that she could be so unnoticed.  She endeavoured to 
withdraw her thoughts from the anxiety, that preyed upon them, but 
they refused controul; she could neither read, or draw, and the tones 
of her lute were so utterly discordant with the present state of her 
feelings, that she could not endure them for a moment.

The sun, at length, set behind the western mountains; his fiery beams 
faded from the clouds, and then a dun melancholy purple drew over 
them, and gradually involved the features of the country below.  Soon 
after, the sentinels passed on the rampart to commence the watch.

Twilight had now spread its gloom over every object; the dismal 
obscurity of her chamber recalled fearful thoughts, but she 
remembered, that to procure a light she must pass through a great 
extent of the castle, and, above all, through the halls, where she 
had already experienced so much horror.  Darkness, indeed, in the 
present state of her spirits, made silence and solitude terrible to 
her; it would also prevent the possibility of her finding her way to 
the turret, and condemn her to remain in suspense, concerning the 
fate of her aunt; yet she dared not to venture forth for a lamp.

Continuing at the casement, that she might catch the last lingering 
gleam of evening, a thousand vague images of fear floated on her 
fancy.  'What if some of these ruffians,' said she, 'should find out 
the private stair-case, and in the darkness of night steal into my 
chamber!'  Then, recollecting the mysterious inhabitant of the 
neighbouring apartment, her terror changed its object.  'He is not a 
prisoner,' said she, 'though he remains in one chamber, for Montoni 
did not fasten the door, when he left it; the unknown person himself 
did this; it is certain, therefore, he can come out when he pleases.'

She paused, for, notwithstanding the terrors of darkness, she 
considered it to be very improbable, whoever he was, that he could 
have any interest in intruding upon her retirement; and again the 
subject of her emotion changed, when, remembering her nearness to the 
chamber, where the veil had formerly disclosed a dreadful spectacle, 
she doubted whether some passage might not communicate between it and 
the insecure door of the stair-case.

It was now entirely dark, and she left the casement.  As she sat with 
her eyes fixed on the hearth, she thought she perceived there a spark 
of light; it twinkled and disappeared, and then again was visible.  
At length, with much care, she fanned the embers of a wood fire, that 
had been lighted in the morning, into flame, and, having communicated 
it to a lamp, which always stood in her room, felt a satisfaction not 
to be conceived, without a review of her situation.  Her first care 
was to guard the door of the stair-case, for which purpose she placed 
against it all the furniture she could move, and she was thus 
employed, for some time, at the end of which she had another instance 
how much more oppressive misfortune is to the idle, than to the busy; 
for, having then leisure to think over all the circumstances of her 
present afflictions, she imagined a thousand evils for futurity, and 
these real and ideal subjects of distress alike wounded her mind.

Thus heavily moved the hours till midnight, when she counted the 
sullen notes of the great clock, as they rolled along the rampart, 
unmingled with any sound, except the distant foot-fall of a sentinel, 
who came to relieve guard.  She now thought she might venture towards 
the turret, and, having gently opened the chamber door to examine the 
corridor, and to listen if any person was stirring in the castle, 
found all around in perfect stillness.  Yet no sooner had she left 
the room, than she perceived a light flash on the walls of the 
corridor, and, without waiting to see by whom it was carried, she 
shrunk back, and closed her door.  No one approaching, she 
conjectured, that it was Montoni going to pay his mid-night visit to 
her unknown neighbour, and she determined to wait, till he should 
have retired to his own apartment.

When the chimes had tolled another half hour, she once more opened 
the door, and, perceiving that no person was in the corridor, hastily 
crossed into a passage, that led along the south side of the castle 
towards the stair-case, whence she believed she could easily find her 
way to the turret.  Often pausing on her way, listening 
apprehensively to the murmurs of the wind, and looking fearfully 
onward into the gloom of the long passages, she, at length, reached 
the stair-case; but there her perplexity began.  Two passages 
appeared, of which she knew not how to prefer one, and was compelled, 
at last, to decide by chance, rather than by circumstances.  That she 
entered, opened first into a wide gallery, along which she passed 
lightly and swiftly; for the lonely aspect of the place awed her, and 
she started at the echo of her own steps.

On a sudden, she thought she heard a voice, and, not distinguishing 
from whence it came, feared equally to proceed, or to return.  For 
some moments, she stood in an attitude of listening expectation, 
shrinking almost from herself and scarcely daring to look round her.  
The voice came again, but, though it was now near her, terror did not 
allow her to judge exactly whence it proceeded.  She thought, 
however, that it was the voice of complaint, and her belief was soon 
confirmed by a low moaning sound, that seemed to proceed from one of 
the chambers, opening into the gallery.  It instantly occurred to 
her, that Madame Montoni might be there confined, and she advanced to 
the door to speak, but was checked by considering, that she was, 
perhaps, going to commit herself to a stranger, who might discover 
her to Montoni; for, though this person, whoever it was, seemed to be 
in affliction, it did not follow, that he was a prisoner.

While these thoughts passed over her mind, and left her still in 
hesitation, the voice spoke again, and, calling 'Ludovico,' she then 
perceived it to be that of Annette; on which, no longer hesitating, 
she went in joy to answer her.

'Ludovico!' cried Annette, sobbing--'Ludovico!'

'It is not Ludovico, it is I--Mademoiselle Emily.'

Annette ceased sobbing, and was silent.

'If you can open the door, let me in,' said Emily, 'here is no person 
to hurt you.'

'Ludovico!--O, Ludovico!' cried Annette.

Emily now lost her patience, and her fear of being overheard 
increasing, she was even nearly about to leave the door, when she 
considered, that Annette might, possibly, know something of the 
situation of Madame Montoni, or direct her to the turret.  At length, 
she obtained a reply, though little satisfactory, to her questions, 
for Annette knew nothing of Madame Montoni, and only conjured Emily 
to tell her what was become of Ludovico.  Of him she had no 
information to give, and she again asked who had shut Annette up.

'Ludovico,' said the poor girl, 'Ludovico shut me up.  When I ran 
away from the dressing-room door to-day, I went I scarcely knew 
where, for safety; and, in this gallery, here, I met Ludovico, who 
hurried me into this chamber, and locked me up to keep me out of 
harm, as he said.  But he was in such a hurry himself, he hardly 
spoke ten words, but he told me he would come, and let me out, when 
all was quiet, and he took away the key with him.  Now all these 
hours are passed, and I have neither seen, or heard a word of him; 
they have murdered him--I know they have!'

Emily suddenly remembered the wounded person, whom she had seen borne 
into the servants' hall, and she scarcely doubted, that he was 
Ludovico, but she concealed the circumstance from Annette, and 
endeavoured to comfort her.  Then, impatient to learn something of 
her aunt, she again enquired the way to the turret.

'O! you are not going, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'for Heaven's sake, 
do not go, and leave me here by myself.'

'Nay, Annette, you do not think I can wait in the gallery all night,' 
replied Emily.  'Direct me to the turret; in the morning I will 
endeavour to release you.'

'O holy Mary!' exclaimed Annette, 'am I to stay here by myself all 
night!  I shall be frightened out of my senses, and I shall die of 
hunger; I have had nothing to eat since dinner!'

Emily could scarcely forbear smiling at the heterogeneous distresses 
of Annette, though she sincerely pitied them, and said what she could 
to sooth her.  At length, she obtained something like a direction to 
the east turret, and quitted the door, from whence, after many 
intricacies and perplexities, she reached the steep and winding 
stairs of the turret, at the foot of which she stopped to rest, and 
to re-animate her courage with a sense of her duty.  As she surveyed 
this dismal place, she perceived a door on the opposite side of the 
stair-case, and, anxious to know whether it would lead her to Madame 
Montoni, she tried to undraw the bolts, which fastened it.  A fresher 
air came to her face, as she unclosed the door, which opened upon the 
east rampart, and the sudden current had nearly extinguished her 
light, which she now removed to a distance; and again, looking out 
upon the obscure terrace, she perceived only the faint outline of the 
walls and of some towers, while, above, heavy clouds, borne along the 
wind, seemed to mingle with the stars, and wrap the night in thicker 
darkness.  As she gazed, now willing to defer the moment of 
certainty, from which she expected only confirmation of evil, a 
distant footstep reminded her, that she might be observed by the men 
on watch, and, hastily closing the door, she took her lamp, and 
passed up the stair-case.  Trembling came upon her, as she ascended 
through the gloom.  To her melancholy fancy this seemed to be a place 
of death, and the chilling silence, that reigned, confirmed its 
character.  Her spirits faltered.  'Perhaps,' said she, 'I am come 
hither only to learn a dreadful truth, or to witness some horrible 
spectacle; I feel that my senses would not survive such an addition 
of horror.'

The image of her aunt murdered--murdered, perhaps, by the hand of 
Montoni, rose to her mind; she trembled, gasped for breath--repented 
that she had dared to venture hither, and checked her steps.  But, 
after she had paused a few minutes, the consciousness of her duty 
returned, and she went on.  Still all was silent.  At length a track 
of blood, upon a stair, caught her eye; and instantly she perceived, 
that the wall and several other steps were stained.  She paused, 
again struggled to support herself, and the lamp almost fell from her 
trembling hand.  Still no sound was heard, no living being seemed to 
inhabit the turret; a thousand times she wished herself again in her 
chamber; dreaded to enquire farther--dreaded to encounter some 
horrible spectacle, and yet could not resolve, now that she was so 
near the termination of her efforts, to desist from them.  Having 
again collected courage to proceed, after ascending about half way up 
the turret, she came to another door, but here again she stopped in 
hesitation; listened for sounds within, and then, summoning all her 
resolution, unclosed it, and entered a chamber, which, as her lamp 
shot its feeble rays through the darkness, seemed to exhibit only 
dew-stained and deserted walls.  As she stood examining it, in 
fearful expectation of discovering the remains of her unfortunate 
aunt, she perceived something lying in an obscure corner of the room, 
and, struck with an horrible conviction, she became, for an instant, 
motionless and nearly insensible.  Then, with a kind of desperate 
resolution, she hurried towards the object that excited her terror, 
when, perceiving the clothes of some person, on the floor, she caught 
hold of them, and found in her grasp the old uniform of a soldier, 
beneath which appeared a heap of pikes and other arms.  Scarcely 
daring to trust her sight, she continued, for some moments, to gaze 
on the object of her late alarm, and then left the chamber, so much 
comforted and occupied by the conviction, that her aunt was not 
there, that she was going to descend the turret, without enquiring 
farther; when, on turning to do so, she observed upon some steps on 
the second flight an appearance of blood, and remembering, that there 
was yet another chamber to be explored, she again followed the 
windings of the ascent.  Still, as she ascended, the track of blood 
glared upon the stairs.

It led her to the door of a landing-place, that terminated them, but 
she was unable to follow it farther.  Now that she was so near the 
sought-for certainty, she dreaded to know it, even more than before, 
and had not fortitude sufficient to speak, or to attempt opening the 
door.

Having listened, in vain, for some sound, that might confirm, or 
destroy her fears, she, at length, laid her hand on the lock, and, 
finding it fastened, called on Madame Montoni; but only a chilling 
silence ensued.

'She is dead!' she cried,--'murdered!--her blood is on the stairs!'

Emily grew very faint; could support herself no longer, and had 
scarcely presence of mind to set down the lamp, and place herself on 
a step.

When her recollection returned, she spoke again at the door, and 
again attempted to open it, and, having lingered for some time, 
without receiving any answer, or hearing a sound, she descended the 
turret, and, with all the swiftness her feebleness would permit, 
sought her own apartment.

As she turned into the corridor, the door of a chamber opened, from 
whence Montoni came forth; but Emily, more terrified than ever to 
behold him, shrunk back into the passage soon enough to escape being 
noticed, and heard him close the door, which she had perceived was 
the same she formerly observed.  Having here listened to his 
departing steps, till their faint sound was lost in distance, she 
ventured to her apartment, and, securing it once again, retired to 
her bed, leaving the lamp burning on the hearth.  But sleep was fled 
from her harassed mind, to which images of horror alone occurred.  
She endeavoured to think it possible, that Madame Montoni had not 
been taken to the turret; but, when she recollected the former 
menaces of her husband and the terrible spirit of vengeance, which he 
had displayed on a late occasion; when she remembered his general 
character, the looks of the men, who had forced Madame Montoni from 
her apartment, and the written traces on the stairs of the turret--
she could not doubt, that her aunt had been carried thither, and 
could scarcely hope, that she had not been carried to be murdered.

The grey of morning had long dawned through her casements, before 
Emily closed her eyes in sleep; when wearied nature, at length, 
yielded her a respite from suffering.



CHAPTER XI


 Who rears the bloody hand?
     SAYERS

Emily remained in her chamber, on the following morning, without 
receiving any notice from Montoni, or seeing a human being, except 
the armed men, who sometimes passed on the terrace below.  Having 
tasted no food since the dinner of the preceding day, extreme 
faintness made her feel the necessity of quitting the asylum of her 
apartment to obtain refreshment, and she was also very anxious to 
procure liberty for Annette.  Willing, however, to defer venturing 
forth, as long as possible, and considering, whether she should apply 
to Montoni, or to the compassion of some other person, her excessive 
anxiety concerning her aunt, at length, overcame her abhorrence of 
his presence, and she determined to go to him, and to entreat, that 
he would suffer her to see Madame Montoni.

Meanwhile, it was too certain, from the absence of Annette, that some 
accident had befallen Ludovico, and that she was still in 
confinement; Emily, therefore, resolved also to visit the chamber, 
where she had spoken to her, on the preceding night, and, if the poor 
girl was yet there, to inform Montoni of her situation.

It was near noon, before she ventured from her apartment, and went 
first to the south gallery, whither she passed without meeting a 
single person, or hearing a sound, except, now and then, the echo of 
a distant footstep.

It was unnecessary to call Annette, whose lamentations were audible 
upon the first approach to the gallery, and who, bewailing her own 
and Ludovico's fate, told Emily, that she should certainly be starved 
to death, if she was not let out immediately.  Emily replied, that 
she was going to beg her release of Montoni; but the terrors of 
hunger now yielded to those of the Signor, and, when Emily left her, 
she was loudly entreating, that her place of refuge might be 
concealed from him.

As Emily drew near the great hall, the sounds she heard and the 
people she met in the passages renewed her alarm.  The latter, 
however, were peaceable, and did not interrupt her, though they 
looked earnestly at her, as she passed, and sometimes spoke.  On 
crossing the hall towards the cedar room, where Montoni usually sat, 
she perceived, on the pavement, fragments of swords, some tattered 
garments stained with blood, and almost expected to have seen among 
them a dead body; but from such a spectacle she was, at present, 
spared.  As she approached the room, the sound of several voices 
issued from within, and a dread of appearing before many strangers, 
as well as of irritating Montoni by such an intrusion, made her pause 
and falter from her purpose.  She looked up through the long arcades 
of the hall, in search of a servant, who might bear a message, but no 
one appeared, and the urgency of what she had to request made her 
still linger near the door.  The voices within were not in 
contention, though she distinguished those of several of the guests 
of the preceding day; but still her resolution failed, whenever she 
would have tapped at the door, and she had determined to walk in the 
hall, till some person should appear, who might call Montoni from the 
room, when, as she turned from the door, it was suddenly opened by 
himself.  Emily trembled, and was confused, while he almost started 
with surprise, and all the terrors of his countenance unfolded 
themselves.  She forgot all she would have said, and neither enquired 
for her aunt, or entreated for Annette, but stood silent and 
embarrassed.

After closing the door he reproved her for a meanness, of which she 
had not been guilty, and sternly questioned her what she had 
overheard; an accusation, which revived her recollection so far, that 
she assured him she had not come thither with an intention to listen 
to his conversation, but to entreat his compassion for her aunt, and 
for Annette.  Montoni seemed to doubt this assertion, for he regarded 
her with a scrutinizing look; and the doubt evidently arose from no 
trifling interest.  Emily then further explained herself, and 
concluded with entreating him to inform her, where her aunt was 
placed, and to permit, that she might visit her; but he looked upon 
her only with a malignant smile, which instantaneously confirmed her 
worst fears for her aunt, and, at that moment, she had not courage to 
renew her entreaties.

'For Annette,' said he,--'if you go to Carlo, he will release the 
girl; the foolish fellow, who shut her up, died yesterday.'  Emily 
shuddered.--'But my aunt, Signor'--said she, 'O tell me of my aunt!'

'She is taken care of,' replied Montoni hastily, 'I have no time to 
answer idle questions.'

He would have passed on, but Emily, in a voice of agony, that could 
not be wholly resisted, conjured him to tell her, where Madame 
Montoni was; while he paused, and she anxiously watched his 
countenance, a trumpet sounded, and, in the next moment, she heard 
the heavy gates of the portal open, and then the clattering of 
horses' hoofs in the court, with the confusion of many voices.  She 
stood for a moment hesitating whether she should follow Montoni, who, 
at the sound of the trumpet, had passed through the hall, and, 
turning her eyes whence it came, she saw through the door, that 
opened beyond a long perspective of arches into the courts, a party 
of horsemen, whom she judged, as well as the distance and her 
embarrassment would allow, to be the same she had seen depart, a few 
days before.  But she staid not to scrutinize, for, when the trumpet 
sounded again, the chevaliers rushed out of the cedar room, and men 
came running into the hall from every quarter of the castle.  Emily 
once more hurried for shelter to her own apartment.  Thither she was 
still pursued by images of horror.  She re-considered Montoni's 
manner and words, when he had spoken of his wife, and they served 
only to confirm her most terrible suspicions.  Tears refused any 
longer to relieve her distress, and she had sat for a considerable 
time absorbed in thought, when a knocking at the chamber door aroused 
her, on opening which she found old Carlo.

'Dear young lady,' said he, 'I have been so flurried, I never once 
thought of you till just now.  I have brought you some fruit and 
wine, and I am sure you must stand in need of them by this time.'

'Thank you, Carlo,' said Emily, 'this is very good of you  Did the 
Signor remind you of me?'

'No, Signora,' replied Carlo, 'his excellenza has business enough on 
his hands.'  Emily then renewed her enquiries, concerning Madame 
Montoni, but Carlo had been employed at the other end of the castle, 
during the time, that she was removed, and he had heard nothing 
since, concerning her.

While he spoke, Emily looked steadily at him, for she scarcely knew 
whether he was really ignorant, or concealed his knowledge of the 
truth from a fear of offending his master.  To several questions, 
concerning the contentions of yesterday, he gave very limited 
answers; but told, that the disputes were now amicably settled, and 
that the Signor believed himself to have been mistaken in his 
suspicions of his guests.  'The fighting was about that, Signora,' 
said Carlo; 'but I trust I shall never see such another day in this 
castle, though strange things are about to be done.'

On her enquiring his meaning, 'Ah, Signora!' added he, 'it is not for 
me to betray secrets, or tell all I think, but time will tell.'

She then desired him to release Annette, and, having described the 
chamber in which the poor girl was confined, he promised to obey her 
immediately, and was departing, when she remembered to ask who were 
the persons just arrived.  Her late conjecture was right; it was 
Verezzi, with his party.

Her spirits were somewhat soothed by this short conversation with 
Carlo; for, in her present circumstances, it afforded some comfort to 
hear the accents of compassion, and to meet the look of sympathy.

An hour passed before Annette appeared, who then came weeping and 
sobbing.  'O Ludovico--Ludovico!' cried she.

'My poor Annette!' said Emily, and made her sit down.

'Who could have foreseen this, ma'amselle?  O miserable, wretched, 
day--that ever I should live to see it!' and she continued to moan 
and lament, till Emily thought it necessary to check her excess of 
grief.  'We are continually losing dear friends by death,' said she, 
with a sigh, that came from her heart.  'We must submit to the will 
of Heaven--our tears, alas! cannot recall the dead!'

Annette took the handkerchief from her face.

'You will meet Ludovico in a better world, I hope,' added Emily.

'Yes--yes,--ma'amselle,' sobbed Annette, 'but I hope I shall meet him 
again in this--though he is so wounded!'

'Wounded!' exclaimed Emily, 'does he live?'

'Yes, ma'am, but--but he has a terrible wound, and could not come to 
let me out.  They thought him dead, at first, and he has not been 
rightly himself, till within this hour.'

'Well, Annette, I rejoice to hear he lives.'

'Lives!  Holy Saints! why he will not die, surely!'

Emily said she hoped not, but this expression of hope Annette thought 
implied fear, and her own increased in proportion, as Emily 
endeavoured to encourage her.  To enquiries, concerning Madame 
Montoni, she could give no satisfactory answers.

'I quite forgot to ask among the servants, ma'amselle,' said she, 
'for I could think of nobody but poor Ludovico.'

Annette's grief was now somewhat assuaged, and Emily sent her to make 
enquiries, concerning her lady, of whom, however, she could obtain no 
intelligence, some of the people she spoke with being really ignorant 
of her fate, and others having probably received orders to conceal 
it.

This day passed with Emily in continued grief and anxiety for her 
aunt; but she was unmolested by any notice from Montoni; and, now 
that Annette was liberated, she obtained food, without exposing 
herself to danger, or impertinence.

Two following days passed in the same manner, unmarked by any 
occurrence, during which she obtained no information of Madame 
Montoni.  On the evening of the second, having dismissed Annette, and 
retired to bed, her mind became haunted by the most dismal images, 
such as her long anxiety, concerning her aunt, suggested; and, unable 
to forget herself, for a moment, or to vanquish the phantoms, that 
tormented her, she rose from her bed, and went to one of the 
casements of her chamber, to breathe a freer air.

All without was silent and dark, unless that could be called light, 
which was only the faint glimmer of the stars, shewing imperfectly 
the outline of the mountains, the western towers of the castle and 
the ramparts below, where a solitary sentinel was pacing.  What an 
image of repose did this scene present!  The fierce and terrible 
passions, too, which so often agitated the inhabitants of this 
edifice, seemed now hushed in sleep;--those mysterious workings, that 
rouse the elements of man's nature into tempest--were calm.  Emily's 
heart was not so; but her sufferings, though deep, partook of the 
gentle character of her mind.  Hers was a silent anguish, weeping, 
yet enduring; not the wild energy of passion, inflaming imagination, 
bearing down the barriers of reason and living in a world of its own.

The air refreshed her, and she continued at the casement, looking on 
the shadowy scene, over which the planets burned with a clear light, 
amid the deep blue aether, as they silently moved in their destined 
course.  She remembered how often she had gazed on them with her dear 
father, how often he had pointed out their way in the heavens, and 
explained their laws; and these reflections led to others, which, in 
an almost equal degree, awakened her grief and astonishment.

They brought a retrospect of all the strange and mournful events, 
which had occurred since she lived in peace with her parents.  And to 
Emily, who had been so tenderly educated, so tenderly loved, who once 
knew only goodness and happiness--to her, the late events and her 
present situation--in a foreign land--in a remote castle--surrounded 
by vice and violence--seemed more like the visions of a distempered 
imagination, than the circumstances of truth.  She wept to think of 
what her parents would have suffered, could they have foreseen the 
events of her future life.

While she raised her streaming eyes to heaven, she observed the same 
planet, which she had seen in Languedoc, on the night, preceding her 
father's death, rise above the eastern towers of the castle, while 
she remembered the conversation, which has passed, concerning the 
probable state of departed souls; remembered, also, the solemn music 
she had heard, and to which the tenderness of her spirits had, in 
spite of her reason, given a superstitious meaning.  At these 
recollections she wept again, and continued musing, when suddenly the 
notes of sweet music passed on the air.  A superstitious dread stole 
over her; she stood listening, for some moments, in trembling 
expectation, and then endeavoured to re-collect her thoughts, and to 
reason herself into composure; but human reason cannot establish her 
laws on subjects, lost in the obscurity of imagination, any more than 
the eye can ascertain the form of objects, that only glimmer through 
the dimness of night.

Her surprise, on hearing such soothing and delicious sounds, was, at 
least, justifiable; for it was long--very long, since she had 
listened to any thing like melody.  The fierce trumpet and the shrill 
fife were the only instruments she had heard, since her arrival at 
Udolpho.

When her mind was somewhat more composed, she tried to ascertain from 
what quarter the sounds proceeded, and thought they came from below; 
but whether from a room of the castle, or from the terrace, she could 
not with certainty judge.  Fear and surprise now yielded to the 
enchantment of a strain, that floated on the silent night, with the 
most soft and melancholy sweetness.  Suddenly, it seemed removed to a 
distance, trembled faintly, and then entirely ceased.

She continued to listen, sunk in that pleasing repose, which soft 
music leaves on the mind--but it came no more.  Upon this strange 
circumstance her thoughts were long engaged, for strange it certainly 
was to hear music at midnight, when every inhabitant of the castle 
had long since retired to rest, and in a place, where nothing like 
harmony had been heard before, probably, for many years.  Long-
suffering had made her spirits peculiarly sensible to terror, and 
liable to be affected by the illusions of superstition.--It now 
seemed to her, as if her dead father had spoken to her in that 
strain, to inspire her with comfort and confidence, on the subject, 
which had then occupied her mind.  Yet reason told her, that this was 
a wild conjecture, and she was inclined to dismiss it; but, with the 
inconsistency so natural, when imagination guides the thoughts, she 
then wavered towards a belief as wild.  She remembered the singular 
event, connected with the castle, which had given it into the 
possession of its present owner; and, when she considered the 
mysterious manner, in which its late possessor had disappeared, and 
that she had never since been heard of, her mind was impressed with 
an high degree of solemn awe; so that, though there appeared no clue 
to connect that event with the late music, she was inclined 
fancifully to think they had some relation to each other.  At this 
conjecture, a sudden chillness ran through her frame; she looked 
fearfully upon the duskiness of her chamber, and the dead silence, 
that prevailed there, heightened to her fancy its gloomy aspect.

At length, she left the casement, but her steps faltered, as she 
approached the bed, and she stopped and looked round.  The single 
lamp, that burned in her spacious chamber, was expiring; for a 
moment, she shrunk from the darkness beyond; and then, ashamed of the 
weakness, which, however, she could not wholly conquer, went forward 
to the bed, where her mind did not soon know the soothings of sleep.  
She still mused on the late occurrence, and looked with anxiety to 
the next night, when, at the same hour, she determined to watch 
whether the music returned.  'If those sounds were human,' said she, 
'I shall probably hear them again.'



CHAPTER XII


  Then, oh, you blessed ministers above,
 Keep me in patience; and, in ripen'd time,
 Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up
 In countenance.
     SHAKESPEARE

Annette came almost breathless to Emily's apartment in the morning.  
'O ma'amselle!' said she, in broken sentences, 'what news I have to 
tell!  I have found out who the prisoner is--but he was no prisoner, 
neither;--he that was shut up in the chamber I told you of.  I must 
think him a ghost, forsooth!'

'Who was the prisoner?' enquired Emily, while her thoughts glanced 
back to the circumstance of the preceding night.

'You mistake, ma'am,' said Annette; 'he was not a prisoner, after 
all.'

'Who is the person, then?'

'Holy Saints!' rejoined Annette; 'How I was surprised!  I met him 
just now, on the rampart below, there.  I never was so surprised in 
my life!  Ah! ma'amselle! this is a strange place!  I should never 
have done wondering, if I was to live here an hundred years.  But, as 
I was saying, I met him just now on the rampart, and I was thinking 
of nobody less than of him.'

'This trifling is insupportable,' said Emily; 'prythee, Annette, do 
not torture my patience any longer.'

'Nay, ma'amselle, guess--guess who it was; it was somebody you know 
very well.'

'I cannot guess,' said Emily impatiently.

'Nay, ma'amselle, I'll tell you something to guess by--A tall Signor, 
with a longish face, who walks so stately, and used to wear such a 
high feather in his hat; and used often to look down upon the ground, 
when people spoke to him; and to look at people from under his 
eyebrows, as it were, all so dark and frowning.  You have seen him, 
often and often, at Venice, ma'am.  Then he was so intimate with the 
Signor, too.  And, now I think of it, I wonder what he could be 
afraid of in this lonely old castle, that he should shut himself up 
for.  But he is come abroad now, for I met him on the rampart just 
this minute.  I trembled when I saw him, for I always was afraid of 
him, somehow; but I determined I would not let him see it; so I went 
up to him, and made him a low curtesy, "You are welcome to the 
castle, Signor Orsino," said I.'

'O, it was Signor Orsino, then!' said Emily.

'Yes, ma'amselle, Signor Orsino, himself, who caused that Venetian 
gentleman to be killed, and has been popping about from place to 
place, ever since, as I hear.'

'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, recovering from the shock of this 
intelligence; 'and is HE come to Udolpho!  He does well to endeavour 
to conceal himself.'

'Yes, ma'amselle, but if that was all, this desolate place would 
conceal him, without his shutting himself up in one room.  Who would 
think of coming to look for him here?  I am sure I should as soon 
think of going to look for any body in the other world.'

'There is some truth in that,' said Emily, who would now have 
concluded it was Orsino's music, which she had heard, on the 
preceding night, had she not known, that he had neither taste, or 
skill in the art.  But, though she was unwilling to add to the number 
of Annette's surprises, by mentioning the subject of her own, she 
enquired, whether any person in the castle played on a musical 
instrument?

'O yes, ma'amselle! there is Benedetto plays the great drum to 
admiration; and then, there is Launcelot the trumpeter; nay, for that 
matter, Ludovico himself can play on the trumpet;--but he is ill now.  
I remember once'--

Emily interrupted her; 'Have you heard no other music since you came 
to the castle--none last night?'

'Why, did YOU hear any last night, ma'amselle?'

Emily evaded this question, by repeating her own.

'Why, no, ma'am,' replied Annette; 'I never heard any music here, I 
must say, but the drums and the trumpet; and, as for last night, I 
did nothing but dream I saw my late lady's ghost.'

'Your LATE lady's,' said Emily in a tremulous voice; 'you have heard 
more, then.  Tell me--tell me all, Annette, I entreat; tell me the 
worst at once.'

'Nay, ma'amselle, you know the worst already.'

'I know nothing,' said Emily.

'Yes, you do, ma'amselle; you know, that nobody knows any thing about 
her; and it is plain, therefore, she is gone, the way of the first 
lady of the castle--nobody ever knew any thing about her.'

Emily leaned her head upon her hand, and was, for some time, silent; 
then, telling Annette she wished to be alone, the latter left the 
room.

The remark of Annette had revived Emily's terrible suspicion, 
concerning the fate of Madame Montoni; and she resolved to make 
another effort to obtain certainty on this subject, by applying to 
Montoni once more.

When Annette returned, a few hours after, she told Emily, that the 
porter of the castle wished very much to speak with her, for that he 
had something of importance to say; her spirits had, however, of late 
been so subject to alarm, that any new circumstance excited it; and 
this message from the porter, when her first surprise was over, made 
her look round for some lurking danger, the more suspiciously, 
perhaps, because she had frequently remarked the unpleasant air and 
countenance of this man.  She now hesitated, whether to speak with 
him, doubting even, that this request was only a pretext to draw her 
into some danger; but a little reflection shewed her the 
improbability of this, and she blushed at her weak fears.

'I will speak to him, Annette,' said she; 'desire him to come to the 
corridor immediately.'

Annette departed, and soon after returned.

'Barnardine, ma'amselle,' said she, 'dare not come to the corridor, 
lest he should be discovered, it is so far from his post; and he dare 
not even leave the gates for a moment now; but, if you will come to 
him at the portal, through some roundabout passages he told me of, 
without crossing the courts, he has that to tell, which will surprise 
you.  But you must not come through the courts, lest the Signor 
should see you.'

Emily, neither approving these 'roundabout passage,' nor the other 
part of the request, now positively refused to go.  'Tell him,' said 
she, 'if he has any thing of consequence to impart, I will hear him 
in the corridor, whenever he has an opportunity of coming thither.'

Annette went to deliver this message, and was absent a considerable 
time.  When she returned, 'It won't do, ma'amselle,' said she.  
'Barnardine has been considering all this time what can be done, for 
it is as much as his place is worth to leave his post now.  But, if 
you will come to the east rampart in the dusk of the evening, he can, 
perhaps, steal away, and tell you all he has to say.'

Emily was surprised and alarmed, at the secrecy which this man seemed 
to think so necessary, and hesitated whether to meet him, till, 
considering, that he might mean to warn her of some serious danger, 
she resolved to go.

'Soon after sun-set,' said she, 'I will be at the end of the east 
rampart.  But then the watch will be set,' she added, recollecting 
herself, 'and how can Barnardine pass unobserved?'

'That is just what I said to him, ma'am, and he answered me, that he 
had the key of the gate, at the end of the rampart, that leads 
towards the courts, and could let himself through that way; and as 
for the sentinels, there were none at this end of the terrace, 
because the place is guarded enough by the high walls of the castle, 
and the east turret; and he said those at the other end were too far 
off to see him, if it was pretty duskyish.'

'Well,' said Emily, 'I must hear what he has to tell; and, therefore, 
desire you will go with me to the terrace, this evening.'

'He desired it might be pretty duskyish, ma'amselle,' repeated 
Annette, 'because of the watch.'

Emily paused, and then said she would be on the terrace, an hour 
after sun-set;--'and tell Barnardine,' she added, 'to be punctual to 
the time; for that I, also, may be observed by Signor Montoni.  Where 
is the Signor?  I would speak with him.'

'He is in the cedar chamber, ma'am, counselling with the other 
Signors.  He is going to give them a sort of treat to-day, to make up 
for what passed at the last, I suppose; the people are all very busy 
in the kitchen.'

Emily now enquired, if Montoni expected any new guests? and Annette 
believed that he did not.  'Poor Ludovico!' added she, 'he would be 
as merry as the best of them, if he was well; but he may recover yet.  
Count Morano was wounded as bad, as he, and he is got well again, and 
is gone back to Venice.'

'Is he so?' said Emily, 'when did you hear this?'

'I heard it, last night, ma'amselle, but I forgot to tell it.'

Emily asked some further questions, and then, desiring Annette would 
observe and inform her, when Montoni was alone, the girl went to 
deliver her message to Barnardine.

Montoni was, however, so much engaged, during the whole day, that 
Emily had no opportunity of seeking a release from her terrible 
suspense, concerning her aunt.  Annette was employed in watching his 
steps, and in attending upon Ludovico, whom she, assisted by 
Caterina, nursed with the utmost care; and Emily was, of course, left 
much alone.  Her thoughts dwelt often on the message of the porter, 
and were employed in conjecturing the subject, that occasioned it, 
which she sometimes imagined concerned the fate of Madame Montoni; at 
others, that it related to some personal danger, which threatened 
herself.  The cautious secrecy which Barnardine observed in his 
conduct, inclined her to believe the latter.

As the hour of appointment drew near, her impatience increased.  At 
length, the sun set; she heard the passing steps of the sentinels 
going to their posts; and waited only for Annette to accompany her to 
the terrace, who, soon after, came, and they descended together.  
When Emily expressed apprehensions of meeting Montoni, or some of his 
guests, 'O, there is no fear of that, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 
'they are all set in to feasting yet, and that Barnardine knows.'

They reached the first terrace, where the sentinels demanded who 
passed; and Emily, having answered, walked on to the east rampart, at 
the entrance of which they were again stopped; and, having again 
replied, were permitted to proceed.  But Emily did not like to expose 
herself to the discretion of these men, at such an hour; and, 
impatient to withdraw from the situation, she stepped hastily on in 
search of Barnardine.  He was not yet come.  She leaned pensively on 
the wall of the rampart, and waited for him.  The gloom of twilight 
sat deep on the surrounding objects, blending in soft confusion the 
valley, the mountains, and the woods, whose tall heads, stirred by 
the evening breeze, gave the only sounds, that stole on silence, 
except a faint, faint chorus of distant voices, that arose from 
within the castle.

'What voices are those?' said Emily, as she fearfully listened.

'It is only the Signor and his guests, carousing,' replied Annette.

'Good God!' thought Emily, 'can this man's heart be so gay, when he 
has made another being so wretched; if, indeed, my aunt is yet 
suffered to feel her wretchedness?  O! whatever are my own 
sufferings, may my heart never, never be hardened against those of 
others!'

She looked up, with a sensation of horror, to the east turret, near 
which she then stood; a light glimmered through the grates of the 
lower chamber, but those of the upper one were dark.  Presently, she 
perceived a person moving with a lamp across the lower room; but this 
circumstance revived no hope, concerning Madame Montoni, whom she had 
vainly sought in that apartment, which had appeared to contain only 
soldiers' accoutrements.  Emily, however, determined to attempt the 
outer door of the turret, as soon as Barnardine should withdraw; and, 
if it was unfastened, to make another effort to discover her aunt.

The moments passed, but still Barnardine did not appear; and Emily, 
becoming uneasy, hesitated whether to wait any longer.  She would 
have sent Annette to the portal to hasten him, but feared to be left 
alone, for it was now almost dark, and a melancholy streak of red, 
that still lingered in the west, was the only vestige of departed 
day.  The strong interest, however, which Barnardine's message had 
awakened, overcame other apprehensions, and still detained her.

While she was conjecturing with Annette what could thus occasion his 
absence, they heard a key turn in the lock of the gate near them, and 
presently saw a man advancing.  It was Barnardine, of whom Emily 
hastily enquired what he had to communicate, and desired, that he 
would tell her quickly, 'for I am chilled with this evening air,' 
said she.

'You must dismiss your maid, lady,' said the man in a voice, the deep 
tone of which shocked her, 'what I have to tell is to you only.'

Emily, after some hesitation, desired Annette to withdraw to a little 
distance.  'Now, my friend, what would you say?'

He was silent a moment, as if considering, and then said,--

'That which would cost me my place, at least, if it came to the 
Signor's ears.  You must promise, lady, that nothing shall ever make 
you tell a syllable of the matter; I have been trusted in this 
affair, and, if it was known, that I betrayed my trust, my life, 
perhaps, might answer it.  But I was concerned for you, lady, and I 
resolved to tell you.'  He paused.--

Emily thanked him, assured him that he might repose on her 
discretion, and entreated him to dispatch.

'Annette told us in the hall how unhappy you was about Signora 
Montoni, and how much you wished to know what was become of her.'

'Most true,' said Emily eagerly, 'and you can inform me.  I conjure 
you tell me the worst, without hesitation.'  She rested her trembling 
arm upon the wall.

'I can tell you,' said Barnardine, and paused.--

Emily had no power to enforce her entreaties.

'I CAN tell you,' resumed Barnardine,--'but'--

'But what?' exclaimed Emily, recovering her resolution.

'Here I am, ma'amselle,' said Annette, who, having heard the eager 
tone, in which Emily pronounced these words, came running towards 
her.

'Retire!' said Barnardine, sternly; 'you are not wanted;' and, as 
Emily said nothing, Annette obeyed.

'I CAN tell you,' repeated the porter,--'but I know not how--you was 
afflicted before.'--

'I am prepared for the worst, my friend,' said Emily, in a firm and 
solemn voice.  'I can support any certainty better than this 
suspense.'

'Well, Signora, if that is the case, you shall hear.--You know, I 
suppose, that the Signor and his lady used sometimes to disagree.  It 
is none of my concerns to enquire what it was about, but I believe 
you know it was so.'

'Well,' said Emily, 'proceed.'

'The Signor, it seems, had lately been very wrath against her.  I saw 
all, and heard all,--a great deal more than people thought for; but 
it was none of my business, so I said nothing.  A few days ago, the 
Signor sent for me.  "Barnardine," says he, "you are--an honest man, 
I think I can trust you."  I assured his excellenza that he could.  
"Then," says he, as near as I can remember, "I have an affair in 
hand, which I want you to assist me in."--Then he told me what I was 
to do; but that I shall say nothing about--it concerned only the 
Signora.'

'O Heavens!' exclaimed Emily--'what have you done?'

Barnardine hesitated, and was silent.

'What fiend could tempt him, or you, to such an act!' cried Emily, 
chilled with horror, and scarcely able to support her fainting 
spirits.

'It was a fiend,' said Barnardine in a gloomy tone of voice.  They 
were now both silent;--Emily had not courage to enquire further, and 
Barnardine seemed to shrink from telling more.  At length he said, 
'It is of no use to think of the past; the Signor was cruel enough, 
but he would be obeyed.  What signified my refusing?  He would have 
found others, who had no scruples.'

'You have murdered her, then!' said Emily, in a hollow and inward 
voice--'I am talking with a murderer!'  Barnardine stood silent; 
while Emily turned from him, and attempted to leave the place.

'Stay, lady!' said he, 'You deserve to think so still--since you can 
believe me capable of such a deed.'

'If you are innocent, tell me quickly,' said Emily, in faint accents, 
'for I feel I shall not be able to hear you long.'

'I will tell you no more,' said he, and walked away.  Emily had just 
strength enough to bid him stay, and then to call Annette, on whose 
arm she leaned, and they walked slowly up the rampart, till they 
heard steps behind them.  It was Barnardine again.

'Send away the girl,' said he, 'and I will tell you more.'

'She must not go,' said Emily; 'what you have to say, she may hear.'

'May she so, lady?' said he.  'You shall know no more, then;' and he 
was going, though slowly, when Emily's anxiety, overcoming the 
resentment and fear, which the man's behaviour had roused, she 
desired him to stay, and bade Annette retire.

'The Signora is alive,' said he, 'for me.  She is my prisoner, 
though; his excellenza has shut her up in the chamber over the great 
gates of the court, and I have the charge of her.  I was going to 
have told you, you might see her--but now--'

Emily, relieved from an unutterable load of anguish by this speech, 
had now only to ask Barnardine's forgiveness, and to conjure, that he 
would let her visit her aunt.

He complied with less reluctance, than she expected, and told her, 
that, if she would repair, on the following night, when the Signor 
was retired to rest, to the postern-gate of the castle, she should, 
perhaps, see Madame Montoni.

Amid all the thankfulness, which Emily felt for this concession, she 
thought she observed a malicious triumph in his manner, when he 
pronounced the last words; but, in the next moment, she dismissed the 
thought, and, having again thanked him, commended her aunt to his 
pity, and assured him, that she would herself reward him, and would 
be punctual to her appointment, she bade him good night, and retired, 
unobserved, to her chamber.  It was a considerable time, before the 
tumult of joy, which Barnardine's unexpected intelligence had 
occasioned, allowed Emily to think with clearness, or to be conscious 
of the real dangers, that still surrounded Madame Montoni and 
herself.  When this agitation subsided, she perceived, that her aunt 
was yet the prisoner of a man, to whose vengeance, or avarice, she 
might fall a sacrifice; and, when she further considered the savage 
aspect of the person, who was appointed to guard Madame Montoni, her 
doom appeared to be already sealed, for the countenance of Barnardine 
seemed to bear the stamp of a murderer; and, when she had looked upon 
it, she felt inclined to believe, that there was no deed, however 
black, which he might not be prevailed upon to execute.  These 
reflections brought to her remembrance the tone of voice, in which he 
had promised to grant her request to see his prisoner; and she mused 
upon it long in uneasiness and doubt.  Sometimes, she even hesitated, 
whether to trust herself with him at the lonely hour he had 
appointed; and once, and only once, it struck her, that Madame 
Montoni might be already murdered, and that this ruffian was 
appointed to decoy herself to some secret place, where her life also 
was to be sacrificed to the avarice of Montoni, who then would claim 
securely the contested estates in Languedoc.  The consideration of 
the enormity of such guilt did, at length, relieve her from the 
belief of its probability, but not from all the doubts and fears, 
which a recollection of Barnardine's manner had occasioned.  From 
these subjects, her thoughts, at length, passed to others; and, as 
the evening advanced, she remembered, with somewhat more than 
surprise, the music she had heard, on the preceding night, and now 
awaited its return, with more than curiosity.

She distinguished, till a late hour, the distant carousals of Montoni 
and his companions--the loud contest, the dissolute laugh and the 
choral song, that made the halls re-echo.  At length, she heard the 
heavy gates of the castle shut for the night, and those sounds 
instantly sunk into a silence, which was disturbed only by the 
whispering steps of persons, passing through the galleries to their 
remote rooms.  Emily now judging it to be about the time, when she 
had heard the music, on the preceding night, dismissed Annette, and 
gently opened the casement to watch for its return.  The planet she 
had so particularly noticed, at the recurrence of the music, was not 
yet risen; but, with superstitious weakness, she kept her eyes fixed 
on that part of the hemisphere, where it would rise, almost 
expecting, that, when it appeared, the sounds would return.  At 
length, it came, serenely bright, over the eastern towers of the 
castle.  Her heart trembled, when she perceived it, and she had 
scarcely courage to remain at the casement, lest the returning music 
should confirm her terror, and subdue the little strength she yet 
retained.  The clock soon after struck one, and, knowing this to be 
about the time, when the sounds had occurred, she sat down in a 
chair, near the casement, and endeavoured to compose her spirits; but 
the anxiety of expectation yet disturbed them.  Every thing, however, 
remained still; she heard only the solitary step of a sentinel, and 
the lulling murmur of the woods below, and she again leaned from the 
casement, and again looked, as if for intelligence, to the planet, 
which was now risen high above the towers.

Emily continued to listen, but no music came.  'Those were surely no 
mortal sounds!' said she, recollecting their entrancing melody.  'No 
inhabitant of this castle could utter such; and, where is the 
feeling, that could modulate such exquisite expression?  We all know, 
that it has been affirmed celestial sounds have sometimes been heard 
on earth.  Father Pierre and Father Antoine declared, that they had 
sometimes heard them in the stillness of night, when they alone were 
waking to offer their orisons to heaven.  Nay, my dear father 
himself, once said, that, soon after my mother's death, as he lay 
watchful in grief, sounds of uncommon sweetness called him from his 
bed; and, on opening his window, he heard lofty music pass along the 
midnight air.  It soothed him, he said; he looked up with confidence 
to heaven, and resigned her to his God.'

Emily paused to weep at this recollection.  'Perhaps,' resumed she, 
'perhaps, those strains I heard were sent to comfort,--to encourage 
me!  Never shall I forget those I heard, at this hour, in Languedoc!  
Perhaps, my father watches over me, at this moment!'  She wept again 
in tenderness.  Thus passed the hour in watchfulness and solemn 
thought; but no sounds returned; and, after remaining at the 
casement, till the light tint of dawn began to edge the mountain-tops 
and steal upon the night-shade, she concluded, that they would not 
return, and retired reluctantly to repose.




VOLUME 3



CHAPTER I


 I will advise you where to plant yourselves;
 Acquaint you with the perfect spy o' the time,
 The moment on 't; for 't must be done to-night.
     MACBETH

Emily was somewhat surprised, on the following day, to find that 
Annette had heard of Madame Montoni's confinement in the chamber over 
the portal, as well as of her purposed visit there, on the 
approaching night.  That the circumstance, which Barnardine had so 
solemnly enjoined her to conceal, he had himself told to so 
indiscreet an hearer as Annette, appeared very improbable, though he 
had now charged her with a message, concerning the intended 
interview.  He requested, that Emily would meet him, unattended, on 
the terrace, at a little after midnight, when he himself would lead 
her to the place he had promised; a proposal, from which she 
immediately shrunk, for a thousand vague fears darted athwart her 
mind, such as had tormented her on the preceding night, and which she 
neither knew how to trust, or to dismiss.  It frequently occurred to 
her, that Barnardine might have deceived her, concerning Madame 
Montoni, whose murderer, perhaps, he really was; and that he had 
deceived her by order of Montoni, the more easily to draw her into 
some of the desperate designs of the latter.  The terrible suspicion, 
that Madame Montoni no longer lived, thus came, accompanied by one 
not less dreadful for herself.  Unless the crime, by which the aunt 
had suffered, was instigated merely by resentment, unconnected with 
profit, a motive, upon which Montoni did not appear very likely to 
act, its object must be unattained, till the niece was also dead, to 
whom Montoni knew that his wife's estates must descend.  Emily 
remembered the words, which had informed her, that the contested 
estates in France would devolve to her, if Madame Montoni died, 
without consigning them to her husband, and the former obstinate 
perseverance of her aunt made it too probable, that she had, to the 
last, withheld them.  At this instant, recollecting Barnardine's 
manner, on the preceding night, she now believed, what she had then 
fancied, that it expressed malignant triumph.  She shuddered at the 
recollection, which confirmed her fears, and determined not to meet 
him on the terrace.  Soon after, she was inclined to consider these 
suspicions as the extravagant exaggerations of a timid and harassed 
mind, and could not believe Montoni liable to such preposterous 
depravity as that of destroying, from one motive, his wife and her 
niece.  She blamed herself for suffering her romantic imagination to 
carry her so far beyond the bounds of probability, and determined to 
endeavour to check its rapid flights, lest they should sometimes 
extend into madness.  Still, however, she shrunk from the thought of 
meeting Barnardine, on the terrace, at midnight; and still the wish 
to be relieved from this terrible suspense, concerning her aunt, to 
see her, and to sooth her sufferings, made her hesitate what to do.

'Yet how is it possible, Annette, I can pass to the terrace at that 
hour?' said she, recollecting herself, 'the sentinels will stop me, 
and Signor Montoni will hear of the affair.'

'O ma'amselle! that is well thought of,' replied Annette.  'That is 
what Barnardine told me about.  He gave me this key, and bade me say 
it unlocks the door at the end of the vaulted gallery, that opens 
near the end of the east rampart, so that you need not pass any of 
the men on watch.  He bade me say, too, that his reason for 
requesting you to come to the terrace was, because he could take you 
to the place you want to go to, without opening the great doors of 
the hall, which grate so heavily.'

Emily's spirits were somewhat calmed by this explanation, which 
seemed to be honestly given to Annette.  'But why did he desire I 
would come alone, Annette?' said she.

'Why that was what I asked him myself, ma'amselle.  Says I, Why is my 
young lady to come alone?--Surely I may come with her!--What harm can 
I do?  But he said "No--no--I tell you not," in his gruff way.  Nay, 
says I, I have been trusted in as great affairs as this, I warrant, 
and it's a hard matter if _I_ can't keep a secret now.  Still he 
would say nothing but--"No--no--no."  Well, says I, if you will only 
trust me, I will tell you a great secret, that was told me a month 
ago, and I have never opened my lips about it yet--so you need not be 
afraid of telling me.  But all would not do.  Then, ma'amselle, I 
went so far as to offer him a beautiful new sequin, that Ludovico 
gave me for a keep sake, and I would not have parted with it for all 
St. Marco's Place; but even that would not do!  Now what can be the 
reason of this?  But I know, you know, ma'am, who you are going to 
see.'

'Pray did Barnardine tell you this?'

'He!  No, ma'amselle, that he did not.'

Emily enquired who did, but Annette shewed, that she COULD keep a 
secret.

During the remainder of the day, Emily's mind was agitated with 
doubts and fears and contrary determinations, on the subject of 
meeting this Barnardine on the rampart, and submitting herself to his 
guidance, she scarcely knew whither.  Pity for her aunt and anxiety 
for herself alternately swayed her determination, and night came, 
before she had decided upon her conduct.  She heard the castle clock 
strike eleven--twelve--and yet her mind wavered.  The time, however, 
was now come, when she could hesitate no longer:  and then the 
interest she felt for her aunt overcame other considerations, and, 
bidding Annette follow her to the outer door of the vaulted gallery, 
and there await her return, she descended from her chamber.  The 
castle was perfectly still, and the great hall, where so lately she 
had witnessed a scene of dreadful contention, now returned only the 
whispering footsteps of the two solitary figures gliding fearfully 
between the pillars, and gleamed only to the feeble lamp they 
carried.  Emily, deceived by the long shadows of the pillars and by 
the catching lights between, often stopped, imagining she saw some 
person, moving in the distant obscurity of the perspective; and, as 
she passed these pillars, she feared to turn her eyes toward them, 
almost expecting to see a figure start out from behind their broad 
shaft.  She reached, however, the vaulted gallery, without 
interruption, but unclosed its outer door with a trembling hand, and, 
charging Annette not to quit it and to keep it a little open, that 
she might be heard if she called, she delivered to her the lamp, 
which she did not dare to take herself because of the men on watch, 
and, alone, stepped out upon the dark terrace.  Every thing was so 
still, that she feared, lest her own light steps should be heard by 
the distant sentinels, and she walked cautiously towards the spot, 
where she had before met Barnardine, listening for a sound, and 
looking onward through the gloom in search of him.  At length, she 
was startled by a deep voice, that spoke near her, and she paused, 
uncertain whether it was his, till it spoke again, and she then 
recognized the hollow tones of Barnardine, who had been punctual to 
the moment, and was at the appointed place, resting on the rampart 
wall.  After chiding her for not coming sooner, and saying, that he 
had been waiting nearly half an hour, he desired Emily, who made no 
reply, to follow him to the door, through which he had entered the 
terrace.

While he unlocked it, she looked back to that she had left, and, 
observing the rays of the lamp stream through a small opening, was 
certain, that Annette was still there.  But her remote situation 
could little befriend Emily, after she had quitted the terrace; and, 
when Barnardine unclosed the gate, the dismal aspect of the passage 
beyond, shewn by a torch burning on the pavement, made her shrink 
from following him alone, and she refused to go, unless Annette might 
accompany her.  This, however, Barnardine absolutely refused to 
permit, mingling at the same time with his refusal such artful 
circumstances to heighten the pity and curiosity of Emily towards her 
aunt, that she, at length, consented to follow him alone to the 
portal.

He then took up the torch, and led her along the passage, at the 
extremity of which he unlocked another door, whence they descended, a 
few steps, into a chapel, which, as Barnardine held up the torch to 
light her, Emily observed to be in ruins, and she immediately 
recollected a former conversation of Annette, concerning it, with 
very unpleasant emotions.  She looked fearfully on the almost 
roofless walls, green with damps, and on the gothic points of the 
windows, where the ivy and the briony had long supplied the place of 
glass, and ran mantling among the broken capitals of some columns, 
that had once supported the roof.  Barnardine stumbled over the 
broken pavement, and his voice, as he uttered a sudden oath, was 
returned in hollow echoes, that made it more terrific.  Emily's heart 
sunk; but she still followed him, and he turned out of what had been 
the principal aisle of the chapel.  'Down these steps, lady,' said 
Barnardine, as he descended a flight, which appeared to lead into the 
vaults; but Emily paused on the top, and demanded, in a tremulous 
tone, whither he was conducting her.

'To the portal,' said Barnardine.

'Cannot we go through the chapel to the portal?' said Emily.

'No, Signora, that leads to the inner court, which I don't choose to 
unlock.  This way, and we shall reach the outer court presently.'

Emily still hesitated; fearing not only to go on, but, since she had 
gone thus far, to irritate Barnardine by refusing to go further.

'Come, lady,' said the man, who had nearly reached the bottom of the 
flight, 'make a little haste; I cannot wait here all night.'

'Whither do these steps lead?' said Emily, yet pausing.

'To the portal,' repeated Barnardine, in an angry tone, 'I will wait 
no longer.'  As he said this, he moved on with the light, and Emily, 
fearing to provoke him by further delay, reluctantly followed.  From 
the steps, they proceeded through a passage, adjoining the vaults, 
the walls of which were dropping with unwholesome dews, and the 
vapours, that crept along the ground, made the torch burn so dimly, 
that Emily expected every moment to see it extinguished, and 
Barnardine could scarcely find his way.  As they advanced, these 
vapours thickened, and Barnardine, believing the torch was expiring, 
stopped for a moment to trim it.  As he then rested against a pair of 
iron gates, that opened from the passage, Emily saw, by uncertain 
flashes of light, the vaults beyond, and, near her, heaps of earth, 
that seemed to surround an open grave.  Such an object, in such a 
scene, would, at any time, have disturbed her; but now she was 
shocked by an instantaneous presentiment, that this was the grave of 
her unfortunate aunt, and that the treacherous Barnardine was leading 
herself to destruction.  The obscure and terrible place, to which he 
had conducted her, seemed to justify the thought; it was a place 
suited for murder, a receptacle for the dead, where a deed of horror 
might be committed, and no vestige appear to proclaim it.  Emily was 
so overwhelmed with terror, that, for a moment, she was unable to 
determine what conduct to pursue.  She then considered, that it would 
be vain to attempt an escape from Barnardine, by flight, since the 
length and the intricacy of the way she had passed would soon enable 
him to overtake her, who was unacquainted with the turnings, and 
whose feebleness would not suffer her to run long with swiftness.  
She feared equally to irritate him by a disclosure of her suspicions, 
which a refusal to accompany him further certainly would do; and, 
since she was already as much in his power as it was possible she 
could be, if she proceeded, she, at length, determined to suppress, 
as far as she could, the appearance of apprehension, and to follow 
silently whither he designed to lead her.  Pale with horror and 
anxiety, she now waited till Barnardine had trimmed the torch, and, 
as her sight glanced again upon the grave, she could not forbear 
enquiring, for whom it was prepared.  He took his eyes from the 
torch, and fixed them upon her face without speaking.  She faintly 
repeated the question, but the man, shaking the torch, passed on; and 
she followed, trembling, to a second flight of steps, having ascended 
which, a door delivered them into the first court of the castle.  As 
they crossed it, the light shewed the high black walls around them, 
fringed with long grass and dank weeds, that found a scanty soil 
among the mouldering stones; the heavy buttresses, with, here and 
there, between them, a narrow grate, that admitted a freer 
circulation of air to the court, the massy iron gates, that led to 
the castle, whose clustering turrets appeared above, and, opposite, 
the huge towers and arch of the portal itself.  In this scene the 
large, uncouth person of Barnardine, bearing the torch, formed a 
characteristic figure.  This Barnardine was wrapt in a long dark 
cloak, which scarcely allowed the kind of half-boots, or sandals, 
that were laced upon his legs, to appear, and shewed only the point 
of a broad sword, which he usually wore, slung in a belt across his 
shoulders.  On his head was a heavy flat velvet cap, somewhat 
resembling a turban, in which was a short feather; the visage beneath 
it shewed strong features, and a countenance furrowed with the lines 
of cunning and darkened by habitual discontent.

The view of the court, however, reanimated Emily, who, as she crossed 
silently towards the portal, began to hope, that her own fears, and 
not the treachery of Barnardine, had deceived her.  She looked 
anxiously up at the first casement, that appeared above the lofty 
arch of the portcullis; but it was dark, and she enquired, whether it 
belonged to the chamber, where Madame Montoni was confined.  Emily 
spoke low, and Barnardine, perhaps, did not hear her question, for he 
returned no answer; and they, soon after, entered the postern door of 
the gate-way, which brought them to the foot of a narrow stair-case, 
that wound up one of the towers.

'Up this stair-case the Signora lies,' said Barnardine.

'Lies!' repeated Emily faintly, as she began to ascend.

'She lies in the upper chamber,' said Barnardine.

As they passed up, the wind, which poured through the narrow cavities 
in the wall, made the torch flare, and it threw a stronger gleam upon 
the grim and sallow countenance of Barnardine, and discovered more 
fully the desolation of the place--the rough stone walls, the spiral 
stairs, black with age, and a suit of antient armour, with an iron 
visor, that hung upon the walls, and appeared a trophy of some former 
victory.

Having reached a landing-place, 'You may wait here, lady,' said he, 
applying a key to the door of a chamber, 'while I go up, and tell the 
Signora you are coming.'

'That ceremony is unnecessary,' replied Emily, 'my aunt will rejoice 
to see me.'

'I am not so sure of that,' said Barnardine, pointing to the room he 
had opened:  'Come in here, lady, while I step up.'

Emily, surprised and somewhat shocked, did not dare to oppose him 
further, but, as he was turning away with the torch, desired he would 
not leave her in darkness.  He looked around, and, observing a tripod 
lamp, that stood on the stairs, lighted and gave it to Emily, who 
stepped forward into a large old chamber, and he closed the door.  As 
she listened anxiously to his departing steps, she thought he 
descended, instead of ascending, the stairs; but the gusts of wind, 
that whistled round the portal, would not allow her to hear 
distinctly any other sound.  Still, however, she listened, and, 
perceiving no step in the room above, where he had affirmed Madame 
Montoni to be, her anxiety increased, though she considered, that the 
thickness of the floor in this strong building might prevent any 
sound reaching her from the upper chamber.  The next moment, in a 
pause of the wind, she distinguished Barnardine's step descending to 
the court, and then thought she heard his voice; but, the rising gust 
again overcoming other sounds, Emily, to be certain on this point, 
moved softly to the door, which, on attempting to open it, she 
discovered was fastened.  All the horrid apprehensions, that had 
lately assailed her, returned at this instant with redoubled force, 
and no longer appeared like the exaggerations of a timid spirit, but 
seemed to have been sent to warn her of her fate.  She now did not 
doubt, that Madame Montoni had been murdered, perhaps in this very 
chamber; or that she herself was brought hither for the same purpose.  
The countenance, the manners and the recollected words of Barnardine, 
when he had spoken of her aunt, confirmed her worst fears.  For some 
moments, she was incapable of considering of any means, by which she 
might attempt an escape.  Still she listened, but heard footsteps 
neither on the stairs, or in the room above; she thought, however, 
that she again distinguished Barnardine's voice below, and went to a 
grated window, that opened upon the court, to enquire further.  Here, 
she plainly heard his hoarse accents, mingling with the blast, that 
swept by, but they were lost again so quickly, that their meaning 
could not be interpreted; and then the light of a torch, which seemed 
to issue from the portal below, flashed across the court, and the 
long shadow of a man, who was under the arch-way, appeared upon the 
pavement.  Emily, from the hugeness of this sudden portrait, 
concluded it to be that of Barnardine; but other deep tones, which 
passed in the wind, soon convinced her he was not alone, and that his 
companion was not a person very liable to pity.

When her spirits had overcome the first shock of her situation, she 
held up the lamp to examine, if the chamber afforded a possibility of 
an escape.  It was a spacious room, whose walls, wainscoted with 
rough oak, shewed no casement but the grated one, which Emily had 
left, and no other door than that, by which she had entered.  The 
feeble rays of the lamp, however, did not allow her to see at once 
its full extent; she perceived no furniture, except, indeed, an iron 
chair, fastened in the centre of the chamber, immediately over which, 
depending on a chain from the ceiling, hung an iron ring.  Having 
gazed upon these, for some time, with wonder and horror, she next 
observed iron bars below, made for the purpose of confining the feet, 
and on the arms of the chair were rings of the same metal.  As she 
continued to survey them, she concluded, that they were instruments 
of torture, and it struck her, that some poor wretch had once been 
fastened in this chair, and had there been starved to death.  She was 
chilled by the thought; but, what was her agony, when, in the next 
moment, it occurred to her, that her aunt might have been one of 
these victims, and that she herself might be the next!  An acute pain 
seized her head, she was scarcely able to hold the lamp, and, looking 
round for support, was seating herself, unconsciously, in the iron 
chair itself; but suddenly perceiving where she was, she started from 
it in horror, and sprung towards a remote end of the room.  Here 
again she looked round for a seat to sustain her, and perceived only 
a dark curtain, which, descending from the ceiling to the floor, was 
drawn along the whole side of the chamber.  Ill as she was, the 
appearance of this curtain struck her, and she paused to gaze upon 
it, in wonder and apprehension.

It seemed to conceal a recess of the chamber; she wished, yet 
dreaded, to lift it, and to discover what it veiled:  twice she was 
withheld by a recollection of the terrible spectacle her daring hand 
had formerly unveiled in an apartment of the castle, till, suddenly 
conjecturing, that it concealed the body of her murdered aunt, she 
seized it, in a fit of desperation, and drew it aside.  Beyond, 
appeared a corpse, stretched on a kind of low couch, which was 
crimsoned with human blood, as was the floor beneath.  The features, 
deformed by death, were ghastly and horrible, and more than one livid 
wound appeared in the face.  Emily, bending over the body, gazed, for 
a moment, with an eager, frenzied eye; but, in the next, the lamp 
dropped from her hand, and she fell senseless at the foot of the 
couch.

When her senses returned, she found herself surrounded by men, among 
whom was Barnardine, who were lifting her from the floor, and then 
bore her along the chamber.  She was sensible of what passed, but the 
extreme languor of her spirits did not permit her to speak, or move, 
or even to feel any distinct fear.  They carried her down the stair-
case, by which she had ascended; when, having reached the arch-way, 
they stopped, and one of the men, taking the torch from Barnardine, 
opened a small door, that was cut in the great gate, and, as he 
stepped out upon the road, the light he bore shewed several men on 
horseback, in waiting.  Whether it was the freshness of the air, that 
revived Emily, or that the objects she now saw roused the spirit of 
alarm, she suddenly spoke, and made an ineffectual effort to 
disengage herself from the grasp of the ruffians, who held her.

Barnardine, meanwhile, called loudly for the torch, while distant 
voices answered, and several persons approached, and, in the same 
instant, a light flashed upon the court of the castle.  Again he 
vociferated for the torch, and the men hurried Emily through the 
gate.  At a short distance, under the shelter of the castle walls, 
she perceived the fellow, who had taken the light from the porter, 
holding it to a man, busily employed in altering the saddle of a 
horse, round which were several horsemen, looking on, whose harsh 
features received the full glare of the torch; while the broken 
ground beneath them, the opposite walls, with the tufted shrubs, that 
overhung their summits, and an embattled watch-tower above, were 
reddened with the gleam, which, fading gradually away, left the 
remoter ramparts and the woods below to the obscurity of night.

'What do you waste time for, there?' said Barnardine with an oath, as 
he approached the horsemen.  'Dispatch--dispatch!'

'The saddle will be ready in a minute,' replied the man who was 
buckling it, at whom Barnardine now swore again, for his negligence, 
and Emily, calling feebly for help, was hurried towards the horses, 
while the ruffians disputed on which to place her, the one designed 
for her not being ready.  At this moment a cluster of lights issued 
from the great gates, and she immediately heard the shrill voice of 
Annette above those of several other persons, who advanced.  In the 
same moment, she distinguished Montoni and Cavigni, followed by a 
number of ruffian-faced fellows, to whom she no longer looked with 
terror, but with hope, for, at this instant, she did not tremble at 
the thought of any dangers, that might await her within the castle, 
whence so lately, and so anxiously she had wished to escape.  Those, 
which threatened her from without, had engrossed all her 
apprehensions.

A short contest ensued between the parties, in which that of Montoni, 
however, were presently victors, and the horsemen, perceiving that 
numbers were against them, and being, perhaps, not very warmly 
interested in the affair they had undertaken, galloped off, while 
Barnardine had run far enough to be lost in the darkness, and Emily 
was led back into the castle.  As she re-passed the courts, the 
remembrance of what she had seen in the portal-chamber came, with all 
its horror, to her mind; and when, soon after, she heard the gate 
close, that shut her once more within the castle walls, she shuddered 
for herself, and, almost forgetting the danger she had escaped, could 
scarcely think, that any thing less precious than liberty and peace 
was to be found beyond them.

Montoni ordered Emily to await him in the cedar parlour, whither he 
soon followed, and then sternly questioned her on this mysterious 
affair.  Though she now viewed him with horror, as the murderer of 
her aunt, and scarcely knew what she said in reply to his impatient 
enquiries, her answers and her manner convinced him, that she had not 
taken a voluntary part in the late scheme, and he dismissed her upon 
the appearance of his servants, whom he had ordered to attend, that 
he might enquire further into the affair, and discover those, who had 
been accomplices in it.

Emily had been some time in her apartment, before the tumult of her 
mind allowed her to remember several of the past circumstances.  
Then, again, the dead form, which the curtain in the portal-chamber 
had disclosed, came to her fancy, and she uttered a groan, which 
terrified Annette the more, as Emily forbore to satisfy her 
curiosity, on the subject of it, for she feared to trust her with so 
fatal a secret, lest her indiscretion should call down the immediate 
vengeance of Montoni on herself.

Thus compelled to bear within her own mind the whole horror of the 
secret, that oppressed it, her reason seemed to totter under the 
intolerable weight.  She often fixed a wild and vacant look on 
Annette, and, when she spoke, either did not hear her, or answered 
from the purpose.  Long fits of abstraction succeeded; Annette spoke 
repeatedly, but her voice seemed not to make any impression on the 
sense of the long agitated Emily, who sat fixed and silent, except 
that, now and then, she heaved a heavy sigh, but without tears.

Terrified at her condition, Annette, at length, left the room, to 
inform Montoni of it, who had just dismissed his servants, without 
having made any discoveries on the subject of his enquiry.  The wild 
description, which this girl now gave of Emily, induced him to follow 
her immediately to the chamber.

At the sound of his voice, Emily turned her eyes, and a gleam of 
recollection seemed to shoot athwart her mind, for she immediately 
rose from her seat, and moved slowly to a remote part of the room.  
He spoke to her in accents somewhat softened from their usual 
harshness, but she regarded him with a kind of half curious, half 
terrified look, and answered only 'yes,' to whatever he said.  Her 
mind still seemed to retain no other impression, than that of fear.

Of this disorder Annette could give no explanation, and Montoni, 
having attempted, for some time, to persuade Emily to talk, retired, 
after ordering Annette to remain with her, during the night, and to 
inform him, in the morning, of her condition.

When he was gone, Emily again came forward, and asked who it was, 
that had been there to disturb her.  Annette said it was the Signor-
Signor Montoni.  Emily repeated the name after her, several times, as 
if she did not recollect it, and then suddenly groaned, and relapsed 
into abstraction.

With some difficulty, Annette led her to the bed, which Emily 
examined with an eager, frenzied eye, before she lay down, and then, 
pointing, turned with shuddering emotion, to Annette, who, now more 
terrified, went towards the door, that she might bring one of the 
female servants to pass the night with them; but Emily, observing her 
going, called her by name, and then in the naturally soft and 
plaintive tone of her voice, begged, that she, too, would not forsake 
her.- -'For since my father died,' added she, sighing, 'every body 
forsakes me.'

'Your father, ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'he was dead before you knew 
me.'

'He was, indeed!' rejoined Emily, and her tears began to flow.  She 
now wept silently and long, after which, becoming quite calm, she at 
length sunk to sleep, Annette having had discretion enough not to 
interrupt her tears.  This girl, as affectionate as she was simple, 
lost in these moments all her former fears of remaining in the 
chamber, and watched alone by Emily, during the whole night.



CHAPTER II


     unfold
 What worlds, or what vast regions, hold
 Th' immortal mind, that hath forsook
 Her mansion in this fleshly nook!
     IL PENSEROSO

Emily's mind was refreshed by sleep.  On waking in the morning, she 
looked with surprise on Annette, who sat sleeping in a chair beside 
the bed, and then endeavoured to recollect herself; but the 
circumstances of the preceding night were swept from her memory, 
which seemed to retain no trace of what had passed, and she was still 
gazing with surprise on Annette, when the latter awoke.

'O dear ma'amselle! do you know me?' cried she.

'Know you!  Certainly,' replied Emily, 'you are Annette; but why are 
you sitting by me thus?'

'O you have been very ill, ma'amselle,--very ill indeed! and I am 
sure I thought--'

'This is very strange!' said Emily, still trying to recollect the 
past.--'But I think I do remember, that my fancy has been haunted by 
frightful dreams.  Good God!' she added, suddenly starting--'surely 
it was nothing more than a dream!'

She fixed a terrified look upon Annette, who, intending to quiet her, 
said 'Yes, ma'amselle, it was more than a dream, but it is all over 
now.'

'She IS murdered, then!' said Emily in an inward voice, and 
shuddering instantaneously.  Annette screamed; for, being ignorant of 
the circumstance to which Emily referred, she attributed her manner 
to a disordered fancy; but, when she had explained to what her own 
speech alluded, Emily, recollecting the attempt that had been made to 
carry her off, asked if the contriver of it had been discovered.  
Annette replied, that he had not, though he might easily be guessed 
at; and then told Emily she might thank her for her deliverance, who, 
endeavouring to command the emotion, which the remembrance of her 
aunt had occasioned, appeared calmly to listen to Annette, though, in 
truth, she heard scarcely a word that was said.

'And so, ma'amselle,' continued the latter, 'I was determined to be 
even with Barnardine for refusing to tell me the secret, by finding 
it out myself; so I watched you, on the terrace, and, as soon as he 
had opened the door at the end, I stole out from the castle, to try 
to follow you; for, says I, I am sure no good can be planned, or why 
all this secrecy?  So, sure enough, he had not bolted the door after 
him, and, when I opened it, I saw, by the glimmer of the torch, at 
the other end of the passage, which way you were going.  I followed 
the light, at a distance, till you came to the vaults of the chapel, 
and there I was afraid to go further, for I had heard strange things 
about these vaults.  But then, again, I was afraid to go back, all in 
darkness, by myself; so by the time Barnardine had trimmed the light, 
I had resolved to follow you, and I did so, till you came to the 
great court, and there I was afraid he would see me; so I stopped at 
the door again, and watched you across to the gates, and, when you 
was gone up the stairs, I whipt after.  There, as I stood under the 
gate-way, I heard horses' feet without, and several men talking; and 
I heard them swearing at Barnardine for not bringing you out, and 
just then, he had like to have caught me, for he came down the stairs 
again, and I had hardly time to get out of his way.  But I had heard 
enough of his secret now, and I determined to be even with him, and 
to save you, too, ma'amselle, for I guessed it to be some new scheme 
of Count Morano, though he was gone away.  I ran into the castle, but 
I had hard work to find my way through the passage under the chapel, 
and what is very strange, I quite forgot to look for the ghosts they 
had told me about, though I would not go into that place again by 
myself for all the world!  Luckily the Signor and Signor Cavigni were 
up, so we had soon a train at our heels, sufficient to frighten that 
Barnardine and his rogues, all together.'

Annette ceased to speak, but Emily still appeared to listen.  At 
length she said, suddenly, 'I think I will go to him myself;--where 
is he?'

Annette asked who was meant.

'Signor Montoni,' replied Emily.  'I would speak with him;' and 
Annette, now remembering the order he had given, on the preceding 
night, respecting her young lady, rose, and said she would seek him 
herself.

This honest girl's suspicions of Count Morano were perfectly just; 
Emily, too, when she thought on the scheme, had attributed it to him; 
and Montoni, who had not a doubt on this subject, also, began to 
believe, that it was by the direction of Morano, that poison had 
formerly been mingled with his wine.

The professions of repentance, which Morano had made to Emily, under 
the anguish of his wound, was sincere at the moment he offered them; 
but he had mistaken the subject of his sorrow, for, while he thought 
he was condemning the cruelty of his late design, he was lamenting 
only the state of suffering, to which it had reduced him.  As these 
sufferings abated, his former views revived, till, his health being 
re-established, he again found himself ready for enterprise and 
difficulty.  The porter of the castle, who had served him, on a 
former occasion, willingly accepted a second bribe; and, having 
concerted the means of drawing Emily to the gates, Morano publicly 
left the hamlet, whither he had been carried after the affray, and 
withdrew with his people to another at several miles distance.  From 
thence, on a night agreed upon by Barnardine, who had discovered from 
the thoughtless prattle of Annette, the most probable means of 
decoying Emily, the Count sent back his servants to the castle, while 
he awaited her arrival at the hamlet, with an intention of carrying 
her immediately to Venice.  How this, his second scheme, was 
frustrated, has already appeared; but the violent, and various 
passions with which this Italian lover was now agitated, on his 
return to that city, can only be imagined.

Annette having made her report to Montoni of Emily's health and of 
her request to see him, he replied, that she might attend him in the 
cedar room, in about an hour.  It was on the subject, that pressed so 
heavily on her mind, that Emily wished to speak to him, yet she did 
not distinctly know what good purpose this could answer, and 
sometimes she even recoiled in horror from the expectation of his 
presence.  She wished, also, to petition, though she scarcely dared 
to believe the request would be granted, that he would permit her, 
since her aunt was no more, to return to her native country.

As the moment of interview approached, her agitation increased so 
much, that she almost resolved to excuse herself under what could 
scarcely be called a pretence of illness; and, when she considered 
what could be said, either concerning herself, or the fate of her 
aunt, she was equally hopeless as to the event of her entreaty, and 
terrified as to its effect upon the vengeful spirit of Montoni.  Yet, 
to pretend ignorance of her death, appeared, in some degree, to be 
sharing its criminality, and, indeed, this event was the only ground, 
on which Emily could rest her petition for leaving Udolpho.

While her thoughts thus wavered, a message was brought, importing, 
that Montoni could not see her, till the next day; and her spirits 
were then relieved, for a moment, from an almost intolerable weight 
of apprehension.  Annette said, she fancied the Chevaliers were going 
out to the wars again, for the court-yard was filled with horses, and 
she heard, that the rest of the party, who went out before, were 
expected at the castle.  'And I heard one of the soldiers, too,' 
added she, 'say to his comrade, that he would warrant they'd bring 
home a rare deal of booty.--So, thinks I, if the Signor can, with a 
safe conscience, send his people out a-robbing--why it is no business 
of mine.  I only wish I was once safe out of this castle; and, if it 
had not been for poor Ludovico's sake, I would have let Count 
Morano's people run away with us both, for it would have been serving 
you a good turn, ma'amselle, as well as myself.'

Annette might have continued thus talking for hours for any 
interruption she would have received from Emily, who was silent, 
inattentive, absorbed in thought, and passed the whole of this day in 
a kind of solemn tranquillity, such as is often the result of 
faculties overstrained by suffering.

When night returned, Emily recollected the mysterious strains of 
music, that she had lately heard, in which she still felt some degree 
of interest, and of which she hoped to hear again the soothing 
sweetness.  The influence of superstition now gained on the weakness 
of her long-harassed mind; she looked, with enthusiastic expectation, 
to the guardian spirit of her father, and, having dismissed Annette 
for the night, determined to watch alone for their return.  It was 
not yet, however, near the time when she had heard the music on a 
former night, and anxious to call off her thoughts from distressing 
subjects, she sat down with one of the few books, that she had 
brought from France; but her mind, refusing controul, became restless 
and agitated, and she went often to the casement to listen for a 
sound.  Once, she thought she heard a voice, but then, every thing 
without the casement remaining still, she concluded, that her fancy 
had deceived her.

Thus passed the time, till twelve o'clock, soon after which the 
distant sounds, that murmured through the castle, ceased, and sleep 
seemed to reign over all.  Emily then seated herself at the casement, 
where she was soon recalled from the reverie, into which she sunk, by 
very unusual sounds, not of music, but like the low mourning of some 
person in distress.  As she listened, her heart faltered in terror, 
and she became convinced, that the former sound was more than 
imaginary.  Still, at intervals, she heard a kind of feeble 
lamentation, and sought to discover whence it came.  There were 
several rooms underneath, adjoining the rampart, which had been long 
shut up, and, as the sound probably rose from one of these, she 
leaned from the casement to observe, whether any light was visible 
there.  The chambers, as far as she could perceive, were quite dark, 
but, at a little distance, on the rampart below, she thought she saw 
something moving.

The faint twilight, which the stars shed, did not enable her to 
distinguish what it was; but she judged it to be a sentinel, on 
watch, and she removed her light to a remote part of the chamber, 
that she might escape notice, during her further observation.

The same object still appeared.  Presently, it advanced along the 
rampart, towards her window, and she then distinguished something 
like a human form, but the silence, with which it moved, convinced 
her it was no sentinel.  As it drew near, she hesitated whether to 
retire; a thrilling curiosity inclined her to stay, but a dread of 
she scarcely knew what warned her to withdraw.

While she paused, the figure came opposite to her casement, and was 
stationary.  Every thing remained quiet; she had not heard even a 
foot-fall; and the solemnity of this silence, with the mysterious 
form she saw, subdued her spirits, so that she was moving from the 
casement, when, on a sudden, she observed the figure start away, and 
glide down the rampart, after which it was soon lost in the obscurity 
of night.  Emily continued to gaze, for some time, on the way it had 
passed, and then retired within her chamber, musing on this strange 
circumstance, and scarcely doubting, that she had witnessed a 
supernatural appearance.

When her spirits recovered composure, she looked round for some other 
explanation.  Remembering what she had heard of the daring 
enterprises of Montoni, it occurred to her, that she had just seen 
some unhappy person, who, having been plundered by his banditti, was 
brought hither a captive; and that the music she had formerly heard, 
came from him.  Yet, if they had plundered him, it still appeared 
improbable, that they should have brought him to the castle, and it 
was also more consistent with the manners of banditti to murder those 
they rob, than to make them prisoners.  But what, more than any other 
circumstance, contradicted the supposition, that it was a prisoner, 
was that it wandered on the terrace, without a guard:  a 
consideration, which made her dismiss immediately her first surmise.

Afterwards, she was inclined to believe, that Count Morano had 
obtained admittance into the castle; but she soon recollected the 
difficulties and dangers, that must have opposed such an enterprise, 
and that, if he had so far succeeded, to come alone and in silence to 
her casement at midnight was not the conduct he would have adopted, 
particularly since the private stair-case, communicating with her 
apartment, was known to him; neither would he have uttered the dismal 
sounds she had heard.

Another suggestion represented, that this might be some person, who 
had designs upon the castle; but the mournful sounds destroyed, also, 
that probability.  Thus, enquiry only perplexed her.  Who, or what, 
it could be that haunted this lonely hour, complaining in such 
doleful accents and in such sweet music (for she was still inclined 
to believe, that the former strains and the late appearance were 
connected,) she had no means of ascertaining; and imagination again 
assumed her empire, and roused the mysteries of superstition.

She determined, however, to watch on the following night, when her 
doubts might, perhaps, be cleared up; and she almost resolved to 
address the figure, if it should appear again.



CHAPTER III


 Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp,
 Oft seen in charnel-vaults and sepulchres,
 Lingering, and sitting, by a new-made grave.
     MILTON

On the following day, Montoni sent a second excuse to Emily, who was 
surprised at the circumstance.  'This is very strange!' said she to 
herself.  'His conscience tells him the purport of my visit, and he 
defers it, to avoid an explanation.'  She now almost resolved to 
throw herself in his way, but terror checked the intention, and this 
day passed, as the preceding one, with Emily, except that a degree of 
awful expectation, concerning the approaching night, now somewhat 
disturbed the dreadful calmness that had pervaded her mind.

Towards evening, the second part of the band, which had made the 
first excursion among the mountains, returned to the castle, where, 
as they entered the courts, Emily, in her remote chamber, heard their 
loud shouts and strains of exultation, like the orgies of furies over 
some horrid sacrifice.  She even feared they were about to commit 
some barbarous deed; a conjecture from which, however, Annette soon 
relieved her, by telling, that the people were only exulting over the 
plunder they had brought with them.  This circumstance still further 
confirmed her in the belief, that Montoni had really commenced to be 
a captain of banditti, and meant to retrieve his broken fortunes by 
the plunder of travellers!  Indeed, when she considered all the 
circumstances of his situation--in an armed, and almost inaccessible 
castle, retired far among the recesses of wild and solitary 
mountains, along whose distant skirts were scattered towns, and 
cities, whither wealthy travellers were continually passing--this 
appeared to be the situation of all others most suited for the 
success of schemes of rapine, and she yielded to the strange thought, 
that Montoni was become a captain of robbers.  His character also, 
unprincipled, dauntless, cruel and enterprising, seemed to fit him 
for the situation.  Delighting in the tumult and in the struggles of 
life, he was equally a stranger to pity and to fear; his very courage 
was a sort of animal ferocity; not the noble impulse of a principle, 
such as inspirits the mind against the oppressor, in the cause of the 
oppressed; but a constitutional hardiness of nerve, that cannot feel, 
and that, therefore, cannot fear.

Emily's supposition, however natural, was in part erroneous, for she 
was a stranger to the state of this country and to the circumstances, 
under which its frequent wars were partly conducted.  The revenues of 
the many states of Italy being, at that time, insufficient to the 
support of standing armies, even during the short periods, which the 
turbulent habits both of the governments and the people permitted to 
pass in peace, an order of men arose not known in our age, and but 
faintly described in the history of their own.  Of the soldiers, 
disbanded at the end of every war, few returned to the safe, but 
unprofitable occupations, then usual in peace.  Sometimes they passed 
into other countries, and mingled with armies, which still kept the 
field.  Sometimes they formed themselves into bands of robbers, and 
occupied remote fortresses, where their desperate character, the 
weakness of the governments which they offended, and the certainty, 
that they could be recalled to the armies, when their presence should 
be again wanted, prevented them from being much pursued by the civil 
power; and, sometimes, they attached themselves to the fortunes of a 
popular chief, by whom they were led into the service of any state, 
which could settle with him the price of their valour.  From this 
latter practice arose their name--CONDOTTIERI; a term formidable all 
over Italy, for a period, which concluded in the earlier part of the 
seventeenth century, but of which it is not so easy to ascertain the 
commencement.

Contests between the smaller states were then, for the most part, 
affairs of enterprize alone, and the probabilities of success were 
estimated, not from the skill, but from the personal courage of the 
general, and the soldiers.  The ability, which was necessary to the 
conduct of tedious operations, was little valued.  It was enough to 
know how a party might be led towards their enemies, with the 
greatest secrecy, or conducted from them in the compactest order.  
The officer was to precipitate himself into a situation, where, but 
for his example, the soldiers might not have ventured; and, as the 
opposed parties knew little of each other's strength, the event of 
the day was frequently determined by the boldness of the first 
movements.  In such services the condottieri were eminent, and in 
these, where plunder always followed success, their characters 
acquired a mixture of intrepidity and profligacy, which awed even 
those whom they served.

When they were not thus engaged, their chief had usually his own 
fortress, in which, or in its neighbourhood, they enjoyed an irksome 
rest; and, though their wants were, at one time, partly supplied from 
the property of the inhabitants, the lavish distribution of their 
plunder at others, prevented them from being obnoxious; and the 
peasants of such districts gradually shared the character of their 
warlike visitors.  The neighbouring governments sometimes professed, 
but seldom endeavoured, to suppress these military communities; both 
because it was difficult to do so, and because a disguised protection 
of them ensured, for the service of their wars, a body of men, who 
could not otherwise be so cheaply maintained, or so perfectly 
qualified.  The commanders sometimes even relied so far upon this 
policy of the several powers, as to frequent their capitals; and 
Montoni, having met them in the gaming parties of Venice and Padua, 
conceived a desire to emulate their characters, before his ruined 
fortunes tempted him to adopt their practices.  It was for the 
arrangement of his present plan of life, that the midnight councils 
were held at his mansion in Venice, and at which Orsino and some 
other members of the present community then assisted with 
suggestions, which they had since executed with the wreck of their 
fortunes.

On the return of night, Emily resumed her station at the casement.  
There was now a moon; and, as it rose over the tufted woods, its 
yellow light served to shew the lonely terrace and the surrounding 
objects, more distinctly, than the twilight of the stars had done, 
and promised Emily to assist her observations, should the mysterious 
form return.  On this subject, she again wavered in conjecture, and 
hesitated whether to speak to the figure, to which a strong and 
almost irresistible interest urged her; but terror, at intervals, 
made her reluctant to do so.

'If this is a person who has designs upon the castle,' said she, 'my 
curiosity may prove fatal to me; yet the mysterious music, and the 
lamentations I heard, must surely have proceeded from him:  if so, he 
cannot be an enemy.'

She then thought of her unfortunate aunt, and, shuddering with grief 
and horror, the suggestions of imagination seized her mind with all 
the force of truth, and she believed, that the form she had seen was 
supernatural.  She trembled, breathed with difficulty, an icy 
coldness touched her cheeks, and her fears for a while overcame her 
judgment.  Her resolution now forsook her, and she determined, if the 
figure should appear, not to speak to it.

Thus the time passed, as she sat at her casement, awed by 
expectation, and by the gloom and stillness of midnight; for she saw 
obscurely in the moon-light only the mountains and woods, a cluster 
of towers, that formed the west angle of the castle, and the terrace 
below; and heard no sound, except, now and then, the lonely watch-
word, passed by the centinels on duty, and afterwards the steps of 
the men who came to relieve guard, and whom she knew at a distance on 
the rampart by their pikes, that glittered in the moonbeam, and then, 
by the few short words, in which they hailed their fellows of the 
night.  Emily retired within her chamber, while they passed the 
casement.  When she returned to it, all was again quiet.  It was now 
very late, she was wearied with watching, and began to doubt the 
reality of what she had seen on the preceding night; but she still 
lingered at the window, for her mind was too perturbed to admit of 
sleep.  The moon shone with a clear lustre, that afforded her a 
complete view of the terrace; but she saw only a solitary centinel, 
pacing at one end of it; and, at length, tired with expectation, she 
withdrew to seek rest.

Such, however, was the impression, left on her mind by the music, and 
the complaining she had formerly heard, as well as by the figure, 
which she fancied she had seen, that she determined to repeat the 
watch, on the following night.

Montoni, on the next day, took no notice of Emily's appointed visit, 
but she, more anxious than before to see him, sent Annette to 
enquire, at what hour he would admit her.  He mentioned eleven 
o'clock, and Emily was punctual to the moment; at which she called up 
all her fortitude to support the shock of his presence and the 
dreadful recollections it enforced.  He was with several of his 
officers, in the cedar room; on observing whom she paused; and her 
agitation increased, while he continued to converse with them, 
apparently not observing her, till some of his officers, turning 
round, saw Emily, and uttered an exclamation.  She was hastily 
retiring, when Montoni's voice arrested her, and, in a faultering 
accent, she said,--'I would speak with you, Signor Montoni, if you 
are at leisure.'

'These are my friends,' he replied, 'whatever you would say, they may 
hear.'

Emily, without replying, turned from the rude gaze of the chevaliers, 
and Montoni then followed her to the hall, whence he led her to a 
small room, of which he shut the door with violence.  As she looked 
on his dark countenance, she again thought she saw the murderer of 
her aunt; and her mind was so convulsed with horror, that she had not 
power to recal thought enough to explain the purport of her visit; 
and to trust herself with the mention of Madame Montoni was more than 
she dared.

Montoni at length impatiently enquired what she had to say?  'I have 
no time for trifling,' he added, 'my moments are important.'

Emily then told him, that she wished to return to France, and came to 
beg, that he would permit her to do so.--But when he looked 
surprised, and enquired for the motive of the request, she hesitated, 
became paler than before, trembled, and had nearly sunk at his feet.  
He observed her emotion, with apparent indifference, and interrupted 
the silence by telling her, he must be gone.  Emily, however, 
recalled her spirits sufficiently to enable her to repeat her 
request.  And, when Montoni absolutely refused it, her slumbering 
mind was roused.

'I can no longer remain here with propriety, sir,' said she, 'and I 
may be allowed to ask, by what right you detain me.'

'It is my will that you remain here,' said Montoni, laying his hand 
on the door to go; 'let that suffice you.'

Emily, considering that she had no appeal from this will, forbore to 
dispute his right, and made a feeble effort to persuade him to be 
just.  'While my aunt lived, sir,' said she, in a tremulous voice, 
'my residence here was not improper; but now, that she is no more, I 
may surely be permitted to depart.  My stay cannot benefit you, sir, 
and will only distress me.'

'Who told you, that Madame Montoni was dead?' said Montoni, with an 
inquisitive eye.  Emily hesitated, for nobody had told her so, and 
she did not dare to avow the having seen that spectacle in the 
portal-chamber, which had compelled her to the belief.

'Who told you so?' he repeated, more sternly.

'Alas!  I know it too well,' replied Emily:  'spare me on this 
terrible subject!'

She sat down on a bench to support herself.

'If you wish to see her,' said Montoni, 'you may; she lies in the 
east turret.'

He now left the room, without awaiting her reply, and returned to the 
cedar chamber, where such of the chevaliers as had not before seen 
Emily, began to rally him, on the discovery they had made; but 
Montoni did not appear disposed to bear this mirth, and they changed 
the subject.

Having talked with the subtle Orsino, on the plan of an excursion, 
which he meditated for a future day, his friend advised, that they 
should lie in wait for the enemy, which Verezzi impetuously opposed, 
reproached Orsino with want of spirit, and swore, that, if Montoni 
would let him lead on fifty men, he would conquer all that should 
oppose him.

Orsino smiled contemptuously; Montoni smiled too, but he also 
listened.  Verezzi then proceeded with vehement declamation and 
assertion, till he was stopped by an argument of Orsino, which he 
knew not how to answer better than by invective.  His fierce spirit 
detested the cunning caution of Orsino, whom he constantly opposed, 
and whose inveterate, though silent, hatred he had long ago incurred.  
And Montoni was a calm observer of both, whose different 
qualifications he knew, and how to bend their opposite character to 
the perfection of his own designs.  But Verezzi, in the heat of 
opposition, now did not scruple to accuse Orsino of cowardice, at 
which the countenance of the latter, while he made no reply, was 
overspread with a livid paleness; and Montoni, who watched his 
lurking eye, saw him put his hand hastily into his bosom.  But 
Verezzi, whose face, glowing with crimson, formed a striking contrast 
to the complexion of Orsino, remarked not the action, and continued 
boldly declaiming against cowards to Cavigni, who was slily laughing 
at his vehemence, and at the silent mortification of Orsino, when the 
latter, retiring a few steps behind, drew forth a stilletto to stab 
his adversary in the back.  Montoni arrested his half-extended arm, 
and, with a significant look, made him return the poinard into his 
bosom, unseen by all except himself; for most of the party were 
disputing at a distant window, on the situation of a dell where they 
meant to form an ambuscade.

When Verezzi had turned round, the deadly hatred, expressed on the 
features of his opponent, raising, for the first time, a suspicion of 
his intention, he laid his hand on his sword, and then, seeming to 
recollect himself, strode up to Montoni.

'Signor,' said he, with a significant look at Orsino, 'we are not a 
band of assassins; if you have business for brave men employ me on 
this expedition:  you shall have the last drop of my blood; if you 
have only work for cowards--keep him,' pointing to Orsino, 'and let 
me quit Udolpho.'

Orsino, still more incensed, again drew forth his stilletto, and 
rushed towards Verezzi, who, at the same instant, advanced with his 
sword, when Montoni and the rest of the party interfered and 
separated them.

'This is the conduct of a boy,' said Montoni to Verezzi, 'not of a 
man:  be more moderate in your speech.'

'Moderation is the virtue of cowards,' retorted Verezzi; 'they are 
moderate in every thing--but in fear.'

'I accept your words,' said Montoni, turning upon him with a fierce 
and haughty look, and drawing his sword out of the scabbard.

'With all my heart,' cried Verezzi, 'though I did not mean them for 
you.'

He directed a pass at Montoni; and, while they fought, the villain 
Orsino made another attempt to stab Verezzi, and was again prevented.

The combatants were, at length, separated; and, after a very long and 
violent dispute, reconciled.  Montoni then left the room with Orsino, 
whom he detained in private consultation for a considerable time.

Emily, meanwhile, stunned by the last words of Montoni, forgot, for 
the moment, his declaration, that she should continue in the castle, 
while she thought of her unfortunate aunt, who, he had said, was laid 
in the east turret.  In suffering the remains of his wife to lie thus 
long unburied, there appeared a degree of brutality more shocking 
than she had suspected even Montoni could practise.

After a long struggle, she determined to accept his permission to 
visit the turret, and to take a last look of her ill-fated aunt:  
with which design she returned to her chamber, and, while she waited 
for Annette to accompany her, endeavoured to acquire fortitude 
sufficient to support her through the approaching scene; for, though 
she trembled to encounter it, she knew that to remember the 
performance of this last act of duty would hereafter afford her 
consoling satisfaction.

Annette came, and Emily mentioned her purpose, from which the former 
endeavoured to dissuade her, though without effect, and Annette was, 
with much difficulty, prevailed upon to accompany her to the turret; 
but no consideration could make her promise to enter the chamber of 
death.

They now left the corridor, and, having reached the foot of the 
stair-case, which Emily had formerly ascended, Annette declared she 
would go no further, and Emily proceeded alone.  When she saw the 
track of blood, which she had before observed, her spirits fainted, 
and, being compelled to rest on the stairs, she almost determined to 
proceed no further.  The pause of a few moments restored her 
resolution, and she went on.

As she drew near the landing-place, upon which the upper chamber 
opened, she remembered, that the door was formerly fastened, and 
apprehended, that it might still be so.  In this expectation, 
however, she was mistaken; for the door opened at once, into a dusky 
and silent chamber, round which she fearfully looked, and then slowly 
advanced, when a hollow voice spoke.  Emily, who was unable to speak, 
or to move from the spot, uttered no sound of terror.  The voice 
spoke again; and, then, thinking that it resembled that of Madame 
Montoni, Emily's spirits were instantly roused; she rushed towards a 
bed, that stood in a remote part of the room, and drew aside the 
curtains.  Within, appeared a pale and emaciated face.  She started 
back, then again advanced, shuddered as she took up the skeleton 
hand, that lay stretched upon the quilt; then let it drop, and then 
viewed the face with a long, unsettled gaze.  It was that of Madame 
Montoni, though so changed by illness, that the resemblance of what 
it had been, could scarcely be traced in what it now appeared.  she 
was still alive, and, raising her heavy eyes, she turned them on her 
niece.

'Where have you been so long?' said she, in the same hollow tone, 'I 
thought you had forsaken me.'

'Do you indeed live,' said Emily, at length, 'or is this but a 
terrible apparition?'  she received no answer, and again she snatched 
up the hand.  'This is substance,' she exclaimed, 'but it is cold--
cold as marble!'  She let it fall.  'O, if you really live, speak!' 
said Emily, in a voice of desperation, 'that I may not lose my 
senses--say you know me!'

'I do live,' replied Madame Montoni, 'but--I feel that I am about to 
die.'

Emily clasped the hand she held, more eagerly, and groaned.  They 
were both silent for some moments.  Then Emily endeavoured to soothe 
her, and enquired what had reduced her to this present deplorable 
state.

Montoni, when he removed her to the turret under the improbable 
suspicion of having attempted his life, had ordered the men employed 
on the occasion, to observe a strict secrecy concerning her.  To this 
he was influenced by a double motive.  He meant to debar her from the 
comfort of Emily's visits, and to secure an opportunity of privately 
dispatching her, should any new circumstances occur to confirm the 
present suggestions of his suspecting mind.  His consciousness of the 
hatred he deserved it was natural enough should at first led him to 
attribute to her the attempt that had been made upon his life; and, 
though there was no other reason to believe that she was concerned in 
that atrocious design, his suspicions remained; he continued to 
confine her in the turret, under a strict guard; and, without pity or 
remorse, had suffered her to lie, forlorn and neglected, under a 
raging fever, till it had reduced her to the present state.

The track of blood, which Emily had seen on the stairs, had flowed 
from the unbound wound of one of the men employed to carry Madame 
Montoni, and which he had received in the late affray.  At night 
these men, having contented themselves with securing the door of 
their prisoner's room, had retired from guard; and then it was, that 
Emily, at the time of her first enquiry, had found the turret so 
silent and deserted.

When she had attempted to open the door of the chamber, her aunt was 
sleeping, and this occasioned the silence, which had contributed to 
delude her into a belief, that she was no more; yet had her terror 
permitted her to persevere longer in the call, she would probably 
have awakened Madame Montoni, and have been spared much suffering.  
The spectacle in the portal-chamber, which afterwards confirmed 
Emily's horrible suspicion, was the corpse of a man, who had fallen 
in the affray, and the same which had been borne into the servants' 
hall, where she took refuge from the tumult.  This man had lingered 
under his wounds for some days; and, soon after his death, his body 
had been removed on the couch, on which he died, for interment in the 
vault beneath the chapel, through which Emily and Barnardine had 
passed to the chamber.

Emily, after asking Madame Montoni a thousand questions concerning 
herself, left her, and sought Montoni; for the more solemn interest 
she felt for her aunt, made her now regardless of the resentment her 
remonstrances might draw upon herself, and of the improbability of 
his granting what she meant to entreat.

'Madame Montoni is now dying, sir,' said Emily, as soon as she saw 
him--'Your resentment, surely will not pursue her to the last moment!  
Suffer her to be removed from that forlorn room to her own apartment, 
and to have necessary comforts administered.'

'Of what service will that be, if she is dying?' said Montoni, with 
apparent indifference.

'The service, at leave, of saving you, sir, from a few of those pangs 
of conscience you must suffer, when you shall be in the same 
situation,' said Emily, with imprudent indignation, of which Montoni 
soon made her sensible, by commanding her to quit his presence.  
Then, forgetting her resentment, and impressed only by compassion for 
the piteous state of her aunt, dying without succour, she submitted 
to humble herself to Montoni, and to adopt every persuasive means, 
that might induce him to relent towards his wife.

For a considerable time he was proof against all she said, and all 
she looked; but at length the divinity of pity, beaming in Emily's 
eyes, seemed to touch his heart.  He turned away, ashamed of his 
better feelings, half sullen and half relenting; but finally 
consented, that his wife should be removed to her own apartment, and 
that Emily should attend her.  Dreading equally, that this relief 
might arrive too late, and that Montoni might retract his concession, 
Emily scarcely staid to thank him for it, but, assisted by Annette, 
she quickly prepared Madame Montoni's bed, and they carried her a 
cordial, that might enable her feeble frame to sustain the fatigue of 
a removal.

Madame was scarcely arrived in her own apartment, when an order was 
given by her husband, that she should remain in the turret; but 
Emily, thankful that she had made such dispatch, hastened to inform 
him of it, as well as that a second removal would instantly prove 
fatal, and he suffered his wife to continue where she was.

During this day, Emily never left Madame Montoni, except to prepare 
such little nourishing things as she judged necessary to sustain her, 
and which Madame Montoni received with quiet acquiescence, though she 
seemed sensible that they could not save her from approaching 
dissolution, and scarcely appeared to wish for life.  Emily meanwhile 
watched over her with the most tender solicitude, no longer seeing 
her imperious aunt in the poor object before her, but the sister of 
her late beloved father, in a situation that called for all her 
compassion and kindness.  When night came, she determined to sit up 
with her aunt, but this the latter positively forbade, commanding her 
to retire to rest, and Annette alone to remain in her chamber.  Rest 
was, indeed, necessary to Emily, whose spirits and frame were equally 
wearied by the occurrences and exertions of the day; but she would 
not leave Madame Montoni, till after the turn of midnight, a period 
then thought so critical by the physicians.

Soon after twelve, having enjoined Annette to be wakeful, and to call 
her, should any change appear for the worse, Emily sorrowfully bade 
Madame Montoni good night, and withdrew to her chamber.  Her spirits 
were more than usually depressed by the piteous condition of her 
aunt, whose recovery she scarcely dared to expect.  To her own 
misfortunes she saw no period, inclosed as she was, in a remote 
castle, beyond the reach of any friends, had she possessed such, and 
beyond the pity even of strangers; while she knew herself to be in 
the power of a man capable of any action, which his interest, or his 
ambition, might suggest.

Occupied by melancholy reflections and by anticipations as sad, she 
did not retire immediately to rest, but leaned thoughtfully on her 
open casement.  The scene before her of woods and mountains, reposing 
in the moon-light, formed a regretted contrast with the state of her 
mind; but the lonely murmur of these woods, and the view of this 
sleeping landscape, gradually soothed her emotions and softened her 
to tears.

She continued to weep, for some time, lost to every thing, but to a 
gentle sense of her misfortunes.  When she, at length, took the 
handkerchief from her eyes, she perceived, before her, on the terrace 
below, the figure she had formerly observed, which stood fixed and 
silent, immediately opposite to her casement.  On perceiving it, she 
started back, and terror for some time overcame curiosity;--at 
length, she returned to the casement, and still the figure was before 
it, which she now compelled herself to observe, but was utterly 
unable to speak, as she had formerly intended.  The moon shone with a 
clear light, and it was, perhaps, the agitation of her mind, that 
prevented her distinguishing, with any degree of accuracy, the form 
before her.  It was still stationary, and she began to doubt, whether 
it was really animated.

Her scattered thoughts were now so far returned as to remind her, 
that her light exposed her to dangerous observation, and she was 
stepping back to remove it, when she perceived the figure move, and 
then wave what seemed to be its arm, as if to beckon her; and, while 
she gazed, fixed in fear, it repeated the action.  She now attempted 
to speak, but the words died on her lips, and she went from the 
casement to remove her light; as she was doing which, she heard, from 
without, a faint groan.  Listening, but not daring to return, she 
presently heard it repeated.

'Good God!--what can this mean!' said she.

Again she listened, but the sound came no more; and, after a long 
interval of silence, she recovered courage enough to go to the 
casement, when she again saw the same appearance!  It beckoned again, 
and again uttered a low sound.

'That groan was surely human!' said she.  'I WILL speak.'  'Who is 
it,' cried Emily in a faint voice, 'that wanders at this late hour?'

The figure raised its head but suddenly started away, and glided down 
the terrace.  She watched it, for a long while, passing swiftly in 
the moon-light, but heard no footstep, till a sentinel from the other 
extremity of the rampart walked slowly along.  The man stopped under 
her window, and, looking up, called her by name.  She was retiring 
precipitately, but, a second summons inducing her to reply, the 
soldier then respectfully asked if she had seen any thing pass.  On 
her answering, that she had; he said no more, but walked away down 
the terrace, Emily following him with her eyes, till he was lost in 
the distance.  But, as he was on guard, she knew he could not go 
beyond the rampart, and, therefore, resolved to await his return.

Soon after, his voice was heard, at a distance, calling loudly; and 
then a voice still more distant answered, and, in the next moment, 
the watch-word was given, and passed along the terrace.  As the 
soldiers moved hastily under the casement, she called to enquire what 
had happened, but they passed without regarding her.

Emily's thoughts returning to the figure she had seen, 'It cannot be 
a person, who has designs upon the castle,' said she; 'such an one 
would conduct himself very differently.  He would not venture where 
sentinels were on watch, nor fix himself opposite to a window, where 
he perceived he must be observed; much less would he beckon, or utter 
a sound of complaint.  Yet it cannot be a prisoner, for how could he 
obtain the opportunity to wander thus?'

If she had been subject to vanity, she might have supposed this 
figure to be some inhabitant of the castle, who wandered under her 
casement in the hope of seeing her, and of being allowed to declare 
his admiration; but this opinion never occurred to Emily, and, if it 
had, she would have dismissed it as improbable, on considering, that, 
when the opportunity of speaking had occurred, it had been suffered 
to pass in silence; and that, even at the moment in which she had 
spoken, the form had abruptly quitted the place.

While she mused, two sentinels walked up the rampart in earnest 
conversation, of which she caught a few words, and learned from 
these, that one of their comrades had fallen down senseless.  Soon 
after, three other soldiers appeared slowly advancing from the bottom 
of the terrace, but she heard only a low voice, that came at 
intervals.  As they drew near, she perceived this to be the voice of 
him, who walked in the middle, apparently supported by his comrades; 
and she again called to them, enquiring what had happened.  At the 
sound of her voice, they stopped, and looked up, while she repeated 
her question, and was told, that Roberto, their fellow of the watch, 
had been seized with a fit, and that his cry, as he fell, had caused 
a false alarm.

'Is he subject to fits?' said Emily.

'Yes, Signora,' replied Roberto; 'but if I had not, what I saw was 
enough to have frightened the Pope himself.'

'What was it?' enquired Emily, trembling.

'I cannot tell what it was, lady, or what I saw, or how it vanished,' 
replied the soldier, who seemed to shudder at the recollection.

'Was it the person, whom you followed down the rampart, that has 
occasioned you this alarm?' said Emily, endeavouring to conceal her 
own.

'Person!' exclaimed the man,--'it was the devil, and this is not the 
first time I have seen him!'

'Nor will it be the last,' observed one of his comrades, laughing.

'No, no, I warrant not,' said another.

'Well,' rejoined Roberto, 'you may be as merry now, as you please; 
you was none so jocose the other night, Sebastian, when you was on 
watch with Launcelot.'

"Launcelot need not talk of that,' replied Sebastian, 'let him 
remember how he stood trembling, and unable to give the WORD, till 
the man was gone,  If the man had not come so silently upon us, I 
would have seized him, and soon made him tell who he was.'

'What man?' enquired Emily.

'It was no man, lady,' said Launcelot, who stood by, 'but the devil 
himself, as my comrade says.  What man, who does not live in the 
castle, could get within the walls at midnight?  Why, I might just as 
well pretend to march to Venice, and get among all the Senators, when 
they are counselling; and I warrant I should have more chance of 
getting out again alive, than any fellow, that we should catch within 
the gates after dark.  So I think I have proved plainly enough, that 
this can be nobody that lives out of the castle; and now I will 
prove, that it can be nobody that lives in the castle--for, if he 
did--why should he be afraid to be seen?  So after this, I hope 
nobody will pretend to tell me it was anybody.  No, I say again, by 
holy Pope! it was the devil, and Sebastian, there, knows this is not 
the first time we have seen him.'

'When did you see the figure, then, before?' said Emily half smiling, 
who, though she thought the conversation somewhat too much, felt an 
interest, which would not permit her to conclude it.

'About a week ago, lady,' said Sebastian, taking up the story.

'And where?'

'On the rampart, lady, higher up.'

'Did you pursue it, that it fled?'

'No, Signora.  Launcelot and I were on watch together, and every 
thing was so still, you might have heard a mouse stir, when, 
suddenly, Launcelot says--Sebastian! do you see nothing?  I turned my 
head a little to the left, as it might be--thus.  No, says I.  Hush! 
said Launcelot,--look yonder--just by the last cannon on the rampart!  
I looked, and then thought I did see something move; but there being 
no light, but what the stars gave, I could not be certain.  We stood 
quite silent, to watch it, and presently saw something pass along the 
castle wall just opposite to us!'

'Why did you not seize it, then?' cried a soldier, who had scarcely 
spoken till now.

'Aye, why did you not seize it?' said Roberto.

'You should have been there to have done that,' replied Sebastian.  
'You would have been bold enough to have taken it by the throat, 
though it had been the devil himself; we could not take such a 
liberty, perhaps, because we are not so well acquainted with him, as 
you are.  But, as I was saying, it stole by us so quickly, that we 
had not time to get rid of our surprise, before it was gone.  Then, 
we knew it was in vain to follow.  We kept constant watch all that 
night, but we saw it no more.  Next morning, we told some of our 
comrades, who were on duty on other parts of the ramparts, what we 
had seen; but they had seen nothing, and laughed at us, and it was 
not till to-night, that the same figure walked again.'

'Where did you lose it, friend?' said Emily to Roberto.

'When I left you, lady,' replied the man, 'you might see me go down 
the rampart, but it was not till I reached the east terrace, that I 
saw any thing.  Then, the moon shining bright, I saw something like a 
shadow flitting before me, as it were, at some distance.  I stopped, 
when I turned the corner of the east tower, where I had seen this 
figure not a moment before,--but it was gone!  As I stood, looking 
through the old arch, which leads to the east rampart, and where I am 
sure it had passed, I heard, all of a sudden, such a sound!--it was 
not like a groan, or a cry, or a shout, or any thing I ever heard in 
my life.  I heard it only once, and that was enough for me; for I 
know nothing that happened after, till I found my comrades, here, 
about me.'

'Come,' said Sebastian, 'let us go to our posts--the moon is setting.  
Good night, lady!'

'Aye, let us go,' rejoined Roberto.  'Good night, lady.'

'Good night; the holy mother guard you!' said Emily, as she closed 
her casement and retired to reflect upon the strange circumstance 
that had just occurred, connecting which with what had happened on 
former nights, she endeavoured to derive from the whole something 
more positive, than conjecture.  But her imagination was inflamed, 
while her judgment was not enlightened, and the terrors of 
superstition again pervaded her mind.



CHAPTER IV


     There is one within,
 Besides the things, that we have heard and seen,
 Recounts most horrid sights, seen by the watch.
     JULIUS CAESAR

In the morning, Emily found Madame Montoni nearly in the same 
condition, as on the preceding night; she had slept little, and that 
little had not refreshed her; she smiled on her niece, and seemed 
cheered by her presence, but spoke only a few words, and never named 
Montoni, who, however, soon after, entered the room.  His wife, when 
she understood that he was there, appeared much agitated, but was 
entirely silent, till Emily rose from a chair at the bed-side, when 
she begged, in a feeble voice, that she would not leave her.

The visit of Montoni was not to sooth his wife, whom he knew to be 
dying, or to console, or to ask her forgiveness, but to make a last 
effort to procure that signature, which would transfer her estates in 
Languedoc, after her death, to him rather than to Emily.  This was a 
scene, that exhibited, on his part, his usual inhumanity, and, on 
that of Madame Montoni, a persevering spirit, contending with a 
feeble frame; while Emily repeatedly declared to him her willingness 
to resign all claim to those estates, rather than that the last hours 
of her aunt should be disturbed by contention.  Montoni, however, did 
not leave the room, till his wife, exhausted by the obstinate 
dispute, had fainted, and she lay so long insensible, that Emily 
began to fear that the spark of life was extinguished.  At length, 
she revived, and, looking feebly up at her niece, whose tears were 
falling over her, made an effort to speak, but her words were 
unintelligible, and Emily again apprehended she was dying.  
Afterwards, however, she recovered her speech, and, being somewhat 
restored by a cordial, conversed for a considerable time, on the 
subject of her estates in France, with clearness and precision.  She 
directed her niece where to find some papers relative to them, which 
she had hitherto concealed from the search of Montoni, and earnestly 
charged her never to suffer these papers to escape her.

Soon after this conversation, Madame Montoni sunk into a dose, and 
continued slumbering, till evening, when she seemed better than she 
had been since her removal from the turret.  Emily never left her, 
for a moment, till long after midnight, and even then would not have 
quitted the room, had not her aunt entreated, that she would retire 
to rest.  She then obeyed, the more willingly, because her patient 
appeared somewhat recruited by sleep; and, giving Annette the same 
injunction, as on the preceding night, she withdrew to her own 
apartment.  But her spirits were wakeful and agitated, and, finding 
it impossible to sleep, she determined to watch, once more, for the 
mysterious appearance, that had so much interested and alarmed her.

It was now the second watch of the night, and about the time when the 
figure had before appeared.  Emily heard the passing steps of the 
sentinels, on the rampart, as they changed guard; and, when all was 
again silent, she took her station at the casement, leaving her lamp 
in a remote part of the chamber, that she might escape notice from 
without.  The moon gave a faint and uncertain light, for heavy 
vapours surrounded it, and, often rolling over the disk, left the 
scene below in total darkness.  It was in one of these moments of 
obscurity, that she observed a small and lambent flame, moving at 
some distance on the terrace.  While she gazed, it disappeared, and, 
the moon again emerging from the lurid and heavy thunder clouds, she 
turned her attention to the heavens, where the vivid lightnings 
darted from cloud to cloud, and flashed silently on the woods below.  
She loved to catch, in the momentary gleam, the gloomy landscape.  
Sometimes, a cloud opened its light upon a distant mountain, and, 
while the sudden splendour illumined all its recesses of rock and 
wood, the rest of the scene remained in deep shadow; at others, 
partial features of the castle were revealed by the glimpse--the 
antient arch leading to the east rampart, the turret above, or the 
fortifications beyond; and then, perhaps, the whole edifice with all 
its towers, its dark massy walls and pointed casements would appear, 
and vanish in an instant.

Emily, looking again upon the rampart, perceived the flame she had 
seen before; it moved onward; and, soon after, she thought she heard 
a footstep.  The light appeared and disappeared frequently, while, as 
she watched, it glided under her casements, and, at the same instant, 
she was certain, that a footstep passed, but the darkness did not 
permit her to distinguish any object except the flame.  It moved 
away, and then, by a gleam of lightning, she perceived some person on 
the terrace.  All the anxieties of the preceding night returned.  
This person advanced, and the playing flame alternately appeared and 
vanished.  Emily wished to speak, to end her doubts, whether this 
figure were human or supernatural; but her courage failed as often as 
she attempted utterance, till the light moved again under the 
casement, and she faintly demanded, who passed.

'A friend,' replied a voice.

'What friend?' said Emily, somewhat encouraged 'who are you, and what 
is that light you carry?'

'I am Anthonio, one of the Signor's soldiers,' replied the voice.

'And what is that tapering light you bear?' said Emily, 'see how it 
darts upwards,--and now it vanishes!'

'This light, lady,' said the soldier, 'has appeared to-night as you 
see it, on the point of my lance, ever since I have been on watch; 
but what it means I cannot tell.'

'This is very strange!' said Emily.

'My fellow-guard,' continued the man, 'has the same flame on his 
arms; he says he has sometimes seen it before.  I never did; I am but 
lately come to the castle, for I have not been long a soldier.'

'How does your comrade account for it?' said Emily.

'He says it is an omen, lady, and bodes no good.'

'And what harm can it bode?' rejoined Emily.

'He knows not so much as that, lady.'

Whether Emily was alarmed by this omen, or not, she certainly was 
relieved from much terror by discovering this man to be only a 
soldier on duty, and it immediately occurred to her, that it might be 
he, who had occasioned so much alarm on the preceding night.  There 
were, however, some circumstances, that still required explanation.  
As far as she could judge by the faint moon-light, that had assisted 
her observation, the figure she had seen did not resemble this man 
either in shape or size; besides, she was certain it had carried no 
arms.  The silence of its steps, if steps it had, the moaning sounds, 
too, which it had uttered, and its strange disappearance, were 
circumstances of mysterious import, that did not apply, with 
probability, to a soldier engaged in the duty of his guard.

She now enquired of the sentinel, whether he had seen any person 
besides his fellow watch, walking on the terrace, about midnight; and 
then briefly related what she had herself observed.

'I was not on guard that night, lady,' replied the man, 'but I heard 
of what happened.  There are amongst us, who believe strange things.  
Strange stories, too, have long been told of this castle, but it is 
no business of mine to repeat them; and, for my part, I have no 
reason to complain; our Chief does nobly by us.'

'I commend your prudence,' said Emily.  'Good night, and accept this 
from me,' she added, throwing him a small piece of coin, and then 
closing the casement to put an end to the discourse.

When he was gone, she opened it again, listened with a gloomy 
pleasure to the distant thunder, that began to murmur among the 
mountains, and watched the arrowy lightnings, which broke over the 
remoter scene.  The pealing thunder rolled onward, and then, reverbed 
by the mountains, other thunder seemed to answer from the opposite 
horizon; while the accumulating clouds, entirely concealing the moon, 
assumed a red sulphureous tinge, that foretold a violent storm.

Emily remained at her casement, till the vivid lightning, that now, 
every instant, revealed the wide horizon and the landscape below, 
made it no longer safe to do so, and she went to her couch; but, 
unable to compose her mind to sleep, still listened in silent awe to 
the tremendous sounds, that seemed to shake the castle to its 
foundation.

She had continued thus for a considerable time, when, amidst the 
uproar of the storm, she thought she heard a voice, and, raising 
herself to listen, saw the chamber door open, and Annette enter with 
a countenance of wild affright.

'She is dying, ma'amselle, my lady is dying!' said she.

Emily started up, and ran to Madame Montoni's room.  When she 
entered, her aunt appeared to have fainted, for she was quite still, 
and insensible; and Emily with a strength of mind, that refused to 
yield to grief, while any duty required her activity, applied every 
means that seemed likely to restore her.  But the last struggle was 
over--she was gone for ever.

When Emily perceived, that all her efforts were ineffectual, she 
interrogated the terrified Annette, and learned, that Madame Montoni 
had fallen into a doze soon after Emily's departure, in which she had 
continued, until a few minutes before her death.

'I wondered, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'what was the reason my lady 
did not seem frightened at the thunder, when I was so terrified, and 
I went often to the bed to speak to her, but she appeared to be 
asleep; till presently I heard a strange noise, and, on going to her, 
saw she was dying.'

Emily, at this recital, shed tears.  She had no doubt but that the 
violent change in the air, which the tempest produced, had effected 
this fatal one, on the exhausted frame of Madame Montoni.

After some deliberation, she determined that Montoni should not be 
informed of this event till the morning, for she considered, that he 
might, perhaps, utter some inhuman expressions, such as in the 
present temper of her spirits she could not bear.  With Annette 
alone, therefore, whom she encouraged by her own example, she 
performed some of the last solemn offices for the dead, and compelled 
herself to watch during the night, by the body of her deceased aunt.  
During this solemn period, rendered more awful by the tremendous 
storm that shook the air, she frequently addressed herself to Heaven 
for support and protection, and her pious prayers, we may believe, 
were accepted of the God, that giveth comfort.



CHAPTER V


 The midnight clock has toll'd; and hark, the bell
 Of Death beats slow! heard ye the note profound?
 It pauses now; and now, with rising knell,
 Flings to the hollow gale its sullen sound.
     MASON

When Montoni was informed of the death of his wife, and considered 
that she had died without giving him the signature so necessary to 
the accomplishment of his wishes, no sense of decency restrained the 
expression of his resentment.  Emily anxiously avoided his presence, 
and watched, during two days and two nights, with little 
intermission, by the corpse of her late aunt.  Her mind deeply 
impressed with the unhappy fate of this object, she forgot all her 
faults, her unjust and imperious conduct to herself; and, remembering 
only her sufferings, thought of her only with tender compassion.  
Sometimes, however, she could not avoid musing upon the strange 
infatuation that had proved so fatal to her aunt, and had involved 
herself in a labyrinth of misfortune, from which she saw no means of 
escaping,--the marriage with Montoni.  But, when she considered this 
circumstance, it was 'more in sorrow than in anger,'--more for the 
purpose of indulging lamentation, than reproach.

In her pious cares she was not disturbed by Montoni, who not only 
avoided the chamber, where the remains of his wife were laid, but 
that part of the castle adjoining to it, as if he had apprehended a 
contagion in death.  He seemed to have given no orders respecting the 
funeral, and Emily began to fear he meant to offer a new insult to 
the memory of Madame Montoni; but from this apprehension she was 
relieved, when, on the evening of the second day, Annette informed 
her, that the interment was to take place that night.  She knew, that 
Montoni would not attend; and it was so very grievous to her to think 
that the remains of her unfortunate aunt would pass to the grave 
without one relative, or friend to pay them the last decent rites, 
that she determined to be deterred by no considerations for herself, 
from observing this duty.  She would otherwise have shrunk from the 
circumstance of following them to the cold vault, to which they were 
to be carried by men, whose air and countenances seemed to stamp them 
for murderers, at the midnight hour of silence and privacy, which 
Montoni had chosen for committing, if possible, to oblivion the 
reliques of a woman, whom his harsh conduct had, at least, 
contributed to destroy.

Emily, shuddering with emotions of horror and grief, assisted by 
Annette, prepared the corpse for interment; and, having wrapt it in 
cerements, and covered it with a winding-sheet, they watched beside 
it, till past midnight, when they heard the approaching footsteps of 
the men, who were to lay it in its earthy bed.  It was with 
difficulty, that Emily overcame her emotion, when, the door of the 
chamber being thrown open, their gloomy countenances were seen by the 
glare of the torch they carried, and two of them, without speaking, 
lifted the body on their shoulders, while the third preceding them 
with the light, descended through the castle towards the grave, which 
was in the lower vault of the chapel within the castle walls.

They had to cross two courts, towards the east wing of the castle, 
which, adjoining the chapel, was, like it, in ruins:  but the silence 
and gloom of these courts had now little power over Emily's mind, 
occupied as it was, with more mournful ideas; and she scarcely heard 
the low and dismal hooting of the night-birds, that roosted among the 
ivyed battlements of the ruin, or perceived the still flittings of 
the bat, which frequently crossed her way.  But, when, having entered 
the chapel, and passed between the mouldering pillars of the aisles, 
the bearers stopped at a flight of steps, that led down to a low 
arched door, and, their comrade having descended to unlock it, she 
saw imperfectly the gloomy abyss beyond;--saw the corpse of her aunt 
carried down these steps, and the ruffian-like figure, that stood 
with a torch at the bottom to receive it--all her fortitude was lost 
in emotions of inexpressible grief and terror.  She turned to lean 
upon Annette, who was cold and trembling like herself, and she 
lingered so long on the summit of the flight, that the gleam of the 
torch began to die away on the pillars of the chapel, and the men 
were almost beyond her view.  Then, the gloom around her awakening 
other fears, and a sense of what she considered to be her duty 
overcoming her reluctance, she descended to the vaults, following the 
echo of footsteps and the faint ray, that pierced the darkness, till 
the harsh grating of a distant door, that was opened to receive the 
corpse, again appalled her.

After the pause of a moment, she went on, and, as she entered the 
vaults, saw between the arches, at some distance, the men lay down 
the body near the edge of an open grave, where stood another of 
Montoni's men and a priest, whom she did not observe, till he began 
the burial service; then, lifting her eyes from the ground, she saw 
the venerable figure of the friar, and heard him in a low voice, 
equally solemn and affecting, perform the service for the dead.  At 
the moment, in which they let down the body into the earth, the scene 
was such as only the dark pencil of a Domenichino, perhaps, could 
have done justice to.  The fierce features and wild dress of the 
condottieri, bending with their torches over the grave, into which 
the corpse was descending, were contrasted by the venerable figure of 
the monk, wrapt in long black garments, his cowl thrown back from his 
pale face, on which the light gleaming strongly shewed the lines of 
affliction softened by piety, and the few grey locks, which time had 
spared on his temples:  while, beside him, stood the softer form of 
Emily, who leaned for support upon Annette; her face half averted, 
and shaded by a thin veil, that fell over her figure; and her mild 
and beautiful countenance fixed in grief so solemn as admitted not of 
tears, while she thus saw committed untimely to the earth her last 
relative and friend.  The gleams, thrown between the arches of the 
vaults, where, here and there, the broken ground marked the spots in 
which other bodies had been recently interred, and the general 
obscurity beyond were circumstances, that alone would have led on the 
imagination of a spectator to scenes more horrible, than even that, 
which was pictured at the grave of the misguided and unfortunate 
Madame Montoni.

When the service was over, the friar regarded Emily with attention 
and surprise, and looked as if he wished to speak to her, but was 
restrained by the presence of the condottieri, who, as they now led 
the way to the courts, amused themselves with jokes upon his holy 
order, which he endured in silence, demanding only to be conducted 
safely to his convent, and to which Emily listened with concern and 
even horror.  When they reached the court, the monk gave her his 
blessing, and, after a lingering look of pity, turned away to the 
portal, whither one of the men carried a torch; while Annette, 
lighting another, preceded Emily to her apartment.  The appearance of 
the friar and the expression of tender compassion, with which he had 
regarded her, had interested Emily, who, though it was at her earnest 
supplication, that Montoni had consented to allow a priest to perform 
the last rites for his deceased wife, knew nothing concerning this 
person, till Annette now informed her, that he belonged to a 
monastery, situated among the mountains at a few miles distance.  The 
Superior, who regarded Montoni and his associates, not only with 
aversion, but with terror, had probably feared to offend him by 
refusing his request, and had, therefore, ordered a monk to officiate 
at the funeral, who, with the meek spirit of a christian, had 
overcome his reluctance to enter the walls of such a castle, by the 
wish of performing what he considered to be his duty, and, as the 
chapel was built on consecrated ground, had not objected to commit to 
it the remains of the late unhappy Madame Montoni.

Several days passed with Emily in total seclusion, and in a state of 
mind partaking both of terror for herself, and grief for the 
departed.  She, at length, determined to make other efforts to 
persuade Montoni to permit her return to France.  Why he should wish 
to detain her, she could scarcely dare to conjecture; but it was too 
certain that he did so, and the absolute refusal he had formerly 
given to her departure allowed her little hope, that he would now 
consent to it.  But the horror, which his presence inspired, made her 
defer, from day to day, the mention of this subject; and at last she 
was awakened from her inactivity only by a message from him, desiring 
her attendance at a certain hour.  She began to hope he meant to 
resign, now that her aunt was no more, the authority he had usurped 
over her; till she recollected, that the estates, which had 
occasioned so much contention, were now hers, and she then feared 
Montoni was about to employ some stratagem for obtaining them, and 
that he would detain her his prisoner, till he succeeded.  This 
thought, instead of overcoming her with despondency, roused all the 
latent powers of her fortitude into action; and the property, which 
she would willingly have resigned to secure the peace of her aunt, 
she resolved, that no common sufferings of her own should ever compel 
her to give to Montoni.  For Valancourt's sake also she determined to 
preserve these estates, since they would afford that competency, by 
which she hoped to secure the comfort of their future lives.  As she 
thought of this, she indulged the tenderness of tears, and 
anticipated the delight of that moment, when, with affectionate 
generosity, she might tell him they were his own.  She saw the smile, 
that lighted up his features--the affectionate regard, which spoke at 
once his joy and thanks; and, at this instant, she believed she could 
brave any suffering, which the evil spirit of Montoni might be 
preparing for her.  Remembering then, for the first time since her 
aunt's death, the papers relative to the estates in question, she 
determined to search for them, as soon as her interview with Montoni 
was over.

With these resolutions she met him at the appointed time, and waited 
to hear his intention before she renewed her request.  With him were 
Orsino and another officer, and both were standing near a table, 
covered with papers, which he appeared to be examining.

'I sent for you, Emily,' said Montoni, raising his head, 'that you 
might be a witness in some business, which I am transacting with my 
friend Orsino.  All that is required of you will be to sign your name 
to this paper:' he then took one up, hurried unintelligibly over some 
lines, and, laying it before her on the table, offered her a pen.  
She took it, and was going to write--when the design of Montoni came 
upon her mind like a flash of lightning; she trembled, let the pen 
fall, and refused to sign what she had not read.  Montoni affected to 
laugh at her scruples, and, taking up the paper, again pretended to 
read; but Emily, who still trembled on perceiving her danger, and was 
astonished, that her own credulity had so nearly betrayed her, 
positively refused to sign any paper whatever.  Montoni, for some 
time, persevered in affecting to ridicule this refusal; but, when he 
perceived by her steady perseverance, that she understood his design, 
he changed his manner, and bade her follow him to another room.  
There he told her, that he had been willing to spare himself and her 
the trouble of useless contest, in an affair, where his will was 
justice, and where she should find it law; and had, therefore, 
endeavoured to persuade, rather than to compel, her to the practice 
of her duty.

'I, as the husband of the late Signora Montoni,' he added, 'am the 
heir of all she possessed; the estates, therefore, which she refused 
to me in her life-time, can no longer be withheld, and, for your own 
sake, I would undeceive you, respecting a foolish assertion she once 
made to you in my hearing--that these estates would be yours, if she 
died without resigning them to me.  She knew at that moment, she had 
no power to withhold them from me, after her decease; and I think you 
have more sense, than to provoke my resentment by advancing an unjust 
claim.  I am not in the habit of flattering, and you will, therefore, 
receive, as sincere, the praise I bestow, when I say, that you 
possess an understanding superior to that of your sex; and that you 
have none of those contemptible foibles, that frequently mark the 
female character--such as avarice and the love of power, which latter 
makes women delight to contradict and to tease, when they cannot 
conquer.  If I understand your disposition and your mind, you hold in 
sovereign contempt these common failings of your sex.'

Montoni paused; and Emily remained silent and expecting; for she knew 
him too well, to believe he would condescend to such flattery, unless 
he thought it would promote his own interest; and, though he had 
forborne to name vanity among the foibles of women, it was evident, 
that he considered it to be a predominant one, since he designed to 
sacrifice to hers the character and understanding of her whole sex.

'Judging as I do,' resumed Montoni, 'I cannot believe you will 
oppose, where you know you cannot conquer, or, indeed, that you would 
wish to conquer, or be avaricious of any property, when you have not 
justice on your side.  I think it proper, however, to acquaint you 
with the alternative.  If you have a just opinion of the subject in 
question, you shall be allowed a safe conveyance to France, within a 
short period; but, if you are so unhappy as to be misled by the late 
assertion of the Signora, you shall remain my prisoner, till you are 
convinced of your error.'

Emily calmly said,

'I am not so ignorant, Signor, of the laws on this subject, as to be 
misled by the assertion of any person.  The law, in the present 
instance, gives me the estates in question, and my own hand shall 
never betray my right.'

'I have been mistaken in my opinion of you, it appears,' rejoined 
Montoni, sternly.  'You speak boldly, and presumptuously, upon a 
subject, which you do not understand.  For once, I am willing to 
pardon the conceit of ignorance; the weakness of your sex, too, from 
which, it seems, you are not exempt, claims some allowance; but, if 
you persist in this strain--you have every thing to fear from my 
justice.'

'From your justice, Signor,' rejoined Emily, 'I have nothing to fear-
-I have only to hope.'

Montoni looked at her with vexation, and seemed considering what to 
say.  'I find that you are weak enough,' he resumed, 'to credit the 
idle assertion I alluded to!  For your own sake I lament this; as to 
me, it is of little consequence.  Your credulity can punish only 
yourself; and I must pity the weakness of mind, which leads you to so 
much suffering as you are compelling me to prepare for you.'

'You may find, perhaps, Signor,' said Emily, with mild dignity, 'that 
the strength of my mind is equal to the justice of my cause; and that 
I can endure with fortitude, when it is in resistance of oppression.'

'You speak like a heroine,' said Montoni, contemptuously; 'we shall 
see whether you can suffer like one.'

Emily was silent, and he left the room.

Recollecting, that it was for Valancourt's sake she had thus 
resisted, she now smiled complacently upon the threatened sufferings, 
and retired to the spot, which her aunt had pointed out as the 
repository of the papers, relative to the estates, where she found 
them as described; and, since she knew of no better place of 
concealment, than this, returned them, without examining their 
contents, being fearful of discovery, while she should attempt a 
perusal.

To her own solitary chamber she once more returned, and there thought 
again of the late conversation with Montoni, and of the evil she 
might expect from opposition to his will.  But his power did not 
appear so terrible to her imagination, as it was wont to do:  a 
sacred pride was in her heart, that taught it to swell against the 
pressure of injustice, and almost to glory in the quiet sufferance of 
ills, in a cause, which had also the interest of Valancourt for its 
object.  For the first time, she felt the full extent of her own 
superiority to Montoni, and despised the authority, which, till now, 
she had only feared.

As she sat musing, a peal of laughter rose from the terrace, and, on 
going to the casement, she saw, with inexpressible surprise, three 
ladies, dressed in the gala habit of Venice, walking with several 
gentlemen below.  She gazed in an astonishment that made her remain 
at the window, regardless of being observed, till the group passed 
under it; and, one of the strangers looking up, she perceived the 
features of Signora Livona, with whose manners she had been so much 
charmed, the day after her arrival at Venice, and who had been there 
introduced at the table of Montoni.  This discovery occasioned her an 
emotion of doubtful joy; for it was matter of joy and comfort to 
know, that a person, of a mind so gentle, as that of Signora Livona 
seemed to be, was near her; yet there was something so extraordinary 
in her being at this castle, circumstanced as it now was, and 
evidently, by the gaiety of her air, with her own consent, that a 
very painful surmise arose, concerning her character.  But the 
thought was so shocking to Emily, whose affection the fascinating 
manners of the Signora had won, and appeared so improbable, when she 
remembered these manners, that she dismissed it almost instantly.

On Annette's appearance, however, she enquired, concerning these 
strangers; and the former was as eager to tell, as Emily was to 
learn.

'They are just come, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'with two Signors 
from Venice, and I was glad to see such Christian faces once again.--
But what can they mean by coming here?  They must surely be stark mad 
to come freely to such a place as this!  Yet they do come freely, for 
they seem merry enough, I am sure.'

'They were taken prisoners, perhaps?' said Emily.

'Taken prisoners!' exclaimed Annette; 'no, indeed, ma'amselle, not 
they.  I remember one of them very well at Venice:  she came two or 
three times, to the Signor's you know, ma'amselle, and it was said, 
but I did not believe a word of it--it was said, that the Signor 
liked her better than he should do.  Then why, says I, bring her to 
my lady?  Very true, said Ludovico; but he looked as if he knew more, 
too.'

Emily desired Annette would endeavour to learn who these ladies were, 
as well as all she could concerning them; and she then changed the 
subject, and spoke of distant France.

'Ah, ma'amselle! we shall never see it more!' said Annette, almost 
weeping.--'I must come on my travels, forsooth!'

Emily tried to sooth and to cheer her, with a hope, in which she 
scarcely herself indulged.

'How--how, ma'amselle, could you leave France, and leave Mons. 
Valancourt, too?' said Annette, sobbing.  'I--I--am sure, if Ludovico 
had been in France, I would never have left it.'

'Why do you lament quitting France, then?' said Emily, trying to 
smile, 'since, if you had remained there, you would not have found 
Ludovico.'

'Ah, ma'amselle!  I only wish I was out of this frightful castle, 
serving you in France, and I would care about nothing else!'

'Thank you, my good Annette, for your affectionate regard; the time 
will come, I hope, when you may remember the expression of that wish 
with pleasure.'

Annette departed on her business, and Emily sought to lose the sense 
of her own cares, in the visionary scenes of the poet; but she had 
again to lament the irresistible force of circumstances over the 
taste and powers of the mind; and that it requires a spirit at ease 
to be sensible even to the abstract pleasures of pure intellect.  The 
enthusiasm of genius, with all its pictured scenes, now appeared 
cold, and dim.  As she mused upon the book before her, she 
involuntarily exclaimed, 'Are these, indeed, the passages, that have 
so often given me exquisite delight?  Where did the charm exist?--Was 
it in my mind, or in the imagination of the poet?  It lived in each,' 
said she, pausing.  'But the fire of the poet is vain, if the mind of 
his reader is not tempered like his own, however it may be inferior 
to his in power.'

Emily would have pursued this train of thinking, because it relieved 
her from more painful reflection, but she found again, that thought 
cannot always be controlled by will; and hers returned to the 
consideration of her own situation.

In the evening, not choosing to venture down to the ramparts, where 
she would be exposed to the rude gaze of Montoni's associates, she 
walked for air in the gallery, adjoining her chamber; on reaching the 
further end of which she heard distant sounds of merriment and 
laughter.  It was the wild uproar of riot, not the cheering gaiety of 
tempered mirth; and seemed to come from that part of the castle, 
where Montoni usually was.  Such sounds, at this time, when her aunt 
had been so few days dead, particularly shocked her, consistent as 
they were with the late conduct of Montoni.

As she listened, she thought she distinguished female voices mingling 
with the laughter, and this confirmed her worst surmise, concerning 
the character of Signora Livona and her companions. It was evident, 
that they had not been brought hither by compulsion; and she beheld 
herself in the remote wilds of the Apennine, surrounded by men, whom 
she considered to be little less than ruffians, and their worst 
associates, amid scenes of vice, from which her soul recoiled in 
horror.  It was at this moment, when the scenes of the present and 
the future opened to her imagination, that the image of Valancourt 
failed in its influence, and her resolution shook with dread.  She 
thought she understood all the horrors, which Montoni was preparing 
for her, and shrunk from an encounter with such remorseless 
vengeance, as he could inflict.  The disputed estates she now almost 
determined to yield at once, whenever he should again call upon her, 
that she might regain safety and freedom; but then, the remembrance 
of Valancourt would steal to her heart, and plunge her into the 
distractions of doubt.

She continued walking in the gallery, till evening threw its 
melancholy twilight through the painted casements, and deepened the 
gloom of the oak wainscoting around her; while the distant 
perspective of the corridor was so much obscured, as to be 
discernible only by the glimmering window, that terminated it.

Along the vaulted halls and passages below, peals of laughter echoed 
faintly, at intervals, to this remote part of the castle, and seemed 
to render the succeeding stillness more dreary.  Emily, however, 
unwilling to return to her more forlorn chamber, whither Annette was 
not yet come, still paced the gallery.  As she passed the door of the 
apartment, where she had once dared to lift the veil, which 
discovered to her a spectacle so horrible, that she had never after 
remembered it, but with emotions of indescribable awe, this 
remembrance suddenly recurred.  It now brought with it reflections 
more terrible, than it had yet done, which the late conduct of 
Montoni occasioned; and, hastening to quit the gallery, while she had 
power to do so, she heard a sudden step behind her.--It might be that 
of Annette; but, turning fearfully to look, she saw, through the 
gloom, a tall figure following her, and all the horrors of that 
chamber rushed upon her mind.  In the next moment, she found herself 
clasped in the arms of some person, and heard a deep voice murmur in 
her ear.

When she had power to speak, or to distinguish articulated sounds, 
she demanded who detained her.

'It is I,' replied the voice--'Why are you thus alarmed?'

She looked on the face of the person who spoke, but the feeble light, 
that gleamed through the high casement at the end of the gallery, did 
not permit her to distinguish the features.

'Whoever you are,' said Emily, in a trembling voice, 'for heaven's 
sake let me go!'

'My charming Emily,' said the man, 'why will you shut yourself up in 
this obscure place, when there is so much gaiety below?  Return with 
me to the cedar parlour, where you will be the fairest ornament of 
the party;--you shall not repent the exchange.'

Emily disdained to reply, and still endeavoured to liberate herself.

'Promise, that you will come,' he continued, 'and I will release you 
immediately; but first give me a reward for so doing.'

'Who are you?' demanded Emily, in a tone of mingled terror and 
indignation, while she still struggled for liberty--'who are you, 
that have the cruelty thus to insult me?'

'Why call me cruel?' said the man, 'I would remove you from this 
dreary solitude to a merry party below.  Do you not know me?'

Emily now faintly remembered, that he was one of the officers who 
were with Montoni when she attended him in the morning.  'I thank you 
for the kindness of your intention,' she replied, without appearing 
to understand him, 'but I wish for nothing so much as that you would 
leave me.'

'Charming Emily!' said he, 'give up this foolish whim for solitude, 
and come with me to the company, and eclipse the beauties who make 
part of it; you, only, are worthy of my love.'  He attempted to kiss 
her hand, but the strong impulse of her indignation gave her power to 
liberate herself, and she fled towards the chamber.  She closed the 
door, before he reached it, having secured which, she sunk in a 
chair, overcome by terror and by the exertion she had made, while she 
heard his voice, and his attempts to open the door, without having 
the power to raise herself.  At length, she perceived him depart, and 
had remained, listening, for a considerable time, and was somewhat 
revived by not hearing any sound, when suddenly she remembered the 
door of the private stair-case, and that he might enter that way, 
since it was fastened only on the other side.  She then employed 
herself in endeavouring to secure it, in the manner she had formerly 
done.  It appeared to her, that Montoni had already commenced his 
scheme of vengeance, by withdrawing from her his protection, and she 
repented of the rashness, that had made her brave the power of such a 
man.  To retain the estates seemed to be now utterly impossible, and 
to preserve her life, perhaps her honour, she resolved, if she should 
escape the horrors of this night, to give up all claims to the 
estates, on the morrow, provided Montoni would suffer her to depart 
from Udolpho.

When she had come to this decision, her mind became more composed, 
though she still anxiously listened, and often started at ideal 
sounds, that appeared to issue from the stair-case.

Having sat in darkness for some hours, during all which time Annette 
did not appear, she began to have serious apprehensions for her; but, 
not daring to venture down into the castle, was compelled to remain 
in uncertainty, as to the cause of this unusual absence.

Emily often stole to the stair-case door, to listen if any step 
approached, but still no sound alarmed her:  determining, however, to 
watch, during the night, she once more rested on her dark and 
desolate couch, and bathed the pillow with innocent tears.  She 
thought of her deceased parents and then of the absent Valancourt, 
and frequently called upon their names; for the profound stillness, 
that now reigned, was propitious to the musing sorrow of her mind.

While she thus remained, her ear suddenly caught the notes of distant 
music, to which she listened attentively, and, soon perceiving this 
to be the instrument she had formerly heard at midnight, she rose, 
and stepped softly to the casement, to which the sounds appeared to 
come from a lower room.

In a few moments, their soft melody was accompanied by a voice so 
full of pathos, that it evidently sang not of imaginary sorrows.  Its 
sweet and peculiar tones she thought she had somewhere heard before; 
yet, if this was not fancy, it was, at most, a very faint 
recollection.  It stole over her mind, amidst the anguish of her 
present suffering, like a celestial strain, soothing, and re-assuring 
her;--'Pleasant as the gale of spring, that sighs on the hunter's 
ear, when he awakens from dreams of joy, and has heard the music of 
the spirits of the hill.'*

(*Ossian.  [A. R.])


But her emotion can scarcely be imagined, when she heard sung, with 
the taste and simplicity of true feeling, one of the popular airs of 
her native province, to which she had so often listened with delight, 
when a child, and which she had so often heard her father repeat!  To 
this well-known song, never, till now, heard but in her native 
country, her heart melted, while the memory of past times returned.  
The pleasant, peaceful scenes of Gascony, the tenderness and goodness 
of her parents, the taste and simplicity of her former life--all rose 
to her fancy, and formed a picture, so sweet and glowing, so 
strikingly contrasted with the scenes, the characters and the 
dangers, which now surrounded her--that her mind could not bear to 
pause upon the retrospect, and shrunk at the acuteness of its own 
sufferings.

Her sighs were deep and convulsed; she could no longer listen to the 
strain, that had so often charmed her to tranquillity, and she 
withdrew from the casement to a remote part of the chamber.  But she 
was not yet beyond the reach of the music; she heard the measure 
change, and the succeeding air called her again to the window, for 
she immediately recollected it to be the same she had formerly heard 
in the fishing-house in Gascony.  Assisted, perhaps, by the mystery, 
which had then accompanied this strain, it had made so deep an 
impression on her memory, that she had never since entirely forgotten 
it; and the manner, in which it was now sung, convinced her, however 
unaccountable the circumstances appeared, that this was the same 
voice she had then heard.  Surprise soon yielded to other emotions; a 
thought darted, like lightning, upon her mind, which discovered a 
train of hopes, that revived all her spirits.  Yet these hopes were 
so new, so unexpected, so astonishing, that she did not dare to 
trust, though she could not resolve to discourage them.  She sat down 
by the casement, breathless, and overcome with the alternate emotions 
of hope and fear; then rose again, leaned from the window, that she 
might catch a nearer sound, listened, now doubting and then 
believing, softly exclaimed the name of Valancourt, and then sunk 
again into the chair.  Yes, it was possible, that Valancourt was near 
her, and she recollected circumstances, which induced her to believe 
it was his voice she had just heard.  She remembered he had more than 
once said that the fishing-house, where she had formerly listened to 
this voice and air, and where she had seen pencilled sonnets, 
addressed to herself, had been his favourite haunt, before he had 
been made known to her; there, too, she had herself unexpectedly met 
him.  It appeared, from these circumstances, more than probable, that 
he was the musician, who had formerly charmed her attention, and the 
author of the lines, which had expressed such tender admiration;--who 
else, indeed, could it be?  She was unable, at that time, to form a 
conjecture, as to the writer, but, since her acquaintance with 
Valancourt, whenever he had mentioned the fishing-house to have been 
known to him, she had not scrupled to believe that he was the author 
of the sonnets.

As these considerations passed over her mind, joy, fear and 
tenderness contended at her heart; she leaned again from the casement 
to catch the sounds, which might confirm, or destroy her hope, though 
she did not recollect to have ever heard him sing; but the voice, and 
the instrument, now ceased.

She considered for a moment whether she should venture to speak:  
then, not choosing, lest it should be he, to mention his name, and 
yet too much interested to neglect the opportunity of enquiring, she 
called from the casement, 'Is that song from Gascony?'  Her anxious 
attention was not cheered by any reply; every thing remained silent.  
Her impatience increasing with her fears, she repeated the question; 
but still no sound was heard, except the sighings of the wind among 
the battlements above; and she endeavoured to console herself with a 
belief, that the stranger, whoever he was, had retired, before she 
had spoken, beyond the reach of her voice, which, it appeared 
certain, had Valancourt heard and recognized, he would instantly have 
replied to.  Presently, however, she considered, that a motive of 
prudence, and not an accidental removal, might occasion his silence; 
but the surmise, that led to this reflection, suddenly changed her 
hope and joy to terror and grief; for, if Valancourt were in the 
castle, it was too probable, that he was here a prisoner, taken with 
some of his countrymen, many of whom were at that time engaged in the 
wars of Italy, or intercepted in some attempt to reach her.  Had he 
even recollected Emily's voice, he would have feared, in these 
circumstances, to reply to it, in the presence of the men, who 
guarded his prison.

What so lately she had eagerly hoped she now believed she dreaded;--
dreaded to know, that Valancourt was near her; and, while she was 
anxious to be relieved from her apprehension for his safety, she 
still was unconscious, that a hope of soon seeing him, struggled with 
the fear.

She remained listening at the casement, till the air began to 
freshen, and one high mountain in the east to glimmer with the 
morning; when, wearied with anxiety, she retired to her couch, where 
she found it utterly impossible to sleep, for joy, tenderness, doubt 
and apprehension, distracted her during the whole night.  Now she 
rose from the couch, and opened the casement to listen; then she 
would pace the room with impatient steps, and, at length, return with 
despondence to her pillow.  Never did hours appear to move so 
heavily, as those of this anxious night; after which she hoped that 
Annette might appear, and conclude her present state of torturing 
suspense.



CHAPTER VI


     might we but hear
 The folded flocks penn'd in their watled cotes,
 Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops,
 Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock
 Count the night watches to his feathery dames,
 'Twould be some solace yet, some little cheering
 In this close dungeon of innumerous boughs.
     MILTON

In the morning, Emily was relieved from her fears for Annette, who 
came at an early hour.

'Here were fine doings in the castle, last night, ma'amselle,' said 
she, as soon as she entered the room,--'fine doings, indeed!  Was you 
not frightened, ma'amselle, at not seeing me?'

'I was alarmed both on your account and on my own,' replied Emily--
'What detained you?'

'Aye, I said so, I told him so; but it would not do.  It was not my 
fault, indeed, ma'amselle, for I could not get out.  That rogue 
Ludovico locked me up again.'

'Locked you up!' said Emily, with displeasure, 'Why do you permit 
Ludovico to lock you up?'

'Holy Saints!' exclaimed Annette, 'how can I help it!  If he will 
lock the door, ma'amselle, and take away the key, how am I to get 
out, unless I jump through the window?  But that I should not mind so 
much, if the casements here were not all so high; one can hardly 
scramble up to them on the inside, and one should break one's neck, I 
suppose, going down on the outside.  But you know, I dare say, ma'am, 
what a hurly-burly the castle was in, last night; you must have heard 
some of the uproar.'

'What, were they disputing, then?' said Emily.

'No, ma'amselle, nor fighting, but almost as good, for I believe 
there was not one of the Signors sober; and what is more, not one of 
those fine ladies sober, either.  I thought, when I saw them first, 
that all those fine silks and fine veils,--why, ma'amselle, their 
veils were worked with silver! and fine trimmings--boded no good--I 
guessed what they were!'

'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, 'what will become of me!'

'Aye, ma'am, Ludovico said much the same thing of me.  Good God! said 
he, Annette, what is to become of you, if you are to go running about 
the castle among all these drunken Signors?'

'O! says I, for that matter, I only want to go to my young lady's 
chamber, and I have only to go, you know, along the vaulted passage 
and across the great hall and up the marble stair-case and along the 
north gallery and through the west wing of the castle and I am in the 
corridor in a minute.'  'Are you so? says he, and what is to become 
of you, if you meet any of those noble cavaliers in the way?'  'Well, 
says I, if you think there is danger, then, go with me, and guard me; 
I am never afraid when you are by.'  'What! says he, when I am 
scarcely recovered of one wound, shall I put myself in the way of 
getting another? for if any of the cavaliers meet you, they will fall 
a-fighting with me directly.  No, no, says he, I will cut the way 
shorter, than through the vaulted passage and up the marble stair-
case, and along the north gallery and through the west wing of the 
castle, for you shall stay here, Annette; you shall not go out of 
this room, to-night.'  'So, with that I says'--

'Well, well,' said Emily, impatiently, and anxious to enquire on 
another subject,--'so he locked you up?'

'Yes, he did indeed, ma'amselle, notwithstanding all I could say to 
the contrary; and Caterina and I and he staid there all night.  And 
in a few minutes after I was not so vexed, for there came Signor 
Verezzi roaring along the passage, like a mad bull, and he mistook 
Ludovico's hall, for old Carlo's; so he tried to burst open the door, 
and called out for more wine, for that he had drunk all the flasks 
dry, and was dying of thirst.  So we were all as still as night, that 
he might suppose there was nobody in the room; but the Signor was as 
cunning as the best of us, and kept calling out at the door, "Come 
forth, my antient hero!" said he, "here is no enemy at the gate, that 
you need hide yourself:  come forth, my valorous Signor Steward!"  
Just then old Carlo opened his door, and he came with a flask in his 
hand; for, as soon as the Signor saw him, he was as tame as could be, 
and followed him away as naturally as a dog does a butcher with a 
piece of meat in his basket.  All this I saw through the key-hole.  
Well, Annette, said Ludovico, jeeringly, shall I let you out now?  O 
no, says I, I would not'--

'I have some questions to ask you on another subject,' interrupted 
Emily, quite wearied by this story.  'Do you know whether there are 
any prisoners in the castle, and whether they are confined at this 
end of the edifice?'

'I was not in the way, ma'amselle,' replied Annette, 'when the first 
party came in from the mountains, and the last party is not come back 
yet, so I don't know, whether there are any prisoners; but it is 
expected back to-night, or to-morrow, and I shall know then, 
perhaps.'

Emily enquired if she had ever heard the servants talk of prisoners.

'Ah ma'amselle!' said Annette archly, 'now I dare say you are 
thinking of Monsieur Valancourt, and that he may have come among the 
armies, which, they say, are come from our country, to fight against 
this state, and that he has met with some of OUR people, and is taken 
captive.  O Lord! how glad I should be, if it was so!'

'Would you, indeed, be glad?' said Emily, in a tone of mournful 
reproach.

'To be sure I should, ma'am,' replied Annette, 'and would not you be 
glad too, to see Signor Valancourt?  I don't know any chevalier I 
like better, I have a very great regard for the Signor, truly.'

'Your regard for him cannot be doubted,' said Emily, 'since you wish 
to see him a prisoner.'

'Why no, ma'amselle, not a prisoner either; but one must be glad to 
see him, you know.  And it was only the other night I dreamt--I 
dreamt I saw him drive into the castle-yard all in a coach and six, 
and dressed out, with a laced coat and a sword, like a lord as he 
is.'

Emily could not forbear smiling at Annette's ideas of Valancourt, and 
repeated her enquiry, whether she had heard the servants talk of 
prisoners.

'No, ma'amselle,' replied she, 'never; and lately they have done 
nothing but talk of the apparition, that has been walking about of a 
night on the ramparts, and that frightened the sentinels into fits.  
It came among them like a flash of fire, they say, and they all fell 
down in a row, till they came to themselves again; and then it was 
gone, and nothing to be seen but the old castle walls; so they helped 
one another up again as fast as they could.  You would not believe, 
ma'amselle, though I shewed you the very cannon, where it used to 
appear.'

'And are you, indeed, so simple, Annette,' said Emily, smiling at 
this curious exaggeration of the circumstances she had witnessed, 'as 
to credit these stories?'

'Credit them, ma'amselle! why all the world could not persuade me out 
of them.  Roberto and Sebastian and half a dozen more of them went 
into fits!  To be sure, there was no occasion for that; I said, 
myself, there was no need of that, for, says I, when the enemy comes, 
what a pretty figure they will cut, if they are to fall down in fits, 
all of a row!  The enemy won't be so civil, perhaps, as to walk off, 
like the ghost, and leave them to help one another up, but will fall 
to, cutting and slashing, till he makes them all rise up dead men.  
No, no, says I, there is reason in all things:  though I might have 
fallen down in a fit that was no rule for them, being, because it is 
no business of mine to look gruff, and fight battles.'

Emily endeavoured to correct the superstitious weakness of Annette, 
though she could not entirely subdue her own; to which the latter 
only replied, 'Nay, ma'amselle, you will believe nothing; you are 
almost as bad as the Signor himself, who was in a great passion when 
they told of what had happened, and swore that the first man, who 
repeated such nonsense, should be thrown into the dungeon under the 
east turret.  This was a hard punishment too, for only talking 
nonsense, as he called it, but I dare say he had other reasons for 
calling it so, than you have, ma'am.'

Emily looked displeased, and made no reply.  As she mused upon the 
recollected appearance, which had lately so much alarmed her, and 
considered the circumstances of the figure having stationed itself 
opposite to her casement, she was for a moment inclined to believe it 
was Valancourt, whom she had seen.  Yet, if it was he, why did he not 
speak to her, when he had the opportunity of doing so--and, if he was 
a prisoner in the castle, and he could be here in no other character, 
how could he obtain the means of walking abroad on the rampart?  Thus 
she was utterly unable to decide, whether the musician and the form 
she had observed, were the same, or, if they were, whether this was 
Valancourt.  She, however, desired that Annette would endeavour to 
learn whether any prisoners were in the castle, and also their names.

'O dear, ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'I forget to tell you what you 
bade me ask about, the ladies, as they call themselves, who are 
lately come to Udolpho.  Why that Signora Livona, that the Signor 
brought to see my late lady at Venice, is his mistress now, and was 
little better then, I dare say.  And Ludovico says (but pray be 
secret, ma'am) that his excellenza introduced her only to impose upon 
the world, that had begun to make free with her character.  So when 
people saw my lady notice her, they thought what they had heard must 
be scandal.  The other two are the mistresses of Signor Verezzi and 
Signor Bertolini; and Signor Montoni invited them all to the castle; 
and so, yesterday, he gave a great entertainment; and there they 
were, all drinking Tuscany wine and all sorts, and laughing and 
singing, till they made the castle ring again.  But I thought they 
were dismal sounds, so soon after my poor lady's death too; and they 
brought to my mind what she would have thought, if she had heard 
them--but she cannot hear them now, poor soul! said I.'

Emily turned away to conceal her emotion, and then desired Annette to 
go, and make enquiry, concerning the prisoners, that might be in the 
castle, but conjured her to do it with caution, and on no account to 
mention her name, or that of Monsieur Valancourt.

'Now I think of it, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'I do believe there 
are prisoners, for I overheard one of the Signor's men, yesterday, in 
the servants hall, talking something about ransoms, and saying what a 
fine thing it was for his excellenza to catch up men, and they were 
as good booty as any other, because of the ransoms.  And the other 
man was grumbling, and saying it was fine enough for the Signor, but 
none so fine for his soldiers, because, said he, we don't go shares 
there.'

This information heightened Emily's impatience to know more, and 
Annette immediately departed on her enquiry.

The late resolution of Emily to resign her estates to Montoni, now 
gave way to new considerations; the possibility, that Valancourt was 
near her, revived her fortitude, and she determined to brave the 
threatened vengeance, at least, till she could be assured whether he 
was really in the castle.  She was in this temper of mind, when she 
received a message from Montoni, requiring her attendance in the 
cedar parlour, which she obeyed with trembling, and, on her way 
thither, endeavoured to animate her fortitude with the idea of 
Valancourt.

Montoni was alone.  'I sent for you,' said he, 'to give you another 
opportunity of retracting your late mistaken assertions concerning 
the Languedoc estates.  I will condescend to advise, where I may 
command.--If you are really deluded by an opinion, that you have any 
right to these estates, at least, do not persist in the error--an 
error, which you may perceive, too late, has been fatal to you.  Dare 
my resentment no further, but sign the papers.'

'If I have no right in these estates, sir,' said Emily, 'of what 
service can it be to you, that I should sign any papers, concerning 
them?  If the lands are yours by law, you certainly may possess them, 
without my interference, or my consent.'

'I will have no more argument,' said Montoni, with a look that made 
her tremble.  'What had I but trouble to expect, when I condescended 
to reason with a baby!  But I will be trifled with no longer:  let 
the recollection of your aunt's sufferings, in consequence of her 
folly and obstinacy, teach you a lesson.--Sign the papers.'

Emily's resolution was for a moment awed:--she shrunk at the 
recollections he revived, and from the vengeance he threatened; but 
then, the image of Valancourt, who so long had loved her, and who was 
now, perhaps, so near her, came to her heart, and, together with the 
strong feelings of indignation, with which she had always, from her 
infancy, regarded an act of injustice, inspired her with a noble, 
though imprudent, courage.

'Sign the papers,' said Montoni, more impatiently than before.

'Never, sir,' replied Emily; 'that request would have proved to me 
the injustice of your claim, had I even been ignorant of my right.'

Montoni turned pale with anger, while his quivering lip and lurking 
eye made her almost repent the boldness of her speech.

'Then all my vengeance falls upon you,' he exclaimed, with an 
horrible oath.  'and think not it shall be delayed.  Neither the 
estates in Languedoc, or Gascony, shall be yours; you have dared to 
question my right,--now dare to question my power.  I have a 
punishment which you think not of; it is terrible!  This night--this 
very night'--

'This night!' repeated another voice.

Montoni paused, and turned half round, but, seeming to recollect 
himself, he proceeded in a lower tone.

'You have lately seen one terrible example of obstinacy and folly; 
yet this, it appears, has not been sufficient to deter you.--I could 
tell you of others--I could make you tremble at the bare recital.'

He was interrupted by a groan, which seemed to rise from underneath 
the chamber they were in; and, as he threw a glance round it, 
impatience and rage flashed from his eyes, yet something like a shade 
of fear passed over his countenance.  Emily sat down in a chair, near 
the door, for the various emotions she had suffered, now almost 
overcame her; but Montoni paused scarcely an instant, and, commanding 
his features, resumed his discourse in a lower, yet sterner voice.

'I say, I could give you other instances of my power and of my 
character, which it seems you do not understand, or you would not 
defy me.--I could tell you, that, when once my resolution is taken--
but I am talking to a baby.  Let me, however, repeat, that terrible 
as are the examples I could recite, the recital could not now benefit 
you; for, though your repentance would put an immediate end to 
opposition, it would not now appease my indignation.--I will have 
vengeance as well as justice.'

Another groan filled the pause which Montoni made.

'Leave the room instantly!' said he, seeming not to notice this 
strange occurrence.  Without power to implore his pity, she rose to 
go, but found that she could not support herself; awe and terror 
overcame her, and she sunk again into the chair.

'Quit my presence!' cried Montoni.  'This affectation of fear ill 
becomes the heroine who has just dared to brave my indignation.'

'Did you hear nothing, Signor?' said Emily, trembling, and still 
unable to leave the room.

'I heard my own voice,' rejoined Montoni, sternly.

'And nothing else?' said Emily, speaking with difficulty.--'There 
again!  Do you hear nothing now?'

'Obey my order,' repeated Montoni.  'And for these fool's tricks--I 
will soon discover by whom they are practised.'

Emily again rose, and exerted herself to the utmost to leave the 
room, while Montoni followed her; but, instead of calling aloud to 
his servants to search the chamber, as he had formerly done on a 
similar occurrence, passed to the ramparts.

As, in her way to the corridor, she rested for a moment at an open 
casement, Emily saw a party of Montoni's troops winding down a 
distant mountain, whom she noticed no further, than as they brought 
to her mind the wretched prisoners they were, perhaps, bringing to 
the castle.  At length, having reached her apartment, she threw 
herself upon the couch, overcome with the new horrors of her 
situation.  Her thoughts lost in tumult and perplexity, she could 
neither repent of, or approve, her late conduct; she could only 
remember, that she was in the power of a man, who had no principle of 
action--but his will; and the astonishment and terrors of 
superstition, which had, for a moment, so strongly assailed her, now 
yielded to those of reason.

She was, at length, roused from the reverie, which engaged her, by a 
confusion of distant voices, and a clattering of hoofs, that seemed 
to come, on the wind, from the courts.  A sudden hope, that some good 
was approaching, seized her mind, till she remembered the troops she 
had observed from the casement, and concluded this to be the party, 
which Annette had said were expected at Udolpho.

Soon after, she heard voices faintly from the halls, and the noise of 
horses' feet sunk away in the wind; silence ensued.  Emily listened 
anxiously for Annette's step in the corridor, but a pause of total 
stillness continued, till again the castle seemed to be all tumult 
and confusion.  She heard the echoes of many footsteps, passing to 
and fro in the halls and avenues below, and then busy tongues were 
loud on the rampart.  Having hurried to her casement, she perceived 
Montoni, with some of his officers, leaning on the walls, and 
pointing from them; while several soldiers were employed at the 
further end of the rampart about some cannon; and she continued to 
observe them, careless of the passing time.

Annette at length appeared, but brought no intelligence of 
Valancourt, 'For, ma'amselle,' said she, 'all the people pretend to 
know nothing about any prisoners.  But here is a fine piece of 
business!  The rest of the party are just arrived, ma'am; they came 
scampering in, as if they would have broken their necks; one scarcely 
knew whether the man, or his horse would get within the gates first.  
And they have brought word--and such news! they have brought word, 
that a party of the enemy, as they call them, are coming towards the 
castle; so we shall have all the officers of justice, I suppose, 
besieging it! all those terrible-looking fellows one used to see at 
Venice.'

'Thank God!' exclaimed Emily, fervently, 'there is yet a hope left 
for me, then!'

'What mean you, ma'amselle?  Do you wish to fall into the hands of 
those sad-looking men!  Why I used to shudder as I passed them, and 
should have guessed what they were, if Ludovico had not told me.'

'We cannot be in worse hands than at present,' replied Emily, 
unguardedly; 'but what reason have you to suppose these are officers 
of justice?'

'Why OUR people, ma'am, are all in such a fright, and a fuss; and I 
don't know any thing but the fear of justice, that could make them 
so.  I used to think nothing on earth could fluster them, unless, 
indeed, it was a ghost, or so; but now, some of them are for hiding 
down in the vaults under the castle; but you must not tell the Signor 
this, ma'amselle, and I overheard two of them talking--Holy Mother! 
what makes you look so sad, ma'amselle?  You don't hear what I say!'

'Yes, I do, Annette; pray proceed.'

'Well, ma'amselle, all the castle is in such hurly-burly.  Some of 
the men are loading the cannon, and some are examining the great 
gates, and the walls all round, and are hammering and patching up, 
just as if all those repairs had never been made, that were so long 
about.  But what is to become of me and you, ma'amselle, and 
Ludovico?  O! when I hear the sound of the cannon, I shall die with 
fright.  If I could but catch the great gate open for one minute, I 
would be even with it for shutting me within these walls so long!--it 
should never see me again.'

Emily caught the latter words of Annette.  'O! if you could find it 
open, but for one moment!' she exclaimed, 'my peace might yet be 
saved!'  The heavy groan she uttered, and the wildness of her look, 
terrified Annette, still more than her words; who entreated Emily to 
explain the meaning of them, to whom it suddenly occurred, that 
Ludovico might be of some service, if there should be a possibility 
of escape, and who repeated the substance of what had passed between 
Montoni and herself, but conjured her to mention this to no person 
except to Ludovico.  'It may, perhaps, be in his power,' she added, 
'to effect our escape.  Go to him, Annette, tell him what I have to 
apprehend, and what I have already suffered; but entreat him to be 
secret, and to lose no time in attempting to release us.  If he is 
willing to undertake this he shall be amply rewarded.  I cannot speak 
with him myself, for we might be observed, and then effectual care 
would be taken to prevent our flight.  But be quick, Annette, and, 
above all, be discreet--I will await your return in this apartment.'

The girl, whose honest heart had been much affected by the recital, 
was now as eager to obey, as Emily was to employ her, and she 
immediately quitted the room.

Emily's surprise increased, as she reflected upon Annette's 
intelligence.  'Alas!' said she, 'what can the officers of justice do 
against an armed castle? these cannot be such.'  Upon further 
consideration, however, she concluded, that, Montoni's bands having 
plundered the country round, the inhabitants had taken arms, and were 
coming with the officers of police and a party of soldiers, to force 
their way into the castle.  'But they know not,' thought she, 'its 
strength, or the armed numbers within it.  Alas! except from flight, 
I have nothing to hope!'

Montoni, though not precisely what Emily apprehended him to be--a 
captain of banditti--had employed his troops in enterprises not less 
daring, or less atrocious, than such a character would have 
undertaken.  They had not only pillaged, whenever opportunity 
offered, the helpless traveller, but had attacked, and plundered the 
villas of several persons, which, being situated among the solitary 
recesses of the mountains, were totally unprepared for resistance.  
In these expeditions the commanders of the party did not appear, and 
the men, partly disguised, had sometimes been mistaken for common 
robbers, and, at others, for bands of the foreign enemy, who, at that 
period, invaded the country.  But, though they had already pillaged 
several mansions, and brought home considerable treasures, they had 
ventured to approach only one castle, in the attack of which they 
were assisted by other troops of their own order; from this, however, 
they were vigorously repulsed, and pursued by some of the foreign 
enemy, who were in league with the besieged.  Montoni's troops fled 
precipitately towards Udolpho, but were so closely tracked over the 
mountains, that, when they reached one of the heights in the 
neighbourhood of the castle, and looked back upon the road, they 
perceived the enemy winding among the cliffs below, and at not more 
than a league distant.  Upon this discovery, they hastened forward 
with increased speed, to prepare Montoni for the enemy; and it was 
their arrival, which had thrown the castle into such confusion and 
tumult.

As Emily awaited anxiously some information from below, she now saw 
from her casements a body of troops pour over the neighbouring 
heights; and, though Annette had been gone a very short time, and had 
a difficult and dangerous business to accomplish, her impatience for 
intelligence became painful:  she listened; opened her door; and 
often went out upon the corridor to meet her.

At length, she heard a footstep approach her chamber; and, on opening 
the door, saw, not Annette, but old Carlo!  New fears rushed upon her 
mind.  He said he came from the Signor, who had ordered him to inform 
her, that she must be ready to depart from Udolpho immediately, for 
that the castle was about to be besieged; and that mules were 
preparing to convey her, with her guides, to a place of safety.

'Of safety!' exclaimed Emily, thoughtlessly; 'has, then, the Signor 
so much consideration for me?'

Carlo looked upon the ground, and made no reply.  A thousand opposite 
emotions agitated Emily, successively, as she listened to old Carlo; 
those of joy, grief, distrust and apprehension, appeared, and 
vanished from her mind, with the quickness of lightning.  One moment, 
it seemed impossible, that Montoni could take this measure merely for 
her preservation; and so very strange was his sending her from the 
castle at all, that she could attribute it only to the design of 
carrying into execution the new scheme of vengeance, with which he 
had menaced her.  In the next instant, it appeared so desirable to 
quit the castle, under any circumstances, that she could not but 
rejoice in the prospect, believing that change must be for the 
better, till she remembered the probability of Valancourt being 
detained in it, when sorrow and regret usurped her mind, and she 
wished, much more fervently than she had yet done, that it might not 
be his voice which she had heard.

Carlo having reminded her, that she had no time to lose, for that the 
enemy were within sight of the castle, Emily entreated him to inform 
her whither she was to go; and, after some hesitation, he said he had 
received no orders to tell; but, on her repeating the question, 
replied, that he believed she was to be carried into Tuscany.'

'To Tuscany!' exclaimed Emily--'and why thither?'

Carlo answered, that he knew nothing further, than that she was to be 
lodged in a cottage on the borders of Tuscany, at the feet of the 
Apennines--'Not a day's journey distant,' said he.

Emily now dismissed him; and, with trembling hands, prepared the 
small package, that she meant to take with her; while she was 
employed about which Annette returned.

'O ma'amselle!' said she, 'nothing can be done!  Ludovico says the 
new porter is more watchful even than Barnardine was, and we might as 
well throw ourselves in the way of a dragon, as in his.  Ludovico is 
almost as broken-hearted as you are, ma'am, on my account, he says, 
and I am sure I shall never live to hear the cannon fire twice!'

She now began to weep, but revived upon hearing of what had just 
occurred, and entreated Emily to take her with her.

'That I will do most willingly,' replied Emily, 'if Signor Montoni 
permits it;' to which Annette made no reply, but ran out of the room, 
and immediately sought Montoni, who was on the terrace, surrounded by 
his officers, where she began her petition.  He sharply bade her go 
into the castle, and absolutely refused her request.  Annette, 
however, not only pleaded for herself, but for Ludovico; and Montoni 
had ordered some of his men to take her from his presence, before she 
would retire.

In an agony of disappointment, she returned to Emily, who foreboded 
little good towards herself, from this refusal to Annette, and who, 
soon after, received a summons to repair to the great court, where 
the mules, with her guides, were in waiting.  Emily here tried in 
vain to sooth the weeping Annette, who persisted in saying, that she 
should never see her dear young lady again; a fear, which her 
mistress secretly thought too well justified, but which she 
endeavoured to restrain, while, with apparent composure, she bade 
this affectionate servant farewell.  Annette, however, followed to 
the courts, which were now thronged with people, busy in preparation 
for the enemy; and, having seen her mount her mule and depart, with 
her attendants, through the portal, turned into the castle and wept 
again.

Emily, meanwhile, as she looked back upon the gloomy courts of the 
castle, no longer silent as when she had first entered them, but 
resounding with the noise of preparation for their defence, as well 
as crowded with soldiers and workmen, hurrying to and fro; and, when 
she passed once more under the huge portcullis, which had formerly 
struck her with terror and dismay, and, looking round, saw no walls 
to confine her steps--felt, in spite of anticipation, the sudden joy 
of a prisoner, who unexpectedly finds himself at liberty.  This 
emotion would not suffer her now to look impartially on the dangers 
that awaited her without; on mountains infested by hostile parties, 
who seized every opportunity for plunder; and on a journey commended 
under the guidance of men, whose countenances certainly did not speak 
favourably of their dispositions.  In the present moments, she could 
only rejoice, that she was liberated from those walls, which she had 
entered with such dismal forebodings; and, remembering the 
superstitious presentiment, which had then seized her, she could now 
smile at the impression it had made upon her mind.

As she gazed, with these emotions, upon the turrets of the castle, 
rising high over the woods, among which she wound, the stranger, whom 
she believed to be confined there, returned to her remembrance, and 
anxiety and apprehension, lest he should be Valancourt, again passed 
like a cloud upon her joy.  She recollected every circumstance, 
concerning this unknown person, since the night, when she had first 
heard him play the song of her native province;--circumstances, which 
she had so often recollected, and compared before, without extracting 
from them any thing like conviction, and which still only prompted 
her to believe, that Valancourt was a prisoner at Udolpho.  It was 
possible, however, that the men, who were her conductors, might 
afford her information, on this subject; but, fearing to question 
them immediately, lest they should be unwilling to discover any 
circumstance to her in the presence of each other, she watched for an 
opportunity of speaking with them separately.

Soon after, a trumpet echoed faintly from a distance; the guides 
stopped, and looked toward the quarter whence it came, but the thick 
woods, which surrounded them, excluding all view of the country 
beyond, one of the men rode on to the point of an eminence, that 
afforded a more extensive prospect, to observe how near the enemy, 
whose trumpet he guessed this to be, were advanced; the other, 
meanwhile, remained with Emily, and to him she put some questions, 
concerning the stranger at Udolpho.  Ugo, for this was his name, 
said, that there were several prisoners in the castle, but he neither 
recollected their persons, or the precise time of their arrival, and 
could therefore give her no information.  There was a surliness in 
his manner, as he spoke, that made it probable he would not have 
satisfied her enquiries, even if he could have done so.

Having asked him what prisoners had been taken, about the time, as 
nearly as she could remember, when she had first heard the music, 
'All that week,' said Ugo, 'I was out with a party, upon the 
mountains, and knew nothing of what was doing at the castle.  We had 
enough upon our hands, we had warm work of it.'

Bertrand, the other man, being now returned, Emily enquired no 
further, and, when he had related to his companion what he had seen, 
they travelled on in deep silence; while Emily often caught, between 
the opening woods, partial glimpses of the castle above--the west 
towers, whose battlements were now crowded with archers, and the 
ramparts below, where soldiers were seen hurrying along, or busy upon 
the walls, preparing the cannon.

Having emerged from the woods, they wound along the valley in an 
opposite direction to that, from whence the enemy were approaching.  
Emily now had a full view of Udolpho, with its gray walls, towers and 
terraces, high over-topping the precipices and the dark woods, and 
glittering partially with the arms of the condottieri, as the sun's 
rays, streaming through an autumnal cloud, glanced upon a part of the 
edifice, whose remaining features stood in darkened majesty.  She 
continued to gaze, through her tears, upon walls that, perhaps, 
confined Valancourt, and which now, as the cloud floated away, were 
lighted up with sudden splendour, and then, as suddenly were shrouded 
in gloom; while the passing gleam fell on the wood-tops below, and 
heightened the first tints of autumn, that had begun to steal upon 
the foliage.  The winding mountains, at length, shut Udolpho from her 
view, and she turned, with mournful reluctance, to other objects.  
The melancholy sighing of the wind among the pines, that waved high 
over the steeps, and the distant thunder of a torrent assisted her 
musings, and conspired with the wild scenery around, to diffuse over 
her mind emotions solemn, yet not unpleasing, but which were soon 
interrupted by the distant roar of cannon, echoing among the 
mountains.  The sounds rolled along the wind, and were repeated in 
faint and fainter reverberation, till they sunk in sullen murmurs.  
This was a signal, that the enemy had reached the castle, and fear 
for Valancourt again tormented Emily.  She turned her anxious eyes 
towards that part of the country, where the edifice stood, but the 
intervening heights concealed it from her view; still, however, she 
saw the tall head of a mountain, which immediately fronted her late 
chamber, and on this she fixed her gaze, as if it could have told her 
of all that was passing in the scene it overlooked.  The guides twice 
reminded her, that she was losing time and that they had far to go, 
before she could turn from this interesting object, and, even when 
she again moved onward, she often sent a look back, till only its 
blue point, brightening in a gleam of sunshine, appeared peeping over 
other mountains.

The sound of the cannon affected Ugo, as the blast of the trumpet 
does the war-horse; it called forth all the fire of his nature; he 
was impatient to be in the midst of the fight, and uttered frequent 
execrations against Montoni for having sent him to a distance.  The 
feelings of his comrade seemed to be very opposite, and adapted 
rather to the cruelties, than to the dangers of war.

Emily asked frequent questions, concerning the place of her 
destination, but could only learn, that she was going to a cottage in 
Tuscany; and, whenever she mentioned the subject, she fancied she 
perceived, in the countenances of these men, an expression of malice 
and cunning, that alarmed her.

It was afternoon, when they had left the castle.  During several 
hours, they travelled through regions of profound solitude, where no 
bleat of sheep, or bark of watch-dog, broke on silence, and they were 
now too far off to hear even the faint thunder of the cannon.  
Towards evening, they wound down precipices, black with forests of 
cypress, pine and cedar, into a glen so savage and secluded, that, if 
Solitude ever had local habitation, this might have been 'her place 
of dearest residence.'  To Emily it appeared a spot exactly suited 
for the retreat of banditti, and, in her imagination, she already saw 
them lurking under the brow of some projecting rock, whence their 
shadows, lengthened by the setting sun, stretched across the road, 
and warned the traveller of his danger.  She shuddered at the idea, 
and, looking at her conductors, to observe whether they were armed, 
thought she saw in them the banditti she dreaded!

It was in this glen, that they proposed to alight, 'For,' said Ugo, 
'night will come on presently, and then the wolves will make it 
dangerous to stop.'  This was a new subject of alarm to Emily, but 
inferior to what she suffered from the thought of being left in these 
wilds, at midnight, with two such men as her present conductors.  
Dark and dreadful hints of what might be Montoni's purpose in sending 
her hither, came to her mind.  She endeavoured to dissuade the men 
from stopping, and enquired, with anxiety, how far they had yet to 
go.

'Many leagues yet,' replied Bertrand.  'As for you, Signora, you may 
do as you please about eating, but for us, we will make a hearty 
supper, while we can.  We shall have need of it, I warrant, before we 
finish our journey.  The sun's going down apace; let us alight under 
that rock, yonder.'

His comrade assented, and, turning the mules out of the road, they 
advanced towards a cliff, overhung with cedars, Emily following in 
trembling silence.  They lifted her from her mule, and, having seated 
themselves on the grass, at the foot of the rocks, drew some homely 
fare from a wallet, of which Emily tried to eat a little, the better 
to disguise her apprehensions.

The sun was now sunk behind the high mountains in the west, upon 
which a purple haze began to spread, and the gloom of twilight to 
draw over the surrounding objects.  To the low and sullen murmur of 
the breeze, passing among the woods, she no longer listened with any 
degree of pleasure, for it conspired with the wildness of the scene 
and the evening hour, to depress her spirits.

Suspense had so much increased her anxiety, as to the prisoner at 
Udolpho, that, finding it impracticable to speak alone with Bertrand, 
on that subject, she renewed her questions in the presence of Ugo; 
but he either was, or pretended to be entirely ignorant, concerning 
the stranger.  When he had dismissed the question, he talked with Ugo 
on some subject, which led to the mention of Signor Orsino and of the 
affair that had banished him from Venice; respecting which Emily had 
ventured to ask a few questions.  Ugo appeared to be well acquainted 
with the circumstances of that tragical event, and related some 
minute particulars, that both shocked and surprised her; for it 
appeared very extraordinary how such particulars could be known to 
any, but to persons, present when the assassination was committed.

'He was of rank,' said Bertrand, 'or the State would not have 
troubled itself to enquire after his assassins.  The Signor has been 
lucky hitherto; this is not the first affair of the kind he has had 
upon his hands; and to be sure, when a gentleman has no other way of 
getting redress--why he must take this.'

'Aye,' said Ugo, 'and why is not this as good as another?  This is 
the way to have justice done at once, without more ado.  If you go to 
law, you must stay till the judges please, and may lose your cause, 
at last,  Why the best way, then, is to make sure of your right, 
while you can, and execute justice yourself.'

'Yes, yes,' rejoined Bertrand, 'if you wait till justice is done you-
-you may stay long enough.  Why if I want a friend of mine properly 
served, how am I to get my revenge?  Ten to one they will tell me he 
is in the right, and I am in the wrong.  Or, if a fellow has got 
possession of property, which I think ought to be mine, why I may 
wait, till I starve, perhaps, before the law will give it me, and 
then, after all, the judge may say--the estate is his.  What is to be 
done then?--Why the case is plain enough, I must take it at last.'

Emily's horror at this conversation was heightened by a suspicion, 
that the latter part of it was pointed against herself, and that 
these men had been commissioned by Montoni to execute a similar kind 
of JUSTICE, in his cause.

'But I was speaking of Signor Orsino,' resumed Bertrand, 'he is one 
of those, who love to do justice at once.  I remember, about ten 
years ago, the Signor had a quarrel with a cavaliero of Milan.  The 
story was told me then, and it is still fresh in my head.  They 
quarrelled about a lady, that the Signor liked, and she was perverse 
enough to prefer the gentleman of Milan, and even carried her whim so 
far as to marry him.  This provoked the Signor, as well it might, for 
he had tried to talk reason to her a long while, and used to send 
people to serenade her, under her windows, of a night; and used to 
make verses about her, and would swear she was the handsomest lady in 
Milan--But all would not do--nothing would bring her to reason; and, 
as I said, she went so far at last, as to marry this other cavaliero.  
This made the Signor wrath, with a vengeance; he resolved to be even 
with her though, and he watched his opportunity, and did not wait 
long, for, soon after the marriage, they set out for Padua, nothing 
doubting, I warrant, of what was preparing for them.  The cavaliero 
thought, to be sure, he was to be called to no account, but was to go 
off triumphant; but he was soon made to know another sort of story.'

'What then, the lady had promised to have Signor Orsino?' said Ugo.

'Promised!  No,' replied Bertrand, 'she had not wit enough even to 
tell him she liked him, as I heard, but the contrary, for she used to 
say, from the first, she never meant to have him.  And this was what 
provoked the Signor, so, and with good reason, for, who likes to be 
told that he is disagreeable? and this was saying as good.  It was 
enough to tell him this; she need not have gone, and married 
another.'

'What, she married, then, on purpose to plague the Signor?' said Ugo.

'I don't know as for that,' replied Bertrand, 'they said, indeed, 
that she had had a regard for the other gentleman a great while; but 
that is nothing to the purpose, she should not have married him, and 
then the Signor would not have been so much provoked.  She might have 
expected what was to follow; it was not to be supposed he would bear 
her ill usage tamely, and she might thank herself for what happened.  
But, as I said, they set out for Padua, she and her husband, and the 
road lay over some barren mountains like these.  This suited the 
Signor's purpose well.  He watched the time of their departure, and 
sent his men after them, with directions what to do.  They kept their 
distance, till they saw their opportunity, and this did not happen, 
till the second day's journey, when, the gentleman having sent his 
servants forward to the next town, may be, to have horses in 
readiness, the Signor's men quickened their pace, and overtook the 
carriage, in a hollow, between two mountains, where the woods 
prevented the servants from seeing what passed, though they were then 
not far off.  When we came up, we fired our tromboni, but missed.'

Emily turned pale, at these words, and then hoped she had mistaken 
them; while Bertrand proceeded:

'The gentleman fired again, but he was soon made to alight, and it 
was as he turned to call his people, that he was struck.  It was the 
most dexterous feat you ever saw--he was struck in the back with 
three stillettos at once.  He fell, and was dispatched in a minute; 
but the lady escaped, for the servants had heard the firing, and came 
up before she could be taken care of.  "Bertrand," said the Signor, 
when his men returned'--

'Bertrand!' exclaimed Emily, pale with horror, on whom not a syllable 
of this narrative had been lost.

'Bertrand, did I say?' rejoined the man, with some confusion--'No, 
Giovanni.  But I have forgot where I was;--"Bertrand," said the 
Signor'--

'Bertrand, again!' said Emily, in a faltering voice, 'Why do you 
repeat that name?'

Bertrand swore.  'What signifies it,' he proceeded, 'what the man was 
called--Bertrand, or Giovanni--or Roberto? it's all one for that.  
You have put me out twice with that--question.  "Bertrand," or 
Giovanni--or what you will--"Bertrand," said the Signor, "if your 
comrades had done their duty, as well as you, I should not have lost 
the lady.  Go, my honest fellow, and be happy with this."  He game 
him a purse of gold--and little enough too, considering the service 
he had done him.'

'Aye, aye,' said Ugo, 'little enough--little enough.'

Emily now breathed with difficulty, and could scarcely support 
herself.  When first she saw these men, their appearance and their 
connection with Montoni had been sufficient to impress her with 
distrust; but now, when one of them had betrayed himself to be a 
murderer, and she saw herself, at the approach of night, under his 
guidance, among wild and solitary mountains, and going she scarcely 
knew whither, the most agonizing terror seized her, which was the 
less supportable from the necessity she found herself under of 
concealing all symptoms of it from her companions.  Reflecting on the 
character and the menaces of Montoni, it appeared not improbable, 
that he had delivered her to them, for the purpose of having her 
murdered, and of thus securing to himself, without further 
opposition, or delay, the estates, for which he had so long and so 
desperately contended.  Yet, if this was his design, there appeared 
no necessity for sending her to such a distance from the castle; for, 
if any dread of discovery had made him unwilling to perpetrate the 
deed there, a much nearer place might have sufficed for the purpose 
of concealment.  These considerations, however, did not immediately 
occur to Emily, with whom so many circumstances conspired to rouse 
terror, that she had no power to oppose it, or to enquire coolly into 
its grounds; and, if she had done so, still there were many 
appearances which would too well have justified her most terrible 
apprehensions.  She did not now dare to speak to her conductors, at 
the sound of whose voices she trembled; and when, now and then, she 
stole a glance at them, their countenances, seen imperfectly through 
the gloom of evening, served to confirm her fears.

The sun had now been set some time; heavy clouds, whose lower skirts 
were tinged with sulphureous crimson, lingered in the west, and threw 
a reddish tint upon the pine forests, which sent forth a solemn 
sound, as the breeze rolled over them.  The hollow moan struck upon 
Emily's heart, and served to render more gloomy and terrific every 
object around her,--the mountains, shaded in twilight--the gleaming 
torrent, hoarsely roaring--the black forests, and the deep glen, 
broken into rocky recesses, high overshadowed by cypress and sycamore 
and winding into long obscurity.  To this glen, Emily, as she sent 
forth her anxious eye, thought there was no end; no hamlet, or even 
cottage, was seen, and still no distant bark of watch dog, or even 
faint, far-off halloo came on the wind.  In a tremulous voice, she 
now ventured to remind the guides, that it was growing late, and to 
ask again how far they had to go:  but they were too much occupied by 
their own discourse to attend to her question, which she forbore to 
repeat, lest it should provoke a surly answer.  Having, however, soon 
after, finished their supper, the men collected the fragments into 
their wallet, and proceeded along this winding glen, in gloomy 
silence; while Emily again mused upon her own situation, and 
concerning the motives of Montoni for involving her in it.  That it 
was for some evil purpose towards herself, she could not doubt; and 
it seemed, that, if he did not intend to destroy her, with a view of 
immediately seizing her estates, he meant to reserve her a while in 
concealment, for some more terrible design, for one that might 
equally gratify his avarice and still more his deep revenge.  At this 
moment, remembering Signor Brochio and his behaviour in the corridor, 
a few preceding nights, the latter supposition, horrible as it was, 
strengthened in her belief.  Yet, why remove her from the castle, 
where deeds of darkness had, she feared, been often executed with 
secrecy?--from chambers, perhaps

  With many a foul, and midnight murder stain'd.

The dread of what she might be going to encounter was now so 
excessive, that it sometimes threatened her senses; and, often as she 
went, she thought of her late father and of all he would have 
suffered, could he have foreseen the strange and dreadful events of 
her future life; and how anxiously he would have avoided that fatal 
confidence, which committed his daughter to the care of a woman so 
weak as was Madame Montoni.  So romantic and improbable, indeed, did 
her present situation appear to Emily herself, particularly when she 
compared it with the repose and beauty of her early days, that there 
were moments, when she could almost have believed herself the victim 
of frightful visions, glaring upon a disordered fancy.

Restrained by the presence of her guides from expressing her terrors, 
their acuteness was, at length, lost in gloomy despair.  The dreadful 
view of what might await her hereafter rendered her almost 
indifferent to the surrounding dangers.  She now looked, with little 
emotion, on the wild dingles, and the gloomy road and mountains, 
whose outlines were only distinguishable through the dusk;--objects, 
which but lately had affected her spirits so much, as to awaken 
horrid views of the future, and to tinge these with their own gloom.

It was now so nearly dark, that the travellers, who proceeded only by 
the slowest pace, could scarcely discern their way.  The clouds, 
which seemed charged with thunder, passed slowly along the heavens, 
shewing, at intervals, the trembling stars; while the groves of 
cypress and sycamore, that overhung the rocks, waved high in the 
breeze, as it swept over the glen, and then rushed among the distant 
woods.  Emily shivered as it passed.

'Where is the torch?' said Ugo, 'It grows dark.'

'Not so dark yet,' replied Bertrand, 'but we may find our way, and 
'tis best not light the torch, before we can help, for it may betray 
us, if any straggling party of the enemy is abroad.'

Ugo muttered something, which Emily did not understand, and they 
proceeded in darkness, while she almost wished, that the enemy might 
discover them; for from change there was something to hope, since she 
could scarcely imagine any situation more dreadful than her present 
one.

As they moved slowly along, her attention was surprised by a thin 
tapering flame, that appeared, by fits, at the point of the pike, 
which Bertrand carried, resembling what she had observed on the lance 
of the sentinel, the night Madame Montoni died, and which he had said 
was an omen.  The event immediately following it appeared to justify 
the assertion, and a superstitious impression had remained on Emily's 
mind, which the present appearance confirmed.  She thought it was an 
omen of her own fate, and watched it successively vanish and return, 
in gloomy silence, which was at length interrupted by Bertrand.

'Let us light the torch,' said he, 'and get under shelter of the 
woods;--a storm is coming on--look at my lance.'

He held it forth, with the flame tapering at its point.*

(*See the Abbe Berthelon on Electricity.  [A. R.])


'Aye,' said Ugo, 'you are not one of those, that believe in omens:  
we have left cowards at the castle, who would turn pale at such a 
sight.  I have often seen it before a thunder storm, it is an omen of 
that, and one is coming now, sure enough.  The clouds flash fast 
already.'

Emily was relieved by this conversation from some of the terrors of 
superstition, but those of reason increased, as, waiting while Ugo 
searched for a flint, to strike fire, she watched the pale lightning 
gleam over the woods they were about to enter, and illumine the harsh 
countenances of her companions.  Ugo could not find a flint, and 
Bertrand became impatient, for the thunder sounded hollowly at a 
distance, and the lightning was more frequent.  Sometimes, it 
revealed the nearer recesses of the woods, or, displaying some 
opening in their summits, illumined the ground beneath with partial 
splendour, the thick foliage of the trees preserving the surrounding 
scene in deep shadow.

At length, Ugo found a flint, and the torch was lighted.  The men 
then dismounted, and, having assisted Emily, led the mules towards 
the woods, that skirted the glen, on the left, over broken ground, 
frequently interrupted with brush-wood and wild plants, which she was 
often obliged to make a circuit to avoid.

She could not approach these woods, without experiencing keener sense 
of her danger.  Their deep silence, except when the wind swept among 
their branches, and impenetrable glooms shewn partially by the sudden 
flash, and then, by the red glare of the torch, which served only to 
make 'darkness visible,' were circumstances, that contributed to 
renew all her most terrible apprehensions; she thought, too, that, at 
this moment, the countenances of her conductors displayed more than 
their usual fierceness, mingled with a kind of lurking exultation, 
which they seemed endeavouring to disguise.  To her affrighted fancy 
it occurred, that they were leading her into these woods to complete 
the will of Montoni by her murder.  The horrid suggestion called a 
groan from her heart, which surprised her companions, who turned 
round quickly towards her, and she demanded why they led her thither, 
beseeching them to continue their way along the open glen, which she 
represented to be less dangerous than the woods, in a thunder storm.

'No, no,' said Bertrand, 'we know best where the danger lies.  See 
how the clouds open over our heads.  Besides, we can glide under 
cover of the woods with less hazard of being seen, should any of the 
enemy be wandering this way.  By holy St. Peter and all the rest of 
them, I've as stout a heart as the best, as many a poor devil could 
tell, if he were alive again--but what can we do against numbers?'

'What are you whining about?' said Ugo, contemptuously, 'who fears 
numbers!  Let them come, though they were as many, as the Signor's 
castle could hold; I would shew the knaves what fighting is.  For 
you--I would lay you quietly in a dry ditch, where you might peep 
out, and see me put the rogues to flight.--Who talks of fear!'

Bertrand replied, with an horrible oath, that he did not like such 
jesting, and a violent altercation ensued, which was, at length, 
silenced by the thunder, whose deep volley was heard afar, rolling 
onward till it burst over their heads in sounds, that seemed to shake 
the earth to its centre.  The ruffians paused, and looked upon each 
other.  Between the boles of the trees, the blue lightning flashed 
and quivered along the ground, while, as Emily looked under the 
boughs, the mountains beyond, frequently appeared to be clothed in 
livid flame.  At this moment, perhaps, she felt less fear of the 
storm, than did either of her companions, for other terrors occupied 
her mind.

The men now rested under an enormous chesnut-tree, and fixed their 
pikes in the ground, at some distance, on the iron points of which 
Emily repeatedly observed the lightning play, and then glide down 
them into the earth.

'I would we were well in the Signor's castle!' said Bertrand, 'I know 
not why he should send us on this business.  Hark! how it rattles 
above, there!  I could almost find in my heart to turn priest, and 
pray.  Ugo, hast got a rosary?'

'No,' replied Ugo, 'I leave it to cowards like thee, to carry 
rosaries--I, carry a sword.'

'And much good may it do thee in fighting against the storm!' said 
Bertrand.

Another peal, which was reverberated in tremendous echoes among the 
mountains, silenced them for a moment.  As it rolled away, Ugo 
proposed going on.  'We are only losing time here,' said he, 'for the 
thick boughs of the woods will shelter us as well as this chesnut-
tree.'

They again led the mules forward, between the boles of the trees, and 
over pathless grass, that concealed their high knotted roots.  The 
rising wind was now heard contending with the thunder, as it rushed 
furiously among the branches above, and brightened the red flame of 
the torch, which threw a stronger light forward among the woods, and 
shewed their gloomy recesses to be suitable resorts for the wolves, 
of which Ugo had formerly spoken.

At length, the strength of the wind seemed to drive the storm before 
it, for the thunder rolled away into distance, and was only faintly 
heard.  After travelling through the woods for nearly an hour, during 
which the elements seemed to have returned to repose, the travellers, 
gradually ascending from the glen, found themselves upon the open 
brow of a mountain, with a wide valley, extending in misty moon-
light, at their feet, and above, the blue sky, trembling through the 
few thin clouds, that lingered after the storm, and were sinking 
slowly to the verge of the horizon.

Emily's spirits, now that she had quitted the woods, began to revive; 
for she considered, that, if these men had received an order to 
destroy her, they would probably have executed their barbarous 
purpose in the solitary wild, from whence they had just emerged, 
where the deed would have been shrouded from every human eye.  
Reassured by this reflection, and by the quiet demeanour of her 
guides, Emily, as they proceeded silently, in a kind of sheep track, 
that wound along the skirts of the woods, which ascended on the 
right, could not survey the sleeping beauty of the vale, to which 
they were declining, without a momentary sensation of pleasure.  It 
seemed varied with woods, pastures, and sloping grounds, and was 
screened to the north and the east by an amphitheatre of the 
Apennines, whose outline on the horizon was here broken into varied 
and elegant forms; to the west and the south, the landscape extended 
indistinctly into the lowlands of Tuscany.

'There is the sea yonder,' said Bertrand, as if he had known that 
Emily was examining the twilight view, 'yonder in the west, though we 
cannot see it.'

Emily already perceived a change in the climate, from that of the 
wild and mountainous tract she had left; and, as she continued 
descending, the air became perfumed by the breath of a thousand 
nameless flowers among the grass, called forth by the late rain.  So 
soothingly beautiful was the scene around her, and so strikingly 
contrasted to the gloomy grandeur of those, to which she had long 
been confined, and to the manners of the people, who moved among 
them, that she could almost have fancied herself again at La Vallee, 
and, wondering why Montoni had sent her hither, could scarcely 
believe, that he had selected so enchanting a spot for any cruel 
design.  It was, however, probably not the spot, but the persons, who 
happened to inhabit it, and to whose care he could safely commit the 
execution of his plans, whatever they might be, that had determined 
his choice.

She now ventured again to enquire, whether they were near the place 
of their destination, and was answered by Ugo, that they had not far 
to go.  'Only to the wood of chesnuts in the valley yonder,' said he, 
'there, by the brook, that sparkles with the moon; I wish I was once 
at rest there, with a flask of good wine, and a slice of Tuscany 
bacon.'

Emily's spirits revived, when she heard, that the journey was so 
nearly concluded, and saw the wood of chesnuts in an open part of the 
vale, on the margin of the stream.

In a short time, they reached the entrance of the wood, and 
perceived, between the twinkling leaves, a light, streaming from a 
distant cottage window.  They proceeded along the edge of the brook 
to where the trees, crowding over it, excluded the moon-beams, but a 
long line of light, from the cottage above, was seen on its dark 
tremulous surface.  Bertrand now stepped on first, and Emily heard 
him knock, and call loudly at the door.  As she reached it, the small 
upper casement, where the light appeared, was unclosed by a man, who, 
having enquired what they wanted, immediately descended, let them 
into a neat rustic cot, and called up his wife to set refreshments 
before the travellers.  As this man conversed, rather apart, with 
Bertrand, Emily anxiously surveyed him.  He was a tall, but not 
robust, peasant, of a sallow complexion, and had a shrewd and cunning 
eye; his countenance was not of a character to win the ready 
confidence of youth, and there was nothing in his manner, that might 
conciliate a stranger.

Ugo called impatiently for supper, and in a tone as if he knew his 
authority here to be unquestionable.  'I expected you an hour ago,' 
said the peasant, 'for I have had Signor Montoni's letter these three 
hours, and I and my wife had given you up, and gone to bed.  How did 
you fare in the storm?'

'Ill enough,' replied Ugo, 'ill enough and we are like to fare ill 
enough here, too, unless you will make more haste.  Get us more wine, 
and let us see what you have to eat.'

The peasant placed before them all, that his cottage afforded--ham, 
wine, figs, and grapes of such size and flavour, as Emily had seldom 
tasted.

After taking refreshment, she was shewn by the peasant's wife to her 
little bed-chamber, where she asked some questions concerning 
Montoni, to which the woman, whose name was Dorina, gave reserved 
answers, pretending ignorance of his excellenza's intention in 
sending Emily hither, but acknowledging that her husband had been 
apprized of the circumstance.  Perceiving, that she could obtain no 
intelligence concerning her destination, Emily dismissed Dorina, and 
retired to repose; but all the busy scenes of her past and the 
anticipated ones of the future came to her anxious mind, and 
conspired with the sense of her new situation to banish sleep.



CHAPTER VII


     Was nought around but images of rest,
 Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between,
 And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kept,
 From poppies breath'd, and banks of pleasant green,
 Where never yet was creeping creature seen.
 Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets play'd,
 And hurled every where their water's sheen,
 That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade,
 Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.
     THOMSON

When Emily, in the morning, opened her casement, she was surprised to 
observe the beauties, that surrounded it.  The cottage was nearly 
embowered in the woods, which were chiefly of chesnut intermixed with 
some cypress, larch and sycamore.  Beneath the dark and spreading 
branches, appeared, to the north, and to the east, the woody 
Apennines, rising in majestic amphitheatre, not black with pines, as 
she had been accustomed to see them, but their loftiest summits 
crowned with antient forests of chesnut, oak, and oriental plane, now 
animated with the rich tints of autumn, and which swept downward to 
the valley uninterruptedly, except where some bold rocky promontory 
looked out from among the foliage, and caught the passing gleam.  
Vineyards stretched along the feet of the mountains, where the 
elegant villas of the Tuscan nobility frequently adorned the scene, 
and overlooked slopes clothed with groves of olive, mulberry, orange 
and lemon.  The plain, to which these declined, was coloured with the 
riches of cultivation, whose mingled hues were mellowed into harmony 
by an Italian sun.  Vines, their purple clusters blushing between the 
russet foliage, hung in luxuriant festoons from the branches of 
standard fig and cherry trees, while pastures of verdure, such as 
Emily had seldom seen in Italy, enriched the banks of a stream that, 
after descending from the mountains, wound along the landscape, which 
it reflected, to a bay of the sea.  There, far in the west, the 
waters, fading into the sky, assumed a tint of the faintest purple, 
and the line of separation between them was, now and then, 
discernible only by the progress of a sail, brightened with the 
sunbeam, along the horizon.

The cottage, which was shaded by the woods from the intenser rays of 
the sun, and was open only to his evening light, was covered entirely 
with vines, fig-trees and jessamine, whose flowers surpassed in size 
and fragrance any that Emily had seen.  These and ripening clusters 
of grapes hung round her little casement.  The turf, that grew under 
the woods, was inlaid with a variety of wild flowers and perfumed 
herbs, and, on the opposite margin of the stream, whose current 
diffused freshness beneath the shades, rose a grove of lemon and 
orange trees.  This, though nearly opposite to Emily's window, did 
not interrupt her prospect, but rather heightened, by its dark 
verdure, the effect of the perspective; and to her this spot was a 
bower of sweets, whose charms communicated imperceptibly to her mind 
somewhat of their own serenity.

She was soon summoned to breakfast, by the peasant's daughter, a girl 
about seventeen, of a pleasant countenance, which, Emily was glad to 
observe, seemed animated with the pure affections of nature, though 
the others, that surrounded her, expressed, more or less, the worst 
qualities--cruelty, ferocity, cunning and duplicity; of the latter 
style of countenance, especially, were those of the peasant and his 
wife.  Maddelina spoke little, but what she said was in a soft voice, 
and with an air of modesty and complacency, that interested Emily, 
who breakfasted at a separate table with Dorina, while Ugo and 
Bertrand were taking a repast of Tuscany bacon and wine with their 
host, near the cottage door; when they had finished which, Ugo, 
rising hastily, enquired for his mule, and Emily learned that he was 
to return to Udolpho, while Bertrand remained at the cottage; a 
circumstance, which, though it did not surprise, distressed her.

When Ugo was departed, Emily proposed to walk in the neighbouring 
woods; but, on being told, that she must not quit the cottage, 
without having Bertrand for her attendant, she withdrew to her own 
room.  There, as her eyes settled on the towering Apennines, she 
recollected the terrific scenery they had exhibited and the horrors 
she had suffered, on the preceding night, particularly at the moment 
when Bertrand had betrayed himself to be an assassin; and these 
remembrances awakened a train of images, which, since they abstracted 
her from a consideration of her own situation, she pursued for some 
time, and then arranged in the following lines; pleased to have 
discovered any innocent means, by which she could beguile an hour of 
misfortune.

  THE PILGRIM*

 Slow o'er the Apennine, with bleeding feet,
 A patient Pilgrim wound his lonely way,
 To deck the Lady of Loretto's seat
 With all the little wealth his zeal could pay.
 From mountain-tops cold died the evening ray,
 And, stretch'd in twilight, slept the vale below;
 And now the last, last purple streaks of day
 Along the melancholy West fade slow.
 High o'er his head, the restless pines complain,
 As on their summit rolls the breeze of night;
 Beneath, the hoarse stream chides the rocks in vain:
 The Pilgrim pauses on the dizzy height.
 Then to the vale his cautious step he prest,
 For there a hermit's cross was dimly seen,
 Cresting the rock, and there his limbs might rest,
 Cheer'd in the good man's cave, by faggot's sheen,
 On leafy beds, nor guile his sleep molest.
 Unhappy Luke! he trusts a treacherous clue!
 Behind the cliff the lurking robber stood;
 No friendly moon his giant shadow threw
 Athwart the road, to save the Pilgrim's blood;
 On as he went a vesper-hymn he sang,
 The hymn, that nightly sooth'd him to repose.
 Fierce on his harmless prey the ruffian sprang!
 The Pilgrim bleeds to death, his eye-lids close.
 Yet his meek spirit knew no vengeful care,
 But, dying, for his murd'rer breath'd--a sainted pray'r!

(* This poem and that entitled THE TRAVELLER in vol. ii, have already 
appeared in a periodical publication.  [A. R.])


Preferring the solitude of her room to the company of the persons 
below stairs, Emily dined above, and Maddelina was suffered to attend 
her, from whose simple conversation she learned, that the peasant and 
his wife were old inhabitants of this cottage, which had been 
purchased for them by Montoni, in reward of some service, rendered 
him, many years before, by Marco, to whom Carlo, the steward at the 
castle, was nearly related.  'So many years ago, Signora,' added 
Maddelina, 'that I know nothing about it; but my father did the 
Signor a great good, for my mother has often said to him, this 
cottage was the least he ought to have had.'

To the mention of this circumstance Emily listened with a painful 
interest, since it appeared to give a frightful colour to the 
character of Marco, whose service, thus rewarded by Montoni, she 
could scarcely doubt have been criminal; and, if so, had too much 
reason to believe, that she had been committed into his hands for 
some desperate purpose.  'Did you ever hear how many years it is,' 
said Emily, who was considering of Signora Laurentini's disappearance 
from Udolpho, 'since your father performed the services you spoke 
of?'

'It was a little before he came to live at the cottage, Signora,' 
replied Maddelina, 'and that is about eighteen years ago.'

This was near the period, when Signora Laurentini had been said to 
disappear, and it occurred to Emily, that Marco had assisted in that 
mysterious affair, and, perhaps, had been employed in a murder!  This 
horrible suggestion fixed her in such profound reverie, that 
Maddelina quitted the room, unperceived by her, and she remained 
unconscious of all around her, for a considerable time.  Tears, at 
length, came to her relief, after indulging which, her spirits 
becoming calmer, she ceased to tremble at a view of evils, that might 
never arrive; and had sufficient resolution to endeavour to withdraw 
her thoughts from the contemplation of her own interests.  
Remembering the few books, which even in the hurry of her departure 
from Udolpho she had put into her little package, she sat down with 
one of them at her pleasant casement, whence her eyes often wandered 
from the page to the landscape, whose beauty gradually soothed her 
mind into gentle melancholy.

Here, she remained alone, till evening, and saw the sun descend the 
western sky, throw all his pomp of light and shadow upon the 
mountains, and gleam upon the distant ocean and the stealing sails, 
as he sunk amidst the waves.  Then, at the musing hour of twilight, 
her softened thoughts returned to Valancourt; she again recollected 
every circumstance, connected with the midnight music, and all that 
might assist her conjecture, concerning his imprisonment at the 
castle, and, becoming confirmed in the supposition, that it was his 
voice she had heard there, she looked back to that gloomy abode with 
emotions of grief and momentary regret.

Refreshed by the cool and fragrant air, and her spirits soothed to a 
state of gentle melancholy by the stilly murmur of the brook below 
and of the woods around, she lingered at her casement long after the 
sun had set, watching the valley sinking into obscurity, till only 
the grand outline of the surrounding mountains, shadowed upon the 
horizon, remained visible.  But a clear moon-light, that succeeded, 
gave to the landscape, what time gives to the scenes of past life, 
when it softens all their harsher features, and throws over the whole 
the mellowing shade of distant contemplation.  The scenes of La 
Vallee, in the early morn of her life, when she was protected and 
beloved by parents equally loved, appeared in Emily's memory tenderly 
beautiful, like the prospect before her, and awakened mournful 
comparisons.  Unwilling to encounter the coarse behaviour of the 
peasant's wife, she remained supperless in her room, while she wept 
again over her forlorn and perilous situation, a review of which 
entirely overcame the small remains of her fortitude, and, reducing 
her to temporary despondence, she wished to be released from the 
heavy load of life, that had so long oppressed her, and prayed to 
Heaven to take her, in its mercy, to her parents.

Wearied with weeping, she, at length, lay down on her mattress, and 
sunk to sleep, but was soon awakened by a knocking at her chamber 
door, and, starting up in terror, she heard a voice calling her.  The 
image of Bertrand, with a stilletto in his hand, appeared to her 
alarmed fancy, and she neither opened the door, or answered, but 
listened in profound silence, till, the voice repeating her name in 
the same low tone, she demanded who called.  'It is I, Signora,' 
replied the voice, which she now distinguished to be Maddelina's, 
'pray open the door.  Don't be frightened, it is I.'

'And what brings you here so late, Maddelina?' said Emily, as she let 
her in.

'Hush!  signora, for heaven's sake hush!--if we are overheard I shall 
never be forgiven.  My father and mother and Bertrand are all gone to 
bed,' continued Maddelina, as she gently shut the door, and crept 
forward, 'and I have brought you some supper, for you had none, you 
know, Signora, below stairs.  Here are some grapes and figs and half 
a cup of wine.'  Emily thanked her, but expressed apprehension lest 
this kindness should draw upon her the resentment of Dorina, when she 
perceived the fruit was gone.  'Take it back, therefore, Maddelina,' 
added Emily, 'I shall suffer much less from the want of it, than I 
should do, if this act of good-nature was to subject you to your 
mother's displeasure.'

'O Signora! there is no danger of that,' replied Maddelina, 'my 
mother cannot miss the fruit, for I saved it from my own supper.  You 
will make me very unhappy, if you refuse to take it, Signora.'  Emily 
was so much affected by this instance of the good girl's generosity, 
that she remained for some time unable to reply, and Maddelina 
watched her in silence, till, mistaking the cause of her emotion, she 
said, 'Do not weep so, Signora!  My mother, to be sure, is a little 
cross, sometimes, but then it is soon over,--so don't take it so much 
to heart.  She often scolds me, too, but then I have learned to bear 
it, and, when she has done, if I can but steal out into the woods, 
and play upon my sticcado, I forget it all directly.'

Emily, smiling through her tears, told Maddelina, that she was a good 
girl, and then accepted her offering.  She wished anxiously to know, 
whether Bertrand and Dorina had spoken of Montoni, or of his designs, 
concerning herself, in the presence of Maddelina, but disdained to 
tempt the innocent girl to a conduct so mean, as that of betraying 
the private conversations of her parents.  When she was departing, 
Emily requested, that she would come to her room as often as she 
dared, without offending her mother, and Maddelina, after promising 
that she would do so, stole softly back again to her own chamber.

Thus several days passed, during which Emily remained in her own 
room, Maddelina attending her only at her repast, whose gentle 
countenance and manners soothed her more than any circumstance she 
had known for many months.  Of her pleasant embowered chamber she now 
became fond, and began to experience in it those feelings of 
security, which we naturally attach to home.  In this interval also, 
her mind, having been undisturbed by any new circumstance of disgust, 
or alarm, recovered its tone sufficiently to permit her the enjoyment 
of her books, among which she found some unfinished sketches of 
landscapes, several blank sheets of paper, with her drawing 
instruments, and she was thus enabled to amuse herself with selecting 
some of the lovely features of the prospect, that her window 
commanded, and combining them in scenes, to which her tasteful fancy 
gave a last grace.  In these little sketches she generally placed 
interesting groups, characteristic of the scenery they animated, and 
often contrived to tell, with perspicuity, some simple and affecting 
story, when, as a tear fell over the pictured griefs, which her 
imagination drew, she would forget, for a moment, her real 
sufferings.  Thus innocently she beguiled the heavy hours of 
misfortune, and, with meek patience, awaited the events of futurity.

A beautiful evening, that had succeeded to a sultry day, at length 
induced Emily to walk, though she knew that Bertrand must attend her, 
and, with Maddelina for her companion, she left the cottage, followed 
by Bertrand, who allowed her to choose her own way.  The hour was 
cool and silent, and she could not look upon the country around her, 
without delight.  How lovely, too, appeared the brilliant blue, that 
coloured all the upper region of the air, and, thence fading 
downward, was lost in the saffron glow of the horizon!  Nor less so 
were the varied shades and warm colouring of the Apennines, as the 
evening sun threw his slanting rays athwart their broken surface.  
Emily followed the course of the stream, under the shades, that 
overhung its grassy margin.  On the opposite banks, the pastures were 
animated with herds of cattle of a beautiful cream-colour; and, 
beyond, were groves of lemon and orange, with fruit glowing on the 
branches, frequent almost as the leaves, which partly concealed it.  
She pursued her way towards the sea, which reflected the warm glow of 
sun-set, while the cliffs, that rose over its edge, were tinted with 
the last rays.  The valley was terminated on the right by a lofty 
promontory, whose summit, impending over the waves, was crowned with 
a ruined tower, now serving for the purpose of a beacon, whose 
shattered battlements and the extended wings of some sea-fowl, that 
circled near it, were still illumined by the upward beams of the sun, 
though his disk was now sunk beneath the horizon; while the lower 
part of the ruin, the cliff on which it stood and the waves at its 
foot, were shaded with the first tints of twilight.

Having reached this headland, Emily gazed with solemn pleasure on the 
cliffs, that extended on either hand along the sequestered shores, 
some crowned with groves of pine, and others exhibiting only barren 
precipices of grayish marble, except where the crags were tufted with 
myrtle and other aromatic shrubs.  The sea slept in a perfect calm; 
its waves, dying in murmurs on the shores, flowed with the gentlest 
undulation, while its clear surface reflected in softened beauty the 
vermeil tints of the west.  Emily, as she looked upon the ocean, 
thought of France and of past times, and she wished, Oh! how 
ardently, and vainly--wished! that its waves would bear her to her 
distant, native home!

'Ah! that vessel,' said she, 'that vessel, which glides along so 
stately, with its tall sails reflected in the water is, perhaps, 
bound for France!  Happy--happy bark!'  She continued to gaze upon 
it, with warm emotion, till the gray of twilight obscured the 
distance, and veiled it from her view.  The melancholy sound of the 
waves at her feet assisted the tenderness, that occasioned her tears, 
and this was the only sound, that broke upon the hour, till, having 
followed the windings of the beach, for some time, a chorus of voices 
passed her on the air.  She paused a moment, wishing to hear more, 
yet fearing to be seen, and, for the first time, looked back to 
Bertrand, as her protector, who was following, at a short distance, 
in company with some other person.  Reassured by this circumstance, 
she advanced towards the sounds, which seemed to arise from behind a 
high promontory, that projected athwart the beach.  There was now a 
sudden pause in the music, and then one female voice was heard to 
sing in a kind of chant.  Emily quickened her steps, and, winding 
round the rock, saw, within the sweeping bay, beyond, which was hung 
with woods from the borders of the beach to the very summit of the 
cliffs, two groups of peasants, one seated beneath the shades, and 
the other standing on the edge of the sea, round the girl, who was 
singing, and who held in her hand a chaplet of flowers, which she 
seemed about to drop into the waves.

Emily, listening with surprise and attention, distinguished the 
following invocation delivered in the pure and elegant tongue of 
Tuscany, and accompanied by a few pastoral instruments.

  TO A SEA-NYMPH

 O nymph! who loves to float on the green wave,
 When Neptune sleeps beneath the moon-light hour,
 Lull'd by the music's melancholy pow'r,
 O nymph, arise from out thy pearly cave!

 For Hesper beams amid the twilight shade,
 And soon shall Cynthia tremble o'er the tide,
 Gleam on these cliffs, that bound the ocean's pride,
 And lonely silence all the air pervade.

 Then, let thy tender voice at distance swell,
 And steal along this solitary shore,
 Sink on the breeze, till dying--heard no more--
 Thou wak'st the sudden magic of thy shell.

 While the long coast in echo sweet replies,
 Thy soothing strains the pensive heart beguile,
 And bid the visions of the future smile,
 O nymph! from out thy pearly cave--arise!

  (Chorus)--ARISE!
  (Semi-chorus)--ARISE!

The last words being repeated by the surrounding group, the garland 
of flowers was thrown into the waves, and the chorus, sinking 
gradually into a chant, died away in silence.

'What can this mean, Maddelina?' said Emily, awakening from the 
pleasing trance, into which the music had lulled her.  'This is the 
eve of a festival, Signora,' replied Maddelina; 'and the peasants 
then amuse themselves with all kinds of sports.'

'But they talked of a sea-nymph,' said Emily:  'how came these good 
people to think of a sea-nymph?'

'O, Signora,' rejoined Maddelina, mistaking the reason of Emily's 
surprise, 'nobody BELIEVES in such things, but our old songs tell of 
them, and, when we are at our sports, we sometimes sing to them, and 
throw garlands into the sea.'

Emily had been early taught to venerate Florence as the seat of 
literature and of the fine arts; but, that its taste for classic 
story should descend to the peasants of the country, occasioned her 
both surprise and admiration.  The Arcadian air of the girls next 
attracted her attention.  Their dress was a very short full petticoat 
of light green, with a boddice of white silk; the sleeves loose, and 
tied up at the shoulders with ribbons and bunches of flowers.  Their 
hair, falling in ringlets on their necks, was also ornamented with 
flowers, and with a small straw hat, which, set rather backward and 
on one side of the head, gave an expression of gaiety and smartness 
to the whole figure.  When the song had concluded, several of these 
girls approached Emily, and, inviting her to sit down among them, 
offered her, and Maddelina, whom they knew, grapes and figs.

Emily accepted their courtesy, much pleased with the gentleness and 
grace of their manners, which appeared to be perfectly natural to 
them; and when Bertrand, soon after, approached, and was hastily 
drawing her away, a peasant, holding up a flask, invited him to 
drink; a temptation, which Bertrand was seldom very valiant in 
resisting.

'Let the young lady join in the dance, my friend,' said the peasant, 
'while we empty this flask.  They are going to begin directly.  
Strike up! my lads, strike up your tambourines and merry flutes!'

They sounded gaily; and the younger peasants formed themselves into a 
circle, which Emily would readiy have joined, had her spirits been in 
unison with their mirth.  Maddelina, however, tripped it lightly, and 
Emily, as she looked on the happy group, lost the sense of her 
misfortunes in that of a benevolent pleasure.  But the pensive 
melancholy of her mind returned, as she sat rather apart from the 
company, listening to the mellow music, which the breeze softened as 
it bore it away, and watching the moon, stealing its tremulous light 
over the waves and on the woody summits of the cliffs, that wound 
along these Tuscan shores.

Meanwhile, Bertrand was so well pleased with his first flask, that he 
very willingly commenced the attack on a second, and it was late 
before Emily, not without some apprehension, returned to the cottage.

After this evening, she frequently walked with Maddelina, but was 
never unattended by Bertrand; and her mind became by degrees as 
tranquil as the circumstances of her situation would permit.  The 
quiet, in which she was suffered to live, encouraged her to hope, 
that she was not sent hither with an evil design; and, had it not 
appeared probable, that Valancourt was at this time an inhabitant of 
Udolpho, she would have wished to remain at the cottage, till an 
opportunity should offer of returning to her native country.  But, 
concerning Montoni's motive for sending her into Tuscany, she was 
more than ever perplexed, nor could she believe that any 
consideration for her safety had influenced him on this occasion.

She had been some time at the cottage, before she recollected, that, 
in the hurry of leaving Udolpho, she had forgotten the papers 
committed to her by her late aunt, relative to the Languedoc estates; 
but, though this remembrance occasioned her much uneasiness, she had 
some hope, that, in the obscure place, where they were deposited, 
they would escape the detection of Montoni.



CHAPTER VIII


 My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say.
 I play the torturer, by small and small,
 To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken.
     RICHARD II

We now return, for a moment, to Venice, where Count Morano was 
suffering under an accumulation of misfortunes.  Soon after his 
arrival in that city, he had been arrested by order of the Senate, 
and, without knowing of what he was suspected, was conveyed to a 
place of confinement, whither the most strenuous enquiries of his 
friends had been unable to trace him.  Who the enemy was, that had 
occasioned him this calamity, he had not been able to guess, unless, 
indeed, it was Montoni, on whom his suspicions rested, and not only 
with much apparent probability, but with justice.

In the affair of the poisoned cup, Montoni had suspected Morano; but, 
being unable to obtain the degree of proof, which was necessary to 
convict him of a guilty intention, he had recourse to means of other 
revenge, than he could hope to obtain by prosecution.  He employed a 
person, in whom he believed he might confide, to drop a letter of 
accusation into the DENUNZIE SECRETE, or lions' mouths, which are 
fixed in a gallery of the Doge's palace, as receptacles for anonymous 
information, concerning persons, who may be disaffected towards the 
state.  As, on these occasions, the accuser is not confronted with 
the accused, a man may falsely impeach his enemy, and accomplish an 
unjust revenge, without fear of punishment, or detection.  That 
Montoni should have recourse to these diabolical means of ruining a 
person, whom he suspected of having attempted his life, is not in the 
least surprising.  In the letter, which he had employed as the 
instrument of his revenge, he accused Morano of designs against the 
state, which he attempted to prove, with all the plausible simplicity 
of which he was master; and the Senate, with whom a suspicion was, at 
that time, almost equal to a proof, arrested the Count, in 
consequence of this accusation; and, without even hinting to him his 
crime, threw him into one of those secret prisons, which were the 
terror of the Venetians, and in which persons often languished, and 
sometimes died, without being discovered by their friends.

Morano had incurred the personal resentment of many members of the 
state; his habits of life had rendered him obnoxious to some; and his 
ambition, and the bold rivalship, which he discovered, on several 
public occasions,--to others; and it was not to be expected, that 
mercy would soften the rigour of a law, which was to be dispensed 
from the hands of his enemies.

Montoni, meantime, was beset by dangers of another kind.  His castle 
was besieged by troops, who seemed willing to dare every thing, and 
to suffer patiently any hardships in pursuit of victory.  The 
strength of the fortress, however, withstood their attack, and this, 
with the vigorous defence of the garrison and the scarcity of 
provision on these wild mountains, soon compelled the assailants to 
raise the siege.

When Udolpho was once more left to the quiet possession of Montoni, 
he dispatched Ugo into Tuscany for Emily, whom he had sent from 
considerations of her personal safety, to a place of greater 
security, than a castle, which was, at that time, liable to be 
overrun by his enemies.  Tranquillity being once more restored to 
Udolpho, he was impatient to secure her again under his roof, and had 
commissioned Ugo to assist Bertrand in guarding her back to the 
castle.  Thus compelled to return, Emily bade the kind Maddelina 
farewell, with regret, and, after about a fortnight's stay in 
Tuscany, where she had experienced an interval of quiet, which was 
absolutely necessary to sustain her long-harassed spirits, began once 
more to ascend the Apennines, from whose heights she gave a long and 
sorrowful look to the beautiful country, that extended at their feet, 
and to the distant Mediterranean, whose waves she had so often wished 
would bear her back to France.  The distress she felt, on her return 
towards the place of her former sufferings, was, however, softened by 
a conjecture, that Valancourt was there, and she found some degree of 
comfort in the thought of being near him, notwithstanding the 
consideration, that he was probably a prisoner.

It was noon, when she had left the cottage, and the evening was 
closed, long before she came within the neighbourhood of Udolpho.  
There was a moon, but it shone only at intervals, for the night was 
cloudy, and, lighted by the torch, which Ugo carried, the travellers 
paced silently along, Emily musing on her situation, and Bertrand and 
Ugo anticipating the comforts of a flask of wine and a good fire, for 
they had perceived for some time the difference between the warm 
climate of the lowlands of Tuscany and the nipping air of these upper 
regions.  Emily was, at length, roused from her reverie by the far-
off sound of the castle clock, to which she listened not without some 
degree of awe, as it rolled away on the breeze.  Another and another 
note succeeded, and died in sullen murmur among the mountains:--to 
her mournful imagination it seemed a knell measuring out some fateful 
period for her.

'Aye, there is the old clock,' said Bertrand, 'there he is still; the 
cannon have not silenced him!'

'No,' answered Ugo, 'he crowed as loud as the best of them in the 
midst of it all.  There he was roaring out in the hottest fire I have 
seen this many a day!  I said that some of them would have a hit at 
the old fellow, but he escaped, and the tower too.'

The road winding round the base of a mountain, they now came within 
view of the castle, which was shewn in the perspective of the valley 
by a gleam of moon-shine, and then vanished in shade; while even a 
transient view of it had awakened the poignancy of Emily's feelings.  
Its massy and gloomy walls gave her terrible ideas of imprisonment 
and suffering:  yet, as she advanced, some degree of hope mingled 
with her terror; for, though this was certainly the residence of 
Montoni, it was possibly, also, that of Valancourt, and she could not 
approach a place, where he might be, without experiencing somewhat of 
the joy of hope.

They continued to wind along the valley, and, soon after, she saw 
again the old walls and moon-lit towers, rising over the woods:  the 
strong rays enabled her, also, to perceive the ravages, which the 
siege had made,--with the broken walls, and shattered battlements, 
for they were now at the foot of the steep, on which Udolpho stood.  
Massy fragments had rolled down among the woods, through which the 
travellers now began to ascend, and there mingled with the loose 
earth, and pieces of rock they had brought with them.  The woods, 
too, had suffered much from the batteries above, for here the enemy 
had endeavoured to screen themselves from the fire of the ramparts.  
Many noble trees were levelled with the ground, and others, to a wide 
extent, were entirely stripped of their upper branches.  'We had 
better dismount,' said Ugo, 'and lead the mules up the hill, or we 
shall get into some of the holes, which the balls have left.  Here 
are plenty of them.  Give me the torch,' continued Ugo, after they 
had dismounted, 'and take care you don't stumble over any thing, that 
lies in your way, for the ground is not yet cleared of the enemy.'

'How!' exclaimed Emily, 'are any of the enemy here, then?'

'Nay, I don't know for that, now,' he replied, 'but when I came away 
I saw one or two of them lying under the trees.'

As they proceeded, the torch threw a gloomy light upon the ground, 
and far among the recesses of the woods, and Emily feared to look 
forward, lest some object of horror should meet her eye.  The path 
was often strewn with broken heads of arrows, and with shattered 
remains of armour, such as at that period was mingled with the 
lighter dress of the soldiers.  'Bring the light hither,' said 
Bertrand, 'I have stumbled over something, that rattles loud enough.'  
Ugo holding up the torch, they perceived a steel breastplate on the 
ground, which Bertrand raised, and they saw, that it was pierced 
through, and that the lining was entirely covered with blood; but 
upon Emily's earnest entreaties, that they would proceed, Bertrand, 
uttering some joke upon the unfortunate person, to whom it had 
belonged, threw it hard upon the ground, and they passed on.

At every step she took, Emily feared to see some vestige of death.  
Coming soon after to an opening in the woods, Bertrand stopped to 
survey the ground, which was encumbered with massy trunks and 
branches of the trees, that had so lately adorned it, and seemed to 
have been a spot particularly fatal to the besiegers; for it was 
evident from the destruction of the trees, that here the hottest fire 
of the garrison had been directed.  As Ugo held again forth the 
torch, steel glittered between the fallen trees; the ground beneath 
was covered with broken arms, and with the torn vestments of 
soldiers, whose mangled forms Emily almost expected to see; and she 
again entreated her companions to proceed, who were, however, too 
intent in their examination, to regard her, and she turned her eyes 
from this desolated scene to the castle above, where she observed 
lights gliding along the ramparts.  Presently, the castle clock 
struck twelve, and then a trumpet sounded, of which Emily enquired 
the occasion.

'O! they are only changing watch,' replied Ugo.  'I do not remember 
this trumpet,' said Emily, 'it is a new custom.'  'It is only an old 
one revived, lady; we always use it in time of war.  We have sounded 
it, at midnight, ever since the place was besieged.'

'Hark!' said Emily, as the trumpet sounded again; and, in the next 
moment, she heard a faint clash of arms, and then the watchword 
passed along the terrace above, and was answered from a distant part 
of the castle; after which all was again still.  She complained of 
cold, and begged to go on.  'Presently, lady,' said Bertrand, turning 
over some broken arms with the pike he usually carried.  'What have 
we here?'

'Hark!' cried Emily, 'what noise was that?'

'What noise was it?' said Ugo, starting up and listening.

'Hush!' repeated Emily.  'It surely came from the ramparts above:' 
and, on looking up, they perceived a light moving along the walls, 
while, in the next instant, the breeze swelling, the voice sounded 
louder than before.

'Who goes yonder?' cried a sentinel of the castle.  'Speak or it will 
be worse for you.'  Bertrand uttered a shout of joy.  'Hah! my brave 
comrade, is it you?' said he, and he blew a shrill whistle, which 
signal was answered by another from the soldier on watch; and the 
party, then passing forward, soon after emerged from the woods upon 
the broken road, that led immediately to the castle gates, and Emily 
saw, with renewed terror, the whole of that stupendous structure.  
'Alas!' said she to herself, 'I am going again into my prison!'

'Here has been warm work, by St. Marco!' cried Bertrand, waving a 
torch over the ground; 'the balls have torn up the earth here with a 
vengeance.'

'Aye,' replied Ugo, 'they were fired from that redoubt, yonder, and 
rare execution they did.  The enemy made a furious attack upon the 
great gates; but they might have guessed they could never carry it 
there; for, besides the cannon from the walls, our archers, on the 
two round towers, showered down upon them at such a rate, that, by 
holy Peter! there was no standing it.  I never saw a better sight in 
my life; I laughed, till my sides aked, to see how the knaves 
scampered.  Bertrand, my good fellow, thou shouldst have been among 
them; I warrant thou wouldst have won the race!'

'Hah! you are at your old tricks again,' said Bertrand in a surly 
tone.  'It is well for thee thou art so near the castle; thou knowest 
I have killed my man before now.'  Ugo replied only by a laugh, and 
then gave some further account of the siege, to which as Emily 
listened, she was struck by the strong contrast of the present scene 
with that which had so lately been acted here.

The mingled uproar of cannon, drums, and trumpets, the groans of the 
conquered, and the shouts of the conquerors were now sunk into a 
silence so profound, that it seemed as if death had triumphed alike 
over the vanquished and the victor.  The shattered condition of one 
of the towers of the great gates by no means confirmed the VALIANT 
account just given by Ugo of the scampering party, who, it was 
evident, had not only made a stand, but had done much mischief before 
they took to flight; for this tower appeared, as far as Emily could 
judge by the dim moon-light that fell upon it, to be laid open, and 
the battlements were nearly demolished.  While she gazed, a light 
glimmered through one of the lower loop-holes, and disappeared; but, 
in the next moment, she perceived through the broken wall, a soldier, 
with a lamp, ascending the narrow staircase, that wound within the 
tower, and, remembering that it was the same she had passed up, on 
the night, when Barnardine had deluded her with a promise of seeing 
Madame Montoni, fancy gave her somewhat of the terror she had then 
suffered.  She was now very near the gates, over which the soldier 
having opened the door of the portal-chamber, the lamp he carried 
gave her a dusky view of that terrible apartment, and she almost sunk 
under the recollected horrors of the moment, when she had drawn aside 
the curtain, and discovered the object it was meant to conceal.

'Perhaps,' said she to herself, 'it is now used for a similar 
purpose; perhaps, that soldier goes, at this dead hour, to watch over 
the corpse of his friend!'  The little remains of her fortitude now 
gave way to the united force of remembered and anticipated horrors, 
for the melancholy fate of Madame Montoni appeared to foretell her 
own.  She considered, that, though the Languedoc estates, if she 
relinquished them, would satisfy Montoni's avarice, they might not 
appease his vengeance, which was seldom pacified but by a terrible 
sacrifice; and she even thought, that, were she to resign them, the 
fear of justice might urge him either to detain her a prisoner, or to 
take away her life.

They were now arrived at the gates, where Bertrand, observing the 
light glimmer through a small casement of the portal-chamber, called 
aloud; and the soldier, looking out, demanded who was there.  'Here, 
I have brought you a prisoner,' said Ugo, 'open the gate, and let us 
in.'

'Tell me first who it is, that demands entrance,' replied the 
soldier.  'What! my old comrade,' cried Ugo, 'don't you know me? not 
know Ugo?  I have brought home a prisoner here, bound hand and foot--
a fellow, who has been drinking Tuscany wine, while we here have been 
fighting.'

'You will not rest till you meet with your match,' said Bertrand 
sullenly.  'Hah! my comrade, is it you?' said the soldier--'I'll be 
with you directly.'

Emily presently heard his steps descending the stairs within, and 
then the heavy chain fall, and the bolts undraw of a small postern 
door, which he opened to admit the party.  He held the lamp low, to 
shew the step of the gate, and she found herself once more beneath 
the gloomy arch, and heard the door close, that seemed to shut her 
from the world for ever.  In the next moment, she was in the first 
court of the castle, where she surveyed the spacious and solitary 
area, with a kind of calm despair; while the dead hour of the night, 
the gothic gloom of the surrounding buildings, and the hollow and 
imperfect echoes, which they returned, as Ugo and the soldier 
conversed together, assisted to increase the melancholy forebodings 
of her heart.  Passing on to the second court, a distant sound broke 
feebly on the silence, and gradually swelling louder, as they 
advanced, Emily distinguished voices of revelry and laughter, but 
they were to her far other than sounds of joy.  'Why, you have got 
some Tuscany wine among you, HERE,' said Bertrand, 'if one may judge 
by the uproar that is going forward.  Ugo has taken a larger share of 
that than of fighting, I'll be sworn.  Who is carousing at this late 
hour?'

'His excellenza and the Signors,' replied the soldier:  'it is a sign 
you are a stranger at the castle, or you would not need to ask the 
question.  They are brave spirits, that do without sleep--they 
generally pass the night in good cheer; would that we, who keep the 
watch, had a little of it!  It is cold work, pacing the ramparts so 
many hours of the night, if one has no good liquor to warm one's 
heart.'

'Courage, my lad, courage ought to warm your heart,' said Ugo.  
'Courage!' replied the soldier sharply, with a menacing air, which 
Ugo perceiving, prevented his saying more, by returning to the 
subject of the carousal.  'This is a new custom,' said he; 'when I 
left the castle, the Signors used to sit up counselling.'

'Aye, and for that matter, carousing too,' replied the soldier, 'but, 
since the siege, they have done nothing but make merry:  and if I was 
they, I would settle accounts with myself, for all my hard fighting, 
the same way.'

They had now crossed the second court, and reached the hall door, 
when the soldier, bidding them good night, hastened back to his post; 
and, while they waited for admittance, Emily considered how she might 
avoid seeing Montoni, and retire unnoticed to her former apartment, 
for she shrunk from the thought of encountering either him, or any of 
his party, at this hour.  The uproar within the castle was now so 
loud, that, though Ugo knocked repeatedly at the hall door, he was 
not heard by any of the servants, a circumstance, which increased 
Emily's alarm, while it allowed her time to deliberate on the means 
of retiring unobserved; for, though she might, perhaps, pass up the 
great stair-case unseen, it was impossible she could find the way to 
her chamber, without a light, the difficulty of procuring which, and 
the danger of wandering about the castle, without one, immediately 
struck her.  Bertrand had only a torch, and she knew, that the 
servants never brought a taper to the door, for the hall was 
sufficiently lighted by the large tripod lamp, which hung in the 
vaulted roof; and, while she should wait till Annette could bring a 
taper, Montoni, or some of his companions, might discover her.

The door was now opened by Carlo; and Emily, having requested him to 
send Annette immediately with a light to the great gallery, where she 
determined to await her, passed on with hasty steps towards the 
stair-case; while Bertrand and Ugo, with the torch, followed old 
Carlo to the servants' hall, impatient for supper and the warm blaze 
of a wood fire.  Emily, lighted only by the feeble rays, which the 
lamp above threw between the arches of this extensive hall, 
endeavoured to find her way to the stair-case, now hid in obscurity; 
while the shouts of merriment, that burst from a remote apartment, 
served, by heightening her terror, to increase her perplexity, and 
she expected, every instant, to see the door of that room open, and 
Montoni and his companions issue forth.  Having, at length, reached 
the stair-case, and found her way to the top, she seated herself on 
the last stair, to await the arrival of Annette; for the profound 
darkness of the gallery deterred her from proceeding farther, and, 
while she listened for her footstep, she heard only distant sounds of 
revelry, which rose in sullen echoes from among the arcades below.  
Once she thought she heard a low sound from the dark gallery behind 
her; and, turning her eyes, fancied she saw something luminous move 
in it; and, since she could not, at this moment, subdue the weakness 
that caused her fears, she quitted her seat, and crept softly down a 
few stairs lower.

Annette not yet appearing, Emily now concluded, that she was gone to 
bed, and that nobody chose to call her up; and the prospect, that 
presented itself, of passing the night in darkness, in this place, or 
in some other equally forlorn (for she knew it would be impracticable 
to find her way through the intricacies of the galleries to her 
chamber), drew tears of mingled terror and despondency from her eyes.

While thus she sat, she fancied she heard again an odd sound from the 
gallery, and she listened, scarcely daring to breathe, but the 
increasing voices below overcame every other sound.  Soon after, she 
heard Montoni and his companions burst into the hall, who spoke, as 
if they were much intoxicated, and seemed to be advancing towards the 
stair-case.  She now remembered, that they must come this way to 
their chambers, and, forgetting all the terrors of the gallery, 
hurried towards it with an intention of secreting herself in some of 
the passages, that opened beyond, and of endeavouring, when the 
Signors were retired, to find her way to her own room, or to that of 
Annette, which was in a remote part of the castle.

With extended arms, she crept along the gallery, still hearing the 
voices of persons below, who seemed to stop in conversation at the 
foot of the stair-case, and then pausing for a moment to listen, half 
fearful of going further into the darkness of the gallery, where she 
still imagined, from the noise she had heard, that some person was 
lurking, 'They are already informed of my arrival,' said she, 'and 
Montoni is coming himself to seek me!  In the present state of his 
mind, his purpose must be desperate.'  Then, recollecting the scene, 
that had passed in the corridor, on the night preceding her departure 
from the castle, 'O Valancourt!' said she, 'I must then resign you 
for ever.  To brave any longer the injustice of Montoni, would not be 
fortitude, but rashness.'  Still the voices below did not draw 
nearer, but they became louder, and she distinguished those of 
Verezzi and Bertolini above the rest, while the few words she caught 
made her listen more anxiously for others.  The conversation seemed 
to concern herself; and, having ventured to step a few paces nearer 
to the stair-case, she discovered, that they were disputing about 
her, each seeming to claim some former promise of Montoni, who 
appeared, at first, inclined to appease and to persuade them to 
return to their wine, but afterwards to be weary of the dispute, and, 
saying that he left them to settle it as they could, was returning 
with the rest of the party to the apartment he had just quitted.  
Verezzi then stopped him.  'Where is she?  Signor,' said he, in a 
voice of impatience:  'tell us where she is.'  'I have already told 
you that I do not know,' replied Montoni, who seemed to be somewhat 
overcome with wine; 'but she is most probably gone to her apartment.'  
Verezzi and Bertolini now desisted from their enquiries, and sprang 
to the stair-case together, while Emily, who, during this discourse, 
had trembled so excessively, that she had with difficulty supported 
herself, seemed inspired with new strength, the moment she heard the 
sound of their steps, and ran along the gallery, dark as it was, with 
the fleetness of a fawn.  But, long before she reached its extremity, 
the light, which Verezzi carried, flashed upon the walls; both 
appeared, and, instantly perceiving Emily, pursued her.  At this 
moment, Bertolini, whose steps, though swift, were not steady, and 
whose impatience overcame what little caution he had hitherto used, 
stumbled, and fell at his length.  The lamp fell with him, and was 
presently expiring on the floor; but Verezzi, regardless of saving 
it, seized the advantage this accident gave him over his rival, and 
followed Emily, to whom, however, the light had shown one of the 
passages that branched from the gallery, and she instantly turned 
into it.  Verezzi could just discern the way she had taken, and this 
he pursued; but the sound of her steps soon sunk in distance, while 
he, less acquainted with the passage, was obliged to proceed through 
the dark, with caution, lest he should fall down a flight of steps, 
such as in this extensive old castle frequently terminated an avenue.  
This passage at length brought Emily to the corridor, into which her 
own chamber opened, and, not hearing any footstep, she paused to take 
breath, and consider what was the safest design to be adopted.  She 
had followed this passage, merely because it was the first that 
appeared, and now that she had reached the end of it, was as 
perplexed as before.  Whither to go, or how further to find her way 
in the dark, she knew not; she was aware only that she must not seek 
her apartment, for there she would certainly be sought, and her 
danger increased every instant, while she remained near it.  Her 
spirits and her breath, however, were so much exhausted, that she was 
compelled to rest, for a few minutes, at the end of the passage, and 
still she heard no steps approaching.  As thus she stood, light 
glimmered under an opposite door of the gallery, and, from its 
situation, she knew, that it was the door of that mysterious chamber, 
where she had made a discovery so shocking, that she never remembered 
it but with the utmost horror.  That there should be light in this 
chamber, and at this hour, excited her strong surprise, and she felt 
a momentary terror concerning it, which did not permit her to look 
again, for her spirits were now in such a state of weakness, that she 
almost expected to see the door slowly open, and some horrible object 
appear at it.  Still she listened for a step along the passage, and 
looked up it, where, not a ray of light appearing, she concluded, 
that Verezzi had gone back for the lamp; and, believing that he would 
shortly be there, she again considered which way she should go, or 
rather which way she could find in the dark.

A faint ray still glimmered under the opposite door, but so great, 
and, perhaps, so just was her horror of that chamber, that she would 
not again have tempted its secrets, though she had been certain of 
obtaining the light so important to her safety.  She was still 
breathing with difficulty, and resting at the end of the passage, 
when she heard a rustling sound, and then a low voice, so very near 
her, that it seemed close to her ear; but she had presence of mind to 
check her emotions, and to remain quite still; in the next moment, 
she perceived it to be the voice of Verezzi, who did not appear to 
know, that she was there, but to have spoken to himself.  'The air is 
fresher here,' said he:  'this should be the corridor.'  Perhaps, he 
was one of those heroes, whose courage can defy an enemy better than 
darkness, and he tried to rally his spirits with the sound of his own 
voice.  However this might be, he turned to the right, and proceeded, 
with the same stealing steps, towards Emily's apartment, apparently 
forgetting, that, in darkness, she could easily elude his search, 
even in her chamber; and, like an intoxicated person, he followed 
pertinaciously the one idea, that had possessed his imagination.

The moment she heard his steps steal away, she left her station and 
moved softly to the other end of the corridor, determined to trust 
again to chance, and to quit it by the first avenue she could find; 
but, before she could effect this, light broke upon the walls of the 
gallery, and, looking back, she saw Verezzi crossing it towards her 
chamber.  She now glided into a passage, that opened on the left, 
without, as she thought, being perceived; but, in the next instant, 
another light, glimmering at the further end of this passage, threw 
her into new terror.  While she stopped and hesitated which way to 
go, the pause allowed her to perceive, that it was Annette, who 
advanced, and she hurried to meet her:  but her imprudence again 
alarmed Emily, on perceiving whom, she burst into a scream of joy, 
and it was some minutes, before she could be prevailed with to be 
silent, or to release her mistress from the ardent clasp, in which 
she held her.  When, at length, Emily made Annette comprehend her 
danger, they hurried towards Annette's room, which was in a distant 
part of the castle.  No apprehensions, however, could yet silence the 
latter.  'Oh dear ma'amselle,' said she, as they passed along, 'what 
a terrified time have I had of it!  Oh!  I thought I should have died 
an hundred times!  I never thought I should live to see you again! 
and I never was so glad to see any body in my whole life, as I am to 
see you now.'  'Hark!' cried Emily, 'we are pursued; that was the 
echo of steps!'  'No, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'it was only the 
echo of a door shutting; sound runs along these vaulted passages so, 
that one is continually deceived by it; if one does but speak, or 
cough, it makes a noise as loud as a cannon.'  'Then there is the 
greater necessity for us to be silent,' said Emily:  'pr'ythee say no 
more, till we reach your chamber.'  Here, at length, they arrived, 
without interruption, and, Annette having fastened the door, Emily 
sat down on her little bed, to recover breath and composure.  To her 
enquiry, whether Valancourt was among the prisoners in the castle, 
Annette replied, that she had not been able to hear, but that she 
knew there were several persons confined.  She then proceeded, in her 
tedious way, to give an account of the siege, or rather a detail of 
her terrors and various sufferings, during the attack.  'But,' added 
she, 'when I heard the shouts of victory from the ramparts, I thought 
we were all taken, and gave myself up for lost, instead of which, WE 
had driven the enemy away.  I went then to the north gallery, and saw 
a great many of them scampering away among the mountains; but the 
rampart walls were all in ruins, as one may say, and there was a 
dismal sight to see down among the woods below, where the poor 
fellows were lying in heaps, but were carried off presently by their 
comrades.  While the siege was going on, the Signor was here, and 
there, and every where, at the same time, as Ludovico told me, for he 
would not let me see any thing hardly, and locked me up, as he has 
often done before, in a room in the middle of the castle, and used to 
bring me food, and come and talk with me as often as he could; and I 
must say, if it had not been for Ludovico, I should have died 
outright.'

'Well, Annette,' said Emily, 'and how have affairs gone on, since the 
siege?'

'O! sad hurly burly doings, ma'amselle,' replied Annette; 'the 
Signors have done nothing but sit and drink and game, ever since.  
They sit up, all night, and play among themselves, for all those 
riches and fine things, they brought in, some time since, when they 
used to go out a-robbing, or as good, for days together; and then 
they have dreadful quarrels about who loses, and who wins.  That 
fierce Signor Verezzi is always losing, as they tell me, and Signor 
Orsino wins from him, and this makes him very wroth, and they have 
had several hard set-to's about it.  Then, all those fine ladies are 
at the castle still; and I declare I am frighted, whenever I meet any 
of them in the passages.'--

'Surely, Annette,' said Emily starting, 'I heard a noise:  listen.'  
After a long pause, 'No, ma'amselle,' said Annette, 'it was only the 
wind in the gallery; I often hear it, when it shakes the old doors, 
at the other end.  But won't you go to bed, ma'amselle? you surely 
will not sit up starving, all night.'  Emily now laid herself down on 
the mattress, and desired Annette to leave the lamp burning on the 
hearth; having done which, the latter placed herself beside Emily, 
who, however, was not suffered to sleep, for she again thought she 
heard a noise from the passage; and Annette was again trying to 
convince her, that it was only the wind, when footsteps were 
distinctly heard near the door.  Annette was now starting from the 
bed, but Emily prevailed with her to remain there, and listened with 
her in a state of terrible expectation.  The steps still loitered at 
the door, when presently an attempt was made on the lock, and, in the 
next instant, a voice called.  'For heaven's sake, Annette, do not 
answer,' said Emily softly, 'remain quite still; but I fear we must 
extinguish the lamp, or its glare will betray us.'  'Holy Virgin!' 
exclaimed Annette, forgetting her discretion, 'I would not be in 
darkness now for the whole world.'  While she spoke, the voice became 
louder than before, and repeated Annette's name; 'Blessed Virgin!' 
cried she suddenly, 'it is only Ludovico.'  She rose to open the 
door, but Emily prevented her, till they should be more certain, that 
it was he alone; with whom Annette, at length, talked for some time, 
and learned, that he was come to enquire after herself, whom he had 
let out of her room to go to Emily, and that he was now returned to 
lock her in again.  Emily, fearful of being overheard, if they 
conversed any longer through the door, consented that it should be 
opened, and a young man appeared, whose open countenance confirmed 
the favourable opinion of him, which his care of Annette had already 
prompted her to form.  She entreated his protection, should Verezzi 
make this requisite; and Ludovico offered to pass the night in an old 
chamber, adjoining, that opened from the gallery, and, on the first 
alarm, to come to their defence.

Emily was much soothed by this proposal; and Ludovico, having lighted 
his lamp, went to his station, while she, once more, endeavoured to 
repose on her mattress.  But a variety of interests pressed upon her 
attention, and prevented sleep.  She thought much on what Annette had 
told her of the dissolute manners of Montoni and his associates, and 
more of his present conduct towards herself, and of the danger, from 
which she had just escaped.  From the view of her present situation 
she shrunk, as from a new picture of terror.  She saw herself in a 
castle, inhabited by vice and violence, seated beyond the reach of 
law or justice, and in the power of a man, whose perseverance was 
equal to every occasion, and in whom passions, of which revenge was 
not the weakest, entirely supplied the place of principles.  She was 
compelled, once more, to acknowledge, that it would be folly, and not 
fortitude, any longer to dare his power; and, resigning all hopes of 
future happiness with Valancourt, she determined, that, on the 
following morning, she would compromise with Montoni, and give up her 
estates, on condition, that he would permit her immediate return to 
France.  Such considerations kept her waking for many hours; but, the 
night passed, without further alarm from Verezzi.

On the next morning, Emily had a long conversation with Ludovico, in 
which she heard circumstances concerning the castle, and received 
hints of the designs of Montoni, that considerably increased her 
alarms.  On expressing her surprise, that Ludovico, who seemed to be 
so sensible of the evils of his situation, should continue in it, he 
informed her, that it was not his intention to do so, and she then 
ventured to ask him, if he would assist her to escape from the 
castle.  Ludovico assured her of his readiness to attempt this, but 
strongly represented the difficulty of the enterprise, and the 
certain destruction which must ensure, should Montoni overtake them, 
before they had passed the mountains; he, however, promised to be 
watchful of every circumstance, that might contribute to the success 
of the attempt, and to think upon some plan of departure.

Emily now confided to him the name of Valancourt, and begged he would 
enquire for such a person among the prisoners in the castle; for the 
faint hope, which this conversation awakened, made her now recede 
from her resolution of an immediate compromise with Montoni.  She 
determined, if possible, to delay this, till she heard further from 
Ludovico, and, if his designs were found to be impracticable, to 
resign the estates at once.  Her thoughts were on this subject, when 
Montoni, who was now recovered from the intoxication of the preceding 
night, sent for her, and she immediately obeyed the summons.  He was 
alone.  'I find,' said he, 'that you were not in your chamber, last 
night; where were you?'  Emily related to him some circumstances of 
her alarm, and entreated his protection from a repetition of them.  
'You know the terms of my protection,' said he; 'if you really value 
this, you will secure it.'  His open declaration, that he would only 
conditionally protect her, while she remained a prisoner in the 
castle, shewed Emily the necessity of an immediate compliance with 
his terms; but she first demanded, whether he would permit her 
immediately to depart, if she gave up her claim to the contested 
estates.  In a very solemn manner he then assured her, that he would, 
and immediately laid before her a paper, which was to transfer the 
right of those estates to himself.

She was, for a considerable time, unable to sign it, and her heart 
was torn with contending interests, for she was about to resign the 
happiness of all her future years--the hope, which had sustained her 
in so many hours of adversity.

After hearing from Montoni a recapitulation of the conditions of her 
compliance, and a remonstrance, that his time was valuable, she put 
her hand to the paper; when she had done which, she fell back in her 
chair, but soon recovered, and desired, that he would give orders for 
her departure, and that he would allow Annette to accompany her.  
Montoni smiled.  'It was necessary to deceive you,' said he,--'there 
was no other way of making you act reasonably; you shall go, but it 
must not be at present.  I must first secure these estates by 
possession:  when that is done, you may return to France if you 
will.'

The deliberate villany, with which he violated the solemn engagement 
he had just entered into, shocked Emily as much, as the certainty, 
that she had made a fruitless sacrifice, and must still remain his 
prisoner.  She had no words to express what she felt, and knew, that 
it would have been useless, if she had.  As she looked piteously at 
Montoni, he turned away, and at the same time desired she would 
withdraw to her apartment; but, unable to leave the room, she sat 
down in a chair near the door, and sighed heavily.  She had neither 
words nor tears.

'Why will you indulge this childish grief?' said he.  'Endeavour to 
strengthen your mind, to bear patiently what cannot now be avoided; 
you have no real evil to lament; be patient, and you will be sent 
back to France.  At present retire to your apartment.'


'I dare not go, sir,' said she, 'where I shall be liable to the 
intrusion of Signor Verezzi.'  'Have I not promised to protect you?' 
said Montoni.  'You have promised, sir,'--replied Emily, after some 
hesitation.  'And is not my promise sufficient?' added he sternly.  
'You will recollect your former promise, Signor,' said Emily, 
trembling, 'and may determine for me, whether I ought to rely upon 
this.'  'Will you provoke me to declare to you, that I will not 
protect you then?' said Montoni, in a tone of haughty displeasure.  
'If that will satisfy you, I will do it immediately.  Withdraw to 
your chamber, before I retract my promise; you have nothing to fear 
there.'  Emily left the room, and moved slowly into the hall, where 
the fear of meeting Verezzi, or Bertolini, made her quicken her 
steps, though she could scarcely support herself; and soon after she 
reached once more her own apartment.  Having looked fearfully round 
her, to examine if any person was there, and having searched every 
part of it, she fastened the door, and sat down by one of the 
casements.  Here, while she looked out for some hope to support her 
fainting spirits, which had been so long harassed and oppressed, 
that, if she had not now struggled much against misfortune, they 
would have left her, perhaps, for ever, she endeavoured to believe, 
that Montoni did really intend to permit her return to France as soon 
as he had secured her property, and that he would, in the mean time, 
protect her from insult; but her chief hope rested with Ludovico, 
who, she doubted not, would be zealous in her cause, though he seemed 
almost to despair of success in it.  One circumstance, however, she 
had to rejoice in.  Her prudence, or rather her fears, had saved her 
from mentioning the name of Valancourt to Montoni, which she was 
several times on the point of doing, before she signed the paper, and 
of stipulating for his release, if he should be really a prisoner in 
the castle.  Had she done this, Montoni's jealous fears would now 
probably have loaded Valancourt with new severities, and have 
suggested the advantage of holding him a captive for life.

Thus passed the melancholy day, as she had before passed many in this 
same chamber.  When night drew on, she would have withdrawn herself 
to Annette's bed, had not a particular interest inclined her to 
remain in this chamber, in spite of her fears; for, when the castle 
should be still, and the customary hour arrived, she determined to 
watch for the music, which she had formerly heard.  Though its sounds 
might not enable her positively to determine, whether Valancourt was 
there, they would perhaps strengthen her opinion that he was, and 
impart the comfort, so necessary to her present support.--But, on the 
other hand, if all should be silent--!  She hardly dared to suffer 
her thoughts to glance that way, but waited, with impatient 
expectation, the approaching hour.

The night was stormy; the battlements of the castle appeared to rock 
in the wind, and, at intervals, long groans seemed to pass on the 
air, such as those, which often deceive the melancholy mind, in 
tempests, and amidst scenes of desolation.  Emily heard, as formerly, 
the sentinels pass along the terrace to their posts, and, looking out 
from her casement, observed, that the watch was doubled; a 
precaution, which appeared necessary enough, when she threw her eyes 
on the walls, and saw their shattered condition.  The well-known 
sounds of the soldiers' march, and of their distant voices, which 
passed her in the wind, and were lost again, recalled to her memory 
the melancholy sensation she had suffered, when she formerly heard 
the same sounds; and occasioned almost involuntary comparisons 
between her present, and her late situation.  But this was no subject 
for congratulations, and she wisely checked the course of her 
thoughts, while, as the hour was not yet come, in which she had been 
accustomed to hear the music, she closed the casement, and 
endeavoured to await it in patience.  The door of the stair-case she 
tried to secure, as usual, with some of the furniture of the room; 
but this expedient her fears now represented to her to be very 
inadequate to the power and perseverance of Verezzi; and she often 
looked at a large and heavy chest, that stood in the chamber, with 
wishes that she and Annette had strength enough to move it.  While 
she blamed the long stay of this girl, who was still with Ludovico 
and some other of the servants, she trimmed her wood fire, to make 
the room appear less desolate, and sat down beside it with a book, 
which her eyes perused, while her thoughts wandered to Valancourt, 
and her own misfortunes.  As she sat thus, she thought, in a pause of 
the wind, she distinguished music, and went to the casement to 
listen, but the loud swell of the gust overcame every other sound.  
When the wind sunk again, she heard distinctly, in the deep pause 
that succeeded, the sweet strings of a lute; but again the rising 
tempest bore away the notes, and again was succeeded by a solemn 
pause.  Emily, trembling with hope and fear, opened her casement to 
listen, and to try whether her own voice could be heard by the 
musician; for to endure any longer this state of torturing suspense 
concerning Valancourt, seemed to be utterly impossible.  There was a 
kind of breathless stillness in the chambers, that permitted her to 
distinguish from below the tender notes of the very lute she had 
formerly heard, and with it, a plaintive voice, made sweeter by the 
low rustling sound, that now began to creep along the wood-tops, till 
it was lost in the rising wind.  Their tall heads then began to wave, 
while, through a forest of pine, on the left, the wind, groaning 
heavily, rolled onward over the woods below, bending them almost to 
their roots; and, as the long-resounding gale swept away, other 
woods, on the right, seemed to answer the 'loud lament;' then, 
others, further still, softened it into a murmur, that died into 
silence.  Emily listened, with mingled awe and expectation, hope and 
fear; and again the melting sweetness of the lute was heard, and the 
same solemn-breathing voice.  Convinced that these came from an 
apartment underneath, she leaned far out of her window, that she 
might discover whether any light was there; but the casements below, 
as well as those above, were sunk so deep in the thick walls of the 
castle, that she could not see them, or even the faint ray, that 
probably glimmered through their bars.  She then ventured to call; 
but the wind bore her voice to the other end of the terrace, and then 
the music was heard as before, in the pause of the gust.  Suddenly, 
she thought she heard a noise in her chamber, and she drew herself 
within the casement; but, in a moment after, distinguishing Annette's 
voice at the door, she concluded it was her she had heard before, and 
she let her in.  'Move softly, Annette, to the casement,' said she, 
'and listen with me; the music is returned.'  They were silent till, 
the measure changing, Annette exclaimed, 'Holy Virgin!  I know that 
song well; it is a French song, one of the favourite songs of my dear 
country.'  This was the ballad Emily had heard on a former night, 
though not the one she had first listened to from the fishing-house 
in Gascony.  'O! it is a Frenchman, that sings,' said Annette:  'it 
must be Monsieur Valancourt.'  'Hark! Annette, do not speak so loud,' 
said Emily, 'we may be overheard.'  'What! by the Chevalier?' said 
Annette.  'No,' replied Emily mournfully, 'but by somebody, who may 
report us to the Signor.  What reason have you to think it is 
Monsieur Valancourt, who sings?  But hark! now the voice swells 
louder!  Do you recollect those tones?  I fear to trust my own 
judgment.'  'I never happened to hear the Chevalier sing, 
Mademoiselle,' replied Annette, who, as Emily was disappointed to 
perceive, had no stronger reason for concluding this to be 
Valancourt, than that the musician must be a Frenchman.  Soon after, 
she heard the song of the fishing-house, and distinguished her own 
name, which was repeated so distinctly, that Annette had heard it 
also.  She trembled, sunk into a chair by the window, and Annette 
called aloud, 'Monsieur Valancourt!  Monsieur Valancourt!' while 
Emily endeavoured to check her, but she repeated the call more loudly 
than before, and the lute and the voice suddenly stopped.  Emily 
listened, for some time, in a state of intolerable suspense; but, no 
answer being returned, 'It does not signify, Mademoiselle,' said 
Annette; 'it is the Chevalier, and I will speak to him.'  'No, 
Annette,' said Emily, 'I think I will speak myself; if it is he, he 
will know my voice, and speak again.'  'Who is it,' said she, 'that 
sings at this late hour?'

A long silence ensued, and, having repeated the question, she 
perceived some faint accents, mingling in the blast, that swept by; 
but the sounds were so distant, and passed so suddenly, that she 
could scarcely hear them, much less distinguish the words they 
uttered, or recognise the voice.  After another pause, Emily called 
again; and again they heard a voice, but as faintly as before; and 
they perceived, that there were other circumstances, besides the 
strength, and direction of the wind, to content with; for the great 
depth, at which the casements were fixed in the castle walls, 
contributed, still more than the distance, to prevent articulated 
sounds from being understood, though general ones were easily heard.  
Emily, however, ventured to believe, from the circumstance of her 
voice alone having been answered, that the stranger was Valancourt, 
as well as that he knew her, and she gave herself up to speechless 
joy.  Annette, however, was not speechless.--She renewed her calls, 
but received no answer; and Emily, fearing, that a further attempt, 
which certainly was, as present, highly dangerous, might expose them 
to the guards of the castle, while it could not perhaps terminate her 
suspense, insisted on Annette's dropping the enquiry for this night; 
though she determined herself to question Ludovico, on the subject, 
in the morning, more urgently than she had yet done.  She was now 
enabled to say, that the stranger, whom she had formerly heard, was 
still in the castle, and to direct Ludovico to that part of it, in 
which he was confined.

Emily, attended by Annette, continued at the casement, for some time, 
but all remained still; they heard neither lute or voice again, and 
Emily was now as much oppressed by anxious joy, as she lately was by 
a sense of her misfortunes.  With hasty steps she paced the room, now 
half calling on Valancourt's name, then suddenly stopping, and now 
going to the casement and listening, where, however, she heard 
nothing but the solemn waving of the woods.  Sometimes her impatience 
to speak to Ludovico prompted her to send Annette to call him; but a 
sense of the impropriety of this at midnight restrained her.  
Annette, meanwhile, as impatient as her mistress, went as often to 
the casement to listen, and returned almost as much disappointed.  
She, at length, mentioned Signor Verezzi, and her fear, lest he 
should enter the chamber by the staircase, door.  'But the night is 
now almost past, Mademoiselle,' said she, recollecting herself; 
'there is the morning light, beginning to peep over those mountains 
yonder in the east.'

Emily had forgotten, till this moment, that such a person existed as 
Verezzi, and all the danger that had appeared to threaten her; but 
the mention of his name renewed her alarm, and she remembered the old 
chest, that she had wished to place against the door, which she now, 
with Annette, attempted to move, but it was so heavy, that they could 
not lift it from the floor.  'What is in this great old chest, 
Mademoiselle,' said Annette, 'that makes it so weighty?'  Emily 
having replied, 'that she found it in the chamber, when she first 
came to the castle, and had never examined it.'--'Then I will, 
ma'amselle,' said Annette, and she tried to lift the lid; but this 
was held by a lock, for which she had no key, and which, indeed, 
appeared, from its peculiar construction, to open with a spring.  The 
morning now glimmered through the casements, and the wind had sunk 
into a calm.  Emily looked out upon the dusky woods, and on the 
twilight mountains, just stealing in the eye, and saw the whole 
scene, after the storm, lying in profound stillness, the woods 
motionless, and the clouds above, through which the dawn trembled, 
scarcely appearing to move along the heavens.  One soldier was pacing 
the terrace beneath, with measured steps; and two, more distant, were 
sunk asleep on the walls, wearied with the night's watch.  Having 
inhaled, for a while, the pure spirit of the air, and of vegetation, 
which the late rains had called forth; and having listened, once 
more, for a note of music, she now closed the casement, and retired 
to rest.



CHAPTER IV


     Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land,
 For many a long month lost in snow profound,
 When Sol from Cancer sends the seasons bland,
 And in their northern cave the storms hath bound;
 From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound,
 Torrents are hurl'd, green hills emerge, and lo,
 The trees with foliage, cliffs with flow'rs are crown'd;
 Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go;
 And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow.
     BEATTIE

Several of her succeeding days passed in suspense, for Ludovico could 
only learn from the soldiers, that there was a prisoner in the 
apartment, described to him by Emily, and that he was a Frenchman, 
whom they had taken in one of their skirmishes, with a party of his 
countrymen.  During this interval, Emily escaped the persecutions of 
Bertolini, and Verezzi, by confining herself to her apartment; except 
that sometimes, in an evening, she ventured to walk in the adjoining 
corridor.  Montoni appeared to respect his last promise, though he 
had prophaned his first; for to his protection only could she 
attribute her present repose; and in this she was now so secure, that 
she did not wish to leave the castle, till she could obtain some 
certainty concerning Valancourt; for which she waited, indeed, 
without any sacrifice of her own comfort, since no circumstance had 
occurred to make her escape probable.

On the fourth day, Ludovico informed her, that he had hopes of being 
admitted to the presence of the prisoner; it being the turn of a 
soldier, with whom he had been for some time familiar, to attend him 
on the following night.  He was not deceived in his hope; for, under 
pretence of carrying in a pitcher of water, he entered the prison, 
though, his prudence having prevented him from telling the sentinel 
the real motive of his visit, he was obliged to make his conference 
with the prisoner a very short one.

Emily awaited the result in her own apartment, Ludovico having 
promised to accompany Annette to the corridor, in the evening; where, 
after several hours impatiently counted, he arrived.  Emily, having 
then uttered the name of Valancourt, could articulate no more, but 
hesitated in trembling expectation.  'The Chevalier would not entrust 
me with his name, Signora,' replied Ludovico; 'but, when I just 
mentioned yours, he seemed overwhelmed with joy, though he was not so 
much surprised as I expected.'  'Does he then remember me?' she 
exclaimed.

'O! it is Mons. Valancourt,' said Annette, and looked impatiently at 
Ludovico, who understood her look, and replied to Emily:  'Yes, lady, 
the Chevalier does, indeed, remember you, and, I am sure, has a very 
great regard for you, and I made bold to say you had for him.  He 
then enquired how you came to know he was in the castle, and whether 
you ordered me to speak to him.  The first question I could not 
answer, but the second I did; and then he went off into his ecstasies 
again.  I was afraid his joy would have betrayed him to the sentinel 
at the door.'

'But how does he look, Ludovico?' interrupted Emily:  'is he not 
melancholy and ill with this long confinement?'--'Why, as to 
melancholy, I saw no symptom of that, lady, while I was with him, for 
he seemed in the finest spirits I ever saw any body in, in all my 
life.  His countenance was all joy, and, if one may judge from that, 
he was very well; but I did not ask him.'  'Did he send me no 
message?' said Emily.  'O yes, Signora, and something besides,' 
replied Ludovico, who searched his pockets.  'Surely, I have not lost 
it,' added he.  'The Chevalier said, he would have written, madam, if 
he had had pen and ink, and was going to have sent a very long 
message, when the sentinel entered the room, but not before he had 
give me this.'  Ludovico then drew forth a miniature from his bosom, 
which Emily received with a trembling hand, and perceived to be a 
portrait of herself--the very picture, which her mother had lost so 
strangely in the fishing-house at La Vallee.

Tears of mingled joy and tenderness flowed to her eyes, while 
Ludovico proceeded--'"Tell your lady," said the Chevalier, as he gave 
me the picture, "that this has been my companion, and only solace in 
all my misfortunes.  Tell her, that I have worn it next my heart, and 
that I sent it her as the pledge of an affection, which can never 
die; that I would not part with it, but to her, for the wealth of 
worlds, and that I now part with it, only in the hope of soon 
receiving it from her hands.  Tell her"--Just then, Signora, the 
sentinel came in, and the Chevalier said no more; but he had before 
asked me to contrive an interview for him with you; and when I told 
him, how little hope I had of prevailing with the guard to assist me, 
he said, that was not, perhaps, of so much consequence as I imagined, 
and bade me contrive to bring back your answer, and he would inform 
me of more than he chose to do then.  So this, I think, lady, is the 
whole of what passed.'

'How, Ludovico, shall I reward you for your zeal?' said Emily:  'but, 
indeed, I do not now possess the means.  When can you see the 
Chevalier again?'  'That is uncertain, Signora,' replied he.  'It 
depends upon who stands guard next:  there are not more than one or 
two among them, from whom I would dare to ask admittance to the 
prison-chamber.'

'I need not bid you remember, Ludovico,' resumed Emily, 'how very 
much interested I am in your seeing the Chevalier soon; and, when you 
do so, tell him, that I have received the picture, and, with the 
sentiments he wished.  Tell him I have suffered much, and still 
suffer--'  She paused.  'But shall I tell him you will see him, 
lady?' said Ludovico.  'Most certainly I will,' replied Emily.  'But 
when, Signora, and where?'  'That must depend upon circumstances,' 
returned Emily.  'The place, and the hour, must be regulated by his 
opportunities.'

'As to the place, mademoiselle,' said Annette, 'there is no other 
place in the castle, besides this corridor, where WE can see him in 
safety, you know; and, as for the hour,--it must be when all the 
Signors are asleep, if that ever happens!'  'You may mention these 
circumstances to the Chevalier, Ludovico,' said she, checking the 
flippancy of Annette, 'and leave them to his judgment and 
opportunity.  Tell him, my heart is unchanged.  But, above all, let 
him see you again as soon as possible; and, Ludovico, I think it is 
needless to tell you I shall very anxiously look for you.'  Having 
then wished her good night, Ludovico descended the staircase, and 
Emily retired to rest, but not to sleep, for joy now rendered her as 
wakeful, as she had ever been from grief.  Montoni and his castle had 
all vanished from her mind, like the frightful vision of a 
necromancer, and she wandered, once more, in fairy scenes of unfading 
happiness:

     As when, beneath the beam
 Of summer moons, the distant woods among,
 Or by some flood, all silver'd with the gleam,
 The soft embodied Fays thro' airy portals stream.

A week elapsed, before Ludovico again visited the prison; for the 
sentinels, during that period, were men, in whom he could not 
confide, and he feared to awaken curiosity, by asking to see their 
prisoner.  In this interval, he communicated to Emily terrific 
reports of what was passing in the castle; of riots, quarrels, and of 
carousals more alarming than either; while from some circumstances, 
which he mentioned, she not only doubted, whether Montoni meant ever 
to release her, but greatly feared, that he had designs, concerning 
her,--such as she had formerly dreaded.  Her name was frequently 
mentioned in the conversations, which Bertolini and Verezzi held 
together, and, at those times, they were frequently in contention.  
Montoni had lost large sums to Verezzi, so that there was a dreadful 
possibility of his designing her to be a substitute for the debt; 
but, as she was ignorant, that he had formerly encouraged the hopes 
of Bertolini also, concerning herself, after the latter had done him 
some signal service, she knew not how to account for these 
contentions between Bertolini and Verezzi.  The cause of them, 
however, appeared to be of little consequence, for she thought she 
saw destruction approaching in many forms, and her entreaties to 
Ludovico to contrive an escape and to see the prisoner again, were 
more urgent than ever.

At length, he informed her, that he had again visited the Chevalier, 
who had directed him to confide in the guard of the prison, from whom 
he had already received some instances of kindness, and who had 
promised to permit his going into the castle for half an hour, on the 
ensuing night, when Montoni and his companions should be engaged at 
their carousals.  'This was kind, to be sure,' added Ludovico:  'but 
Sebastian knows he runs no risque in letting the Chevalier out, for, 
if he can get beyond the bars and iron doors of the castle, he must 
be cunning indeed.  But the Chevalier desired me, Signora, to go to 
you immediately, and to beg you would allow him to visit you, this 
night, if it was only for a moment, for that he could no longer live 
under the same roof, without seeing you; the hour, he said, he could 
not mention, for it must depend on circumstances (just as you said, 
Signora); and the place he desired you would appoint, as knowing 
which was best for your own safety.'

Emily was now so much agitated by the near prospect of meeting 
Valancourt, that it was some time, before she could give any answer 
to Ludovico, or consider of the place of meeting; when she did, she 
saw none, that promised so much security, as the corridor, near her 
own apartment, which she was checked from leaving, by the 
apprehension of meeting any of Montoni's guests, on their way to 
their rooms; and she dismissed the scruples, which delicacy opposed, 
now that a serious danger was to be avoided by encountering them.  It 
was settled, therefore, that the Chevalier should meet her in the 
corridor, at that hour of the night, which Ludovico, who was to be 
upon the watch, should judge safest:  and Emily, as may be imagined, 
passed this interval in a tumult of hope and joy, anxiety and 
impatience.  Never, since her residence in the castle, had she 
watched, with so much pleasure, the sun set behind the mountains, and 
twilight shade, and darkness veil the scene, as on this evening.  She 
counted the notes of the great clock, and listened to the steps of 
the sentinels, as they changed the watch, only to rejoice, that 
another hour was gone.  'O, Valancourt!' said she, 'after all I have 
suffered; after our long, long separation, when I thought I should 
never--never see you more--we are still to meet again!  O! I have 
endured grief, and anxiety, and terror, and let me, then, not sink 
beneath this joy!'  These were moments, when it was impossible for 
her to feel emotions of regret, or melancholy, for any ordinary 
interests;--even the reflection, that she had resigned the estates, 
which would have been a provision for herself and Valancourt for 
life, threw only a light and transient shade upon her spirits.  The 
idea of Valancourt, and that she should see him so soon, alone 
occupied her heart.

At length the clock struck twelve; she opened the door to listen, if 
any noise was in the castle, and heard only distant shouts of riot 
and laughter, echoed feebly along the gallery.  She guessed, that the 
Signor and his guests were at the banquet.  'They are now engaged for 
the night,' said she; 'and Valancourt will soon be here.'  Having 
softly closed the door, she paced the room with impatient steps, and 
often went to the casement to listen for the lute; but all was 
silent, and, her agitation every moment increasing, she was at length 
unable to support herself, and sat down by the window.  Annette, whom 
she detained, was, in the meantime, as loquacious as usual; but Emily 
heard scarcely any thing she said, and having at length risen to the 
casement, she distinguished the chords of the lute, struck with an 
expressive hand, and then the voice, she had formerly listened to, 
accompanied it.

     Now rising love they fann'd, now pleasing dole
 They breath'd in tender musings through the heart;
 And now a graver, sacred strain they stole,
 As when seraphic hands an hymn impart!

Emily wept in doubtful joy and tenderness; and, when the strain 
ceased, she considered it as a signal, that Valancourt was about to 
leave the prison.  Soon after, she heard steps in the corridor;--they 
were the light, quick steps of hope; she could scarcely support 
herself, as they approached, but opening the door of the apartment, 
she advanced to meet Valancourt, and, in the next moment, sunk in the 
arms of a stranger.  His voice--his countenance instantly convinced 
her, and she fainted away.

On reviving, she found herself supported by the stranger, who was 
watching over her recovery, with a countenance of ineffable 
tenderness and anxiety.  She had no spirits for reply, or enquiry; 
she asked no questions, but burst into tears, and disengaged herself 
from his arms; when the expression of his countenance changed to 
surprise and disappointment, and he turned to Ludovico, for an 
explanation; Annette soon gave the information, which Ludovico could 
not.  'O, sir!' said she, in a voice, interrupted with sobs; 'O, sir! 
you are not the other Chevalier.  We expected Monsieur Valancourt, 
but you are not he!  O Ludovico! how could you deceive us so? my poor 
lady will never recover it--never!'  The stranger, who now appeared 
much agitated, attempted to speak, but his words faltered; and then 
striking his hand against his forehead, as if in sudden despair, he 
walked abruptly to the other end of the corridor.

Suddenly, Annette dried her tears, and spoke to Ludovico.  'But, 
perhaps,' said she, 'after all, the other Chevalier is not this:  
perhaps the Chevalier Valancourt is still below.'  Emily raised her 
head.  'No,' replied Ludovico, 'Monsieur Valancourt never was below, 
if this gentleman is not he.'  'If you, sir,' said Ludovico, 
addressing the stranger, 'would but have had the goodness to trust me 
with your name, this mistake had been avoided.'  'Most true,' replied 
the stranger, speaking in broken Italian, 'but it was of the utmost 
consequence to me, that my name should be concealed from Montoni.  
Madam,' added he then, addressing Emily in French, 'will you permit 
me to apologize for the pain I have occasioned you, and to explain to 
you alone my name, and the circumstance, which has led me into this 
error?  I am of France;--I am your countryman;--we are met in a 
foreign land.'  Emily tried to compose her spirits; yet she hesitated 
to grant his request.  At length, desiring, that Ludovico would wait 
on the stair-case, and detaining Annette, she told the stranger, that 
her woman understood very little Italian, and begged he would 
communicate what he wished to say, in that language.--Having 
withdrawn to a distant part of the corridor, he said, with a long-
drawn sigh, 'You, madam, are no stranger to me, though I am so 
unhappy as to be unknown to you.--My name is Du Pont; I am of France, 
of Gascony, your native province, and have long admired,--and, why 
should I affect to disguise it?--have long loved you.'  He paused, 
but, in the next moment, proceeded.  'My family, madam, is probably 
not unknown to you, for we lived within a few miles of La Vallee, and 
I have, sometimes, had the happiness of meeting you, on visits in the 
neighbourhood.  I will not offend you by repeating how much you 
interested me; how much I loved to wander in the scenes you 
frequented; how often I visited your favourite fishing-house, and 
lamented the circumstance, which, at that time, forbade me to reveal 
my passion.  I will not explain how I surrendered to temptation, and 
became possessed of a treasure, which was to me inestimable; a 
treasure, which I committed to your messenger, a few days ago, with 
expectations very different from my present ones.  I will say nothing 
of these circumstances, for I know they will avail me little; let me 
only supplicate from you forgiveness, and the picture, which I so 
unwarily returned.  Your generosity will pardon the theft, and 
restore the prize.  My crime has been my punishment; for the portrait 
I stole has contributed to nourish a passion, which must still be my 
torment.'

Emily now interrupted him.  'I think, sir, I may leave it to your 
integrity to determine, whether, after what has just appeared, 
concerning Mons. Valancourt, I ought to return the picture.  I think 
you will acknowledge, that this would not be generosity; and you will 
allow me to add, that it would be doing myself an injustice.  I must 
consider myself honoured by your good opinion, but'--and she 
hesitated,--'the mistake of this evening makes it unnecessary for me 
to say more.'

'It does, madam,--alas! it does!' said the stranger, who, after a 
long pause, proceeded.--'But you will allow me to shew my 
disinterestedness, though not my love, and will accept the services I 
offer.  Yet, alas! what services can I offer?  I am myself a 
prisoner, a sufferer, like you.  But, dear as liberty is to me, I 
would not seek it through half the hazards I would encounter to 
deliver you from this recess of vice.  Accept the offered services of 
a friend; do not refuse me the reward of having, at least, attempted 
to deserve your thanks.'

'You deserve them already, sir,' said Emily; 'the wish deserves my 
warmest thanks.  But you will excuse me for reminding you of the 
danger you incur by prolonging this interview.  It will be a great 
consolation to me to remember, whether your friendly attempts to 
release me succeed or not, that I have a countryman, who would so 
generously protect me.'--Monsieur Du Pont took her hand, which she 
but feebly attempted to withdraw, and pressed it respectfully to his 
lips.  'Allow me to breathe another fervent sigh for your happiness,' 
said he, 'and to applaud myself for an affection, which I cannot 
conquer.'  As he said this, Emily heard a noise from her apartment, 
and, turning round, saw the door from the stair-case open, and a man 
rush into her chamber.  'I will teach you to conquer it,' cried he, 
as he advanced into the corridor, and drew a stiletto, which he aimed 
at Du Pont, who was unarmed, but who, stepping back, avoided the 
blow, and then sprung upon Verezzi, from whom he wrenched the 
stiletto.  While they struggled in each other's grasp, Emily, 
followed by Annette, ran further into the corridor, calling on 
Ludovico, who was, however, gone from the stair-case, and, as she 
advanced, terrified and uncertain what to do, a distant noise, that 
seemed to arise from the hall, reminded her of the danger she was 
incurring; and, sending Annette forward in search of Ludovico, she 
returned to the spot where Du Pont and Verezzi were still struggling 
for victory.  It was her own cause which was to be decided with that 
of the former, whose conduct, independently of this circumstance, 
would, however, have interested her in his success, even had she not 
disliked and dreaded Verezzi.  She threw herself in a chair, and 
supplicated them to desist from further violence, till, at length, Du 
Pont forced Verezzi to the floor, where he lay stunned by the 
violence of his fall; and she then entreated Du Pont to escape from 
the room, before Montoni, or his party, should appear; but he still 
refused to leave her unprotected; and, while Emily, now more 
terrified for him, than for herself, enforced the entreaty, they 
heard steps ascending the private stair-case.

'O you are lost!' cried she, 'these are Montoni's people.'  Du Pont 
made no reply, but supported Emily, while, with a steady, though 
eager, countenance, he awaited their appearance, and, in the next 
moment, Ludovico, alone, mounted the landing-place.  Throwing an 
hasty glance round the chamber, 'Follow me,' said he, 'as you value 
your lives; we have not an instant to lose!'

Emily enquired what had occurred, and whither they were to go?

'I cannot stay to tell you now, Signora,' replied Ludovico:  'fly! 
fly!'

She immediately followed him, accompanied by Mons. Du Pont, down the 
stair-case, and along a vaulted passage, when suddenly she 
recollected Annette, and enquired for her.  'She awaits us further 
on, Signora,' said Ludovico, almost breathless with haste; 'the gates 
were open, a moment since, to a party just come in from the 
mountains:  they will be shut, I fear, before we can reach them!  
Through this door, Signora,' added Ludovico, holding down the lamp, 
'take care, here are two steps.'

Emily followed, trembling still more, than before she had understood, 
that her escape from the castle, depended upon the present moment; 
while Du Pont supported her, and endeavoured, as they passed along, 
to cheer her spirits.

'Speak low, Signor,' said Ludovico, 'these passages send echoes all 
round the castle.'

'Take care of the light,' cried Emily, 'you go so fast, that the air 
will extinguish it.'

Ludovico now opened another door, where they found Annette, and the 
party then descended a short flight of steps into a passage, which, 
Ludovico said, led round the inner court of the castle, and opened 
into the outer one.  As they advanced, confused and tumultuous 
sounds, that seemed to come from the inner court, alarmed Emily.  
'Nay, Signora,' said Ludovico, 'our only hope is in that tumult; 
while the Signor's people are busied about the men, who are just 
arrived, we may, perhaps, pass unnoticed through the gates.  But 
hush!' he added, as they approached the small door, that opened into 
the outer court, 'if you will remain here a moment, I will go to see 
whether the gates are open, and any body is in the way.  Pray 
extinguish the light, Signor, if you hear me talking,' continued 
Ludovico, delivering the lamp to Du Pont, 'and remain quite still.'

Saying this, he stepped out upon the court, and they closed the door, 
listening anxiously to his departing steps.  No voice, however, was 
heard in the court, which he was crossing, though a confusion of many 
voices yet issued from the inner one.  'We shall soon be beyond the 
walls,' said Du Pont softly to Emily, 'support yourself a little 
longer, Madam, and all will be well.'

But soon they heard Ludovico speaking loud, and the voice also of 
some other person, and Du Pont immediately extinguished the lamp.  
'Ah! it is too late!' exclaimed Emily, 'what is to become of us?'  
They listened again, and then perceived, that Ludovico was talking 
with a sentinel, whose voices were heard also by Emily's favourite 
dog, that had followed her from the chamber, and now barked loudly.  
'This dog will betray us!' said Du Pont, 'I will hold him.'  'I fear 
he has already betrayed us!' replied Emily.  Du Pont, however, caught 
him up, and, again listening to what was going on without, they heard 
Ludovico say, 'I'll watch the gates the while.'

'Stay a minute,' replied the sentinel, 'and you need not have the 
trouble, for the horses will be sent round to the outer stables, then 
the gates will be shut, and I can leave my post.'  'I don't mind the 
trouble, comrade,' said Ludovico, 'you will do such another good turn 
for me, some time.  Go--go, and fetch the wine; the rogues, that are 
just come in, will drink it all else.'

The soldier hesitated, and then called aloud to the people in the 
second court, to know why they did not send out the horses, that the 
gates might be shut; but they were too much engaged, to attend to 
him, even if they had heard his voice.

'Aye--aye,' said Ludovico, 'they know better than that; they are 
sharing it all among them; if you wait till the horses come out, you 
must wait till the wine is drunk.  I have had my share already, but, 
since you do not care about yours, I see no reason why I should not 
have that too.'

'Hold, hold, not so fast,' cried the sentinel, 'do watch then, for a 
moment:  I'll be with you presently.'

'Don't hurry yourself,' said Ludovico, coolly, 'I have kept guard 
before now.  But you may leave me your trombone,* that, if the castle 
should be attacked, you know, I may be able to defend the pass, like 
a hero.'

(* A kind of blunderbuss. [A. R.])


'There, my good fellow,' returned the soldier, 'there, take it--it 
has seen service, though it could do little in defending the castle.  
I'll tell you a good story, though, about this same trombone.'

'You'll tell it better when you have had the wine,' said Ludovico.  
'There! they are coming out from the court already.'

'I'll have the wine, though,' said the sentinel, running off.  'I 
won't keep you a minute.'

'Take your time, I am in no haste,' replied Ludovico, who was already 
hurrying across the court, when the soldier came back.  'Whither so 
fast, friend--whither so fast?' said the latter.  'What! is this the 
way you keep watch!  I must stand to my post myself, I see.'

'Aye, well,' replied Ludovico, 'you have saved me the trouble of 
following you further, for I wanted to tell you, if you have a mind 
to drink the Tuscany wine, you must go to Sebastian, he is dealing it 
out; the other that Federico has, is not worth having.  But you are 
not likely to have any, I see, for they are all coming out.'

'By St. Peter! so they are,' said the soldier, and again ran off, 
while Ludovico, once more at liberty, hastened to the door of the 
passage, where Emily was sinking under the anxiety this long 
discourse had occasioned; but, on his telling them the court was 
clear, they followed him to the gates, without waiting another 
instant, yet not before he had seized two horses, that had strayed 
from the second court, and were picking a scanty meal among the 
grass, which grew between the pavement of the first.

They passed, without interruption, the dreadful gates, and took the 
road that led down among the woods, Emily, Monsieur Du Pont and 
Annette on foot, and Ludovico, who was mounted on one horse, leading 
the other.  Having reached them, they stopped, while Emily and 
Annette were placed on horseback with their two protectors, when, 
Ludovico leading the way, they set off as fast as the broken road, 
and the feeble light, which a rising moon threw among the foliage, 
would permit.

Emily was so much astonished by this sudden departure, that she 
scarcely dared to believe herself awake; and she yet much doubted 
whether this adventure would terminate in escape,--a doubt, which had 
too much probability to justify it; for, before they quitted the 
woods, they heard shouts in the wind, and, on emerging from them, saw 
lights moving quickly near the castle above.  Du Pont whipped his 
horse, and with some difficulty compelled him to go faster.

'Ah! poor beast,' said Ludovico, 'he is weary enough;--he has been 
out all day; but, Signor, we must fly for it, now; for yonder are 
lights coming this way.'

Having given his own horse a lash, they now both set off on a full 
gallop; and, when they again looked back, the lights were so distant 
as scarcely to be discerned, and the voices were sunk into silence.  
The travellers then abated their pace, and, consulting whither they 
should direct their course, it was determined they should descend 
into Tuscany, and endeavour to reach the Mediterranean, where they 
could readily embark for France.  Thither Du Pont meant to attend 
Emily, if he should learn, that the regiment he had accompanied into 
Italy, was returned to his native country.

They were now in the road, which Emily had travelled with Ugo and 
Bertrand; but Ludovico, who was the only one of the party, acquainted 
with the passes of these mountains, said, that, a little further on, 
a bye-road, branching from this, would lead them down into Tuscany 
with very little difficulty; and that, at a few leagues distance, was 
a small town, where necessaries could be procured for their journey.

'But, I hope,' added he, 'we shall meet with no straggling parties of 
banditti; some of them are abroad, I know.  However, I have got a 
good trombone, which will be of some service, if we should encounter 
any of those brave spirits.  You have no arms, Signor?'  'Yes,' 
replied Du Pont, 'I have the villain's stilletto, who would have 
stabbed me--but let us rejoice in our escape from Udolpho, nor 
torment ourselves with looking out for dangers, that may never 
arrive.'

The moon was now risen high over the woods, that hung upon the sides 
of the narrow glen, through which they wandered, and afforded them 
light sufficient to distinguish their way, and to avoid the loose and 
broken stones, that frequently crossed it.  They now travelled 
leisurely, and in profound silence; for they had scarcely yet 
recovered from the astonishment, into which this sudden escape had 
thrown them.--Emily's mind, especially, was sunk, after the various 
emotions it had suffered, into a kind of musing stillness, which the 
reposing beauty of the surrounding scene and the creeping murmur of 
the night-breeze among the foliage above contributed to prolong.  She 
thought of Valancourt and of France, with hope, and she would have 
thought of them with joy, had not the first events of this evening 
harassed her spirits too much, to permit her now to feel so lively a 
sensation.  Meanwhile, Emily was alone the object of Du Pont's 
melancholy consideration; yet, with the despondency he suffered, as 
he mused on his recent disappointment, was mingled a sweet pleasure, 
occasioned by her presence, though they did not now exchange a single 
word.  Annette thought of this wonderful escape, of the bustle in 
which Montoni and his people must be, now that their flight was 
discovered; of her native country, whither she hoped she was 
returning, and of her marriage with Ludovico, to which there no 
longer appeared any impediment, for poverty she did not consider 
such.  Ludovico, on his part, congratulated himself, on having 
rescued his Annette and Signora Emily from the danger, that had 
surrounded them; on his own liberation from people, whose manners he 
had long detested; on the freedom he had given to Monsieur Du Pont; 
on his prospect of happiness with the object of his affections, and 
not a little on the address, with which he had deceived the sentinel, 
and conducted the whole of this affair.

Thus variously engaged in thought, the travellers passed on silently, 
for above an hour, a question only being, now and then, asked by Du 
Pont, concerning the road, or a remark uttered by Annette, respecting 
objects, seen imperfectly in the twilight.  At length, lights were 
perceived twinkling on the side of a mountain, and Ludovico had no 
doubt, that they proceeded from the town he had mentioned, while his 
companions, satisfied by this assurance, sunk again into silence.  
Annette was the first who interrupted this.  'Holy Peter!' said she, 
'What shall we do for money on our journey? for I know neither I, or 
my lady, have a single sequin; the Signor took care of that!'

This remark produced a serious enquiry, which ended in as serious an 
embarrassment, for Du Pont had been rifled of nearly all his money, 
when he was taken prisoner; the remainder he had given to the 
sentinel, who had enabled him occasionally to leave his prison-
chamber; and Ludovico, who had for some time found a difficulty, in 
procuring any part of the wages due to him, had now scarcely cash 
sufficient to procure necessary refreshment at the first town, in 
which they should arrive.

Their poverty was the more distressing, since it would detain them 
among the mountains, where, even in a town, they could scarcely 
consider themselves safe from Montoni.  The travellers, however, had 
only to proceed and dare the future; and they continued their way 
through lonely wilds and dusky vallies, where the overhanging foliage 
now admitted, and then excluded the moon-light;--wilds so desolate, 
that they appeared, on the first glance, as if no human being had 
ever trode them before.  Even the road, in which the party were, did 
but slightly contradict this error, for the high grass and other 
luxuriant vegetation, with which it was overgrown, told how very 
seldom the foot of a traveller had passed it.

At length, from a distance, was heard the faint tinkling of a sheep-
bell; and, soon after, the bleat of flocks, and the party then knew, 
that they were near some human habitation, for the light, which 
Ludovico had fancied to proceed from a town, had long been concealed 
by intervening mountains.  Cheered by this hope, they quickened their 
pace along the narrow pass they were winding, and it opened upon one 
of those pastoral vallies of the Apennines, which might be painted 
for a scene of Arcadia, and whose beauty and simplicity are finely 
contrasted by the grandeur of the snow-topt mountains above.

The morning light, now glimmering in the horizon, shewed faintly, at 
a little distance, upon the brow of a hill, which seemed to peep from 
'under the opening eye-lids of the morn,' the town they were in 
search of, and which they soon after reached.  It was not without 
some difficulty, that they there found a house, which could afford 
shelter for themselves and their horses; and Emily desired they might 
not rest longer than was necessary for refreshment.  Her appearance 
excited some surprise, for she was without a hat, having had time 
only to throw on her veil before she left the castle, a circumstance, 
that compelled her to regret again the want of money, without which 
it was impossible to procure this necessary article of dress.

Ludovico, on examining his purse, found it even insufficient to 
supply present refreshment, and Du Pont, at length, ventured to 
inform the landlord, whose countenance was simple and honest, of 
their exact situation, and requested, that he would assist them to 
pursue their journey; a purpose, which he promised to comply with, as 
far as he was able, when he learned that they were prisoners escaping 
from Montoni, whom he had too much reason to hate.  But, though he 
consented to lend them fresh horses to carry them to the next town, 
he was too poor himself to trust them with money, and they were again 
lamenting their poverty, when Ludovico, who had been with his tired 
horses to the hovel, which served for a stable, entered the room, 
half frantic with joy, in which his auditors soon participated.  On 
removing the saddle from one of the horses, he had found beneath it a 
small bag, containing, no doubt, the booty of one of the condottieri, 
who had returned from a plundering excursion, just before Ludovico 
left the castle, and whose horse having strayed from the inner court, 
while his master was engaged in drinking, had brought away the 
treasure, which the ruffian had considered the reward of his exploit.

On counting over this, Du Pont found, that it would be more than 
sufficient to carry them all to France, where he now determined to 
accompany Emily, whether he should obtain intelligence of his 
regiment, or not; for, though he had as much confidence in the 
integrity of Ludovico, as his small knowledge of him allowed, he 
could not endure the thought of committing her to his care for the 
voyage; nor, perhaps, had he resolution enough to deny himself the 
dangerous pleasure, which he might derive from her presence.

He now consulted them, concerning the sea-port, to which they should 
direct their way, and Ludovico, better informed of the geography of 
the country, said, that Leghorn was the nearest port of consequence, 
which Du Pont knew also to be the most likely of any in Italy to 
assist their plan, since from thence vessels of all nations were 
continually departing.  Thither, therefore, it was determined, that 
they should proceed.

Emily, having purchased a little straw hat, such as was worn by the 
peasant girls of Tuscany, and some other little necessary equipments 
for the journey, and the travellers, having exchanged their tired 
horses for others better able to carry them, re-commenced their 
joyous way, as the sun was rising over the mountains, and, after 
travelling through this romantic country, for several hours, began to 
descend into the vale of Arno.  And here Emily beheld all the charms 
of sylvan and pastoral landscape united, adorned with the elegant 
villas of the Florentine nobles, and diversified with the various 
riches of cultivation.  How vivid the shrubs, that embowered the 
slopes, with the woods, that stretched amphitheatrically along the 
mountains! and, above all, how elegant the outline of these waving 
Apennines, now softening from the wildness, which their interior 
regions exhibited!  At a distance, in the east, Emily discovered 
Florence, with its towers rising on the brilliant horizon, and its 
luxuriant plain, spreading to the feet of the Apennines, speckled 
with gardens and magnificent villas, or coloured with groves of 
orange and lemon, with vines, corn, and plantations of olives and 
mulberry; while, to the west, the vale opened to the waters of the 
Mediterranean, so distant, that they were known only by a blueish 
line, that appeared upon the horizon, and by the light marine vapour, 
which just stained the aether above.

With a full heart, Emily hailed the waves, that were to bear her back 
to her native country, the remembrance of which, however, brought 
with it a pang; for she had there no home to receive, no parents to 
welcome her, but was going, like a forlorn pilgrim, to weep over the 
sad spot, where he, who WAS her father, lay interred.  Nor were her 
spirits cheered, when she considered how long it would probably be 
before she should see Valancourt, who might be stationed with his 
regiment in a distant part of France, and that, when they did meet, 
it would be only to lament the successful villany of Montoni; yet, 
still she would have felt inexpressible delight at the thought of 
being once more in the same country with Valancourt, had it even been 
certain, that she could not see him.

The intense heat, for it was now noon, obliged the travellers to look 
out for a shady recess, where they might rest, for a few hours, and 
the neighbouring thickets, abounding with wild grapes, raspberries, 
and figs, promised them grateful refreshment.  Soon after, they 
turned from the road into a grove, whose thick foliage entirely 
excluded the sun-beams, and where a spring, gushing from the rock, 
gave coolness to the air; and, having alighted and turned the horses 
to graze, Annette and Ludovico ran to gather fruit from the 
surrounding thickets, of which they soon returned with an abundance.  
The travellers, seated under the shade of a pine and cypress grove 
and on turf, enriched with such a profusion of fragrant flowers, as 
Emily had scarcely ever seen, even among the Pyrenees, took their 
simple repast, and viewed, with new delight, beneath the dark umbrage 
of gigantic pines, the glowing landscape stretching to the sea.

Emily and Du Pont gradually became thoughtful and silent; but Annette 
was all joy and loquacity, and Ludovico was gay, without forgetting 
the respectful distance, which was due to his companions.  The repast 
being over, Du Pont recommended Emily to endeavour to sleep, during 
these sultry hours, and, desiring the servants would do the same, 
said he would watch the while; but Ludovico wished to spare him this 
trouble; and Emily and Annette, wearied with travelling, tried to 
repose, while he stood guard with his trombone.

When Emily, refreshed by slumber, awoke, she found the sentinel 
asleep on his post and Du Pont awake, but lost in melancholy thought.  
As the sun was yet too high to allow them to continue their journey, 
and as it was necessary, that Ludovico, after the toils and trouble 
he had suffered, should finish his sleep, Emily took this opportunity 
of enquiring by what accident Du Pont became Montoni's prisoner, and 
he, pleased with the interest this enquiry expressed and with the 
excuse it gave him for talking to her of himself, immediately 
answered her curiosity.

'I came into Italy, madam,' said Du Pont, 'in the service of my 
country.  In an adventure among the mountains our party, engaging 
with the bands of Montoni, was routed, and I, with a few of my 
comrades, was taken prisoner.  When they told me, whose captive I 
was, the name of Montoni struck me, for I remembered, that Madame 
Cheron, your aunt, had married an Italian of that name, and that you 
had accompanied them into Italy.  It was not, however, till some time 
after, that I became convinced this was the same Montoni, or learned 
that you, madam, was under the same roof with myself.  I will not 
pain you by describing what were my emotions upon this discovery, 
which I owed to a sentinel, whom I had so far won to my interest, 
that he granted me many indulgences, one of which was very important 
to me, and somewhat dangerous to himself; but he persisted in 
refusing to convey any letter, or notice of my situation to you, for 
he justly dreaded a discovery and the consequent vengeance of 
Montoni.  He however enabled me to see you more than once.  You are 
surprised, madam, and I will explain myself.  My health and spirits 
suffered extremely from want of air and exercise, and, at length, I 
gained so far upon the pity, or the avarice of the man, that he gave 
me the means of walking on the terrace.'

Emily now listened, with very anxious attention, to the narrative of 
Du Pont, who proceeded:

'In granting this indulgence, he knew, that he had nothing to 
apprehend from a chance of my escaping from a castle, which was 
vigilantly guarded, and the nearest terrace of which rose over a 
perpendicular rock; he shewed me also,' continued Du Pont, 'a door 
concealed in the cedar wainscot of the apartment where I was 
confined, which he instructed me how to open; and which, leading into 
a passage, formed within the thickness of the wall, that extended far 
along the castle, finally opened in an obscure corner of the eastern 
rampart.  I have since been informed, that there are many passages of 
the same kind concealed within the prodigious walls of that edifice, 
and which were, undoubtedly, contrived for the purpose of 
facilitating escapes in time of war.  Through this avenue, at the 
dead of night, I often stole to the terrace, where I walked with the 
utmost caution, lest my steps should betray me to the sentinels on 
duty in distant parts; for this end of it, being guarded by high 
buildings, was not watched by soldiers.  In one of these midnight 
wanderings, I saw light in a casement that overlooked the rampart, 
and which, I observed, was immediately over my prison-chamber.  It 
occurred to me, that you might be in that apartment, and, with the 
hope of seeing you, I placed myself opposite to the window.'

Emily, remembering the figure that had formerly appeared on the 
terrace, and which had occasioned her so much anxiety, exclaimed, 'It 
was you then, Monsieur Du Pont, who occasioned me much foolish 
terror; my spirits were, at that time, so much weakened by long 
suffering, that they took alarm at every hint.'  Du Pont, after 
lamenting, that he had occasioned her any apprehension, added, 'As I 
rested on the wall, opposite to your casement, the consideration of 
your melancholy situation and of my own called from me involuntary 
sounds of lamentation, which drew you, I fancy, to the casement; I 
saw there a person, whom I believed to be you.  O! I will say nothing 
of my emotion at that moment; I wished to speak, but prudence 
restrained me, till the distant foot-step of a sentinel compelled me 
suddenly to quit my station.

'It was some time, before I had another opportunity of walking, for I 
could only leave my prison, when it happened to be the turn of one 
man to guard me; meanwhile I became convinced from some circumstances 
related by him, that your apartment was over mine, and, when again I 
ventured forth, I returned to your casement, where again I saw you, 
but without daring to speak.  I waved my hand, and you suddenly 
disappeared; then it was, that I forgot my prudence, and yielded to 
lamentation; again you appeared--you spoke--I heard the well-known 
accent of your voice! and, at that moment, my discretion would have 
forsaken me again, had I not heard also the approaching steps of a 
soldier, when I instantly quitted the place, though not before the 
man had seen me.  He followed down the terrace and gained so fast 
upon me, that I was compelled to make use of a stratagem, ridiculous 
enough, to save myself.  I had heard of the superstition of many of 
these men, and I uttered a strange noise, with a hope, that my 
pursuer would mistake it for something supernatural, and desist from 
pursuit.  Luckily for myself I succeeded; the man, it seems, was 
subject to fits, and the terror he suffered threw him into one, by 
which accident I secured my retreat.  A sense of the danger I had 
escaped, and the increased watchfulness, which my appearance had 
occasioned among the sentinels, deterred me ever after from walking 
on the terrace; but, in the stillness of night, I frequently beguiled 
myself with an old lute, procured for me by a soldier, which I 
sometimes accompanied with my voice, and sometimes, I will 
acknowledge, with a hope of making myself heard by you; but it was 
only a few evenings ago, that this hope was answered.  I then thought 
I heard a voice in the wind, calling me; yet, even then I feared to 
reply, lest the sentinel at the prison door should hear me.  Was I 
right, madam, in this conjecture--was it you who spoke?'

'Yes,' said Emily, with an involuntary sigh, 'you was right indeed.'

Du Pont, observing the painful emotions, which this question revived, 
now changed the subject.  'In one of my excursions through the 
passage, which I have mentioned, I overheard a singular 
conversation,' said he.

'In the passage!' said Emily, with surprise.

'I heard it in the passage,' said Du Pont, 'but it proceeded from an 
apartment, adjoining the wall, within which the passage wound, and 
the shell of the wall was there so thin, and was also somewhat 
decayed, that I could distinctly hear every word, spoken on the other 
side.  It happened that Montoni and his companions were assembled in 
the room, and Montoni began to relate the extraordinary history of 
the lady, his predecessor, in the castle.  He did, indeed, mention 
some very surprising circumstances, and whether they were strictly 
true, his conscience must decide; I fear it will determine against 
him.  But you, madam, have doubtless heard the report, which he 
designs should circulate, on the subject of that lady's mysterious 
fate.'

'I have, sir,' replied Emily, 'and I perceive, that you doubt it.'

'I doubted it before the period I am speaking of,' rejoined Du Pont;-
-'but some circumstances, mentioned by Montoni, greatly contributed 
to my suspicions.  The account I then heard, almost convinced me, 
that he was a murderer.  I trembled for you;--the more so that I had 
heard the guests mention your name in a manner, that threatened your 
repose; and, knowing, that the most impious men are often the most 
superstitious, I determined to try whether I could not awaken their 
consciences, and awe them from the commission of the crime I dreaded.  
I listened closely to Montoni, and, in the most striking passages of 
his story, I joined my voice, and repeated his last words, in a 
disguised and hollow tone.'

'But was you not afraid of being discovered?' said Emily.

'I was not,' replied Du Pont; 'for I knew, that, if Montoni had been 
acquainted with the secret of this passage, he would not have 
confined me in the apartment, to which it led.  I knew also, from 
better authority, that he was ignorant of it.  The party, for some 
time, appeared inattentive to my voice; but, at length, were so much 
alarmed, that they quitted the apartment; and, having heard Montoni 
order his servants to search it, I returned to my prison, which was 
very distant from this part of the passage.'  'I remember perfectly 
to have heard of the conversation you mention,' said Emily; 'it 
spread a general alarm among Montoni's people, and I will own I was 
weak enough to partake of it.'

Monsieur Du Pont and Emily thus continued to converse of Montoni, and 
then of France, and of the plan of their voyage; when Emily told him, 
that it was her intention to retire to a convent in Languedoc, where 
she had been formerly treated with much kindness, and from thence to 
write to her relation Monsieur Quesnel, and inform him of her 
conduct.  There, she designed to wait, till La Vallee should again be 
her own, whither she hoped her income would some time permit her to 
return; for Du Pont now taught her to expect, that the estate, of 
which Montoni had attempted to defraud her, was not irrecoverably 
lost, and he again congratulated her on her escape from Montoni, who, 
he had not a doubt, meant to have detained her for life.  The 
possibility of recovering her aunt's estates for Valancourt and 
herself lighted up a joy in Emily's heart, such as she had not known 
for many months; but she endeavoured to conceal this from Monsieur Du 
Pont, lest it should lead him to a painful remembrance of his rival.

They continued to converse, till the sun was declining in the west, 
when Du Pont awoke Ludovico, and they set forward on their journey.  
Gradually descending the lower slopes of the valley, they reached the 
Arno, and wound along its pastoral margin, for many miles, delighted 
with the scenery around them, and with the remembrances, which its 
classic waves revived.  At a distance, they heard the gay song of the 
peasants among the vineyards, and observed the setting sun tint the 
waves with yellow lustre, and twilight draw a dusky purple over the 
mountains, which, at length, deepened into night.  Then the LUCCIOLA, 
the fire-fly of Tuscany, was seen to flash its sudden sparks among 
the foliage, while the cicala, with its shrill note, became more 
clamorous than even during the noon-day heat, loving best the hour 
when the English beetle, with less offensive sound,

     winds
 His small but sullen horn,
 As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
 Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum.*

(* Collins.  [A. R.])


The travellers crossed the Arno by moon-light, at a ferry, and, 
learning that Pisa was distant only a few miles down the river, they 
wished to have proceeded thither in a boat, but, as none could be 
procured, they set out on their wearied horses for that city.  As 
they approached it, the vale expanded into a plain, variegated with 
vineyards, corn, olives and mulberry groves; but it was late, before 
they reached its gates, where Emily was surprised to hear the busy 
sound of footsteps and the tones of musical instruments, as well as 
to see the lively groups, that filled the streets, and she almost 
fancied herself again at Venice; but here was no moon-light sea--no 
gay gondolas, dashing the waves,--no PALLADIAN palaces, to throw 
enchantment over the fancy and lead it into the wilds of fairy story.  
The Arno rolled through the town, but no music trembled from 
balconies over its waters; it gave only the busy voices of sailors on 
board vessels just arrived from the Mediterranean; the melancholy 
heaving of the anchor, and the shrill boatswain's whistle;--sounds, 
which, since that period, have there sunk almost into silence.  They 
then served to remind Du Pont, that it was probable he might hear of 
a vessel, sailing soon to France from this port, and thus be spared 
the trouble of going to Leghorn.  As soon as Emily had reached the 
inn, he went therefore to the quay, to make his enquiries; but, after 
all the endeavours of himself and Ludovico, they could hear of no 
bark, destined immediately for France, and the travellers returned to 
their resting-place.  Here also, Du Pont endeavoured to learn where 
his regiment then lay, but could acquire no information concerning 
it.  The travellers retired early to rest, after the fatigues of this 
day; and, on the following, rose early, and, without pausing to view 
the celebrated antiquities of the place, or the wonders of its 
hanging tower, pursued their journey in the cooler hours, through a 
charming country, rich with wine, and corn and oil.  The Apennines, 
no longer awful, or even grand, here softened into the beauty of 
sylvan and pastoral landscape; and Emily, as she descended them, 
looked down delighted on Leghorn, and its spacious bay, filled with 
vessels, and crowned with these beautiful hills.

She was no less surprised and amused, on entering this town, to find 
it crowded with persons in the dresses of all nations; a scene, which 
reminded her of a Venetian masquerade, such as she had witnessed at 
the time of the Carnival; but here, was bustle, without gaiety, and 
noise instead of music, while elegance was to be looked for only in 
the waving outlines of the surrounding hills.

Monsieur Du Pont, immediately on their arrival, went down to the 
quay, where he heard of several French vessels, and of one, that was 
to sail, in a few days, for Marseilles, from whence another vessel 
could be procured, without difficulty, to take them across the gulf 
of Lyons towards Narbonne, on the coast not many leagues from which 
city he understood the convent was seated, to which Emily wished to 
retire.  He, therefore, immediately engaged with the captain to take 
them to Marseilles, and Emily was delighted to hear, that her passage 
to France was secured.  Her mind was now relieved from the terror of 
pursuit, and the pleasing hope of soon seeing her native country--
that country which held Valancourt, restored to her spirits a degree 
of cheerfulness, such as she had scarcely known, since the death of 
her father.  At Leghorn also, Du Pont heard of his regiment, and that 
it had embarked for France; a circumstance, which gave him great 
satisfaction, for he could now accompany Emily thither, without 
reproach to his conscience, or apprehension of displeasure from his 
commander.  During these days, he scrupulously forbore to distress 
her by a mention of his passion, and she was compelled to esteem and 
pity, though she could not love him.  He endeavoured to amuse her by 
shewing the environs of the town, and they often walked together on 
the sea-shore, and on the busy quays, where Emily was frequently 
interested by the arrival and departure of vessels, participating in 
the joy of meeting friends, and, sometimes, shedding a sympathetic 
tear to the sorrow of those, that were separating.  It was after 
having witnessed a scene of the latter kind, that she arranged the 
following stanzas:

THE MARINER

 Soft came the breath of spring; smooth flow'd the tide;
 And blue the heaven in its mirror smil'd;
 The white sail trembled, swell'd, expanded wide,
 The busy sailors at the anchor toil'd.

 With anxious friends, that shed the parting tear,
 The deck was throng'd--how swift the moments fly!
 The vessel heaves, the farewel signs appear;
 Mute is each tongue, and eloquent each eye!

 The last dread moment comes!--The sailor-youth
 Hides the big drop, then smiles amid his pain,
 Sooths his sad bride, and vows eternal truth,
 'Farewel, my love--we shall--shall meet again!'

 Long on the stern, with waving hand, he stood;
 The crowded shore sinks, lessening, from his view,
 As gradual glides the bark along the flood;
 His bride is seen no more--'Adieu!--adieu!'

 The breeze of Eve moans low, her smile is o'er,
 Dim steals her twilight down the crimson'd west,
 He climbs the top-most mast, to seek once more
 The far-seen coast, where all his wishes rest.

 He views its dark line on the distant sky,
 And Fancy leads him to his little home,
 He sees his weeping love, he hears her sigh,
 He sooths her griefs, and tells of joys to come.

 Eve yields to night, the breeze to wintry gales,
 In one vast shade the seas and shores repose;
 He turns his aching eyes,--his spirit fails,
 The chill tear falls;--sad to the deck he goes!

 The storm of midnight swells, the sails are furl'd,
 Deep sounds the lead, but finds no friendly shore,
 Fast o'er the waves the wretched bark is hurl'd,
 'O Ellen, Ellen! we must meet no more!'

 Lightnings, that shew the vast and foamy deep,
 The rending thunders, as they onward roll,
 The loud, loud winds, that o'er the billows sweep--
 Shake the firm nerve, appall the bravest soul!

 Ah! what avails the seamen's toiling care!
 The straining cordage bursts, the mast is riv'n;
 The sounds of terror groan along the air,
 Then sink afar;--the bark on rocks is driv'n!

 Fierce o'er the wreck the whelming waters pass'd,
 The helpless crew sunk in the roaring main!
 Henry's faint accents trembled in the blast--
 'Farewel, my love!--we ne'er shall meet again!'

 Oft, at the calm and silent evening hour,
 When summer-breezes linger on the wave,
 A melancholy voice is heard to pour
 Its lonely sweetness o'er poor Henry's grave!

 And oft, at midnight, airy strains are heard
 Around the grove, where Ellen's form is laid;
 Nor is the dirge by village-maidens fear'd,
 For lovers' spirits guard the holy shade!



CHAPTER X


     Oh! the joy
 Of young ideas, painted on the mind
 In the warm glowing colours fancy spreads
 On objects not yet known, when all is new,
 And all is lovely!
     SACRED DRAMAS

We now return to Languedoc and to the mention of Count De Villefort, 
the nobleman, who succeeded to an estate of the Marquis De Villeroi 
situated near the monastery of St. Claire.  It may be recollected, 
that this chateau was uninhabited, when St. Aubert and his daughter 
were in the neighbourhood, and that the former was much affected on 
discovering himself to be so near Chateau-le-Blanc, a place, 
concerning which the good old La Voisin afterwards dropped some 
hints, that had alarmed Emily's curiosity.

It was in the year 1584, the beginning of that, in which St. Aubert 
died, that Francis Beauveau, Count De Villefort, came into possession 
of the mansion and extensive domain called Chateau-le-Blanc, situated 
in the province of Languedoc, on the shore of the Mediterranean.  
This estate, which, during some centuries, had belonged to his 
family, now descended to him, on the decease of his relative, the 
Marquis De Villeroi, who had been latterly a man of reserved manners 
and austere character; circumstances, which, together with the duties 
of his profession, that often called him into the field, had 
prevented any degree of intimacy with his cousin, the Count De 
Villefort.  For many years, they had known little of each other, and 
the Count received the first intelligence of his death, which 
happened in a distant part of France, together with the instruments, 
that gave him possession of the domain Chateau-le-Blanc; but it was 
not till the following year, that he determined to visit that estate, 
when he designed to pass the autumn there.  The scenes of Chateau-le-
Blanc often came to his remembrance, heightened by the touches, which 
a warm imagination gives to the recollection of early pleasures; for, 
many years before, in the life-time of the Marchioness, and at that 
age when the mind is particularly sensible to impressions of gaiety 
and delight, he had once visited this spot, and, though he had passed 
a long intervening period amidst the vexations and tumults of public 
affairs, which too frequently corrode the heart, and vitiate the 
taste, the shades of Languedoc and the grandeur of its distant 
scenery had never been remembered by him with indifference.

During many years, the chateau had been abandoned by the late 
Marquis, and, being inhabited only by an old steward and his wife, 
had been suffered to fall much into decay.  To superintend the 
repairs, that would be requisite to make it a comfortable residence, 
had been a principal motive with the Count for passing the autumnal 
months in Languedoc; and neither the remonstrances, or the tears of 
the Countess, for, on urgent occasions, she could weep, were powerful 
enough to overcome his determination.  She prepared, therefore, to 
obey the command, which she could not conquer, and to resign the gay 
assemblies of Paris,--where her beauty was generally unrivalled and 
won the applause, to which her wit had but feeble claim--for the 
twilight canopy of woods, the lonely grandeur of mountains and the 
solemnity of gothic halls and of long, long galleries, which echoed 
only the solitary step of a domestic, or the measured clink, that 
ascended from the great clock--the ancient monitor of the hall below.  
From these melancholy expectations she endeavoured to relieve her 
spirits by recollecting all that she had ever heard, concerning the 
joyous vintage of the plains of Languedoc; but there, alas! no airy 
forms would bound to the gay melody of Parisian dances, and a view of 
the rustic festivities of peasants could afford little pleasure to a 
heart, in which even the feelings of ordinary benevolence had long 
since decayed under the corruptions of luxury.

The Count had a son and a daughter, the children of a former 
marriage, who, he designed, should accompany him to the south of 
France; Henri, who was in his twentieth year, was in the French 
service; and Blanche, who was not yet eighteen, had been hitherto 
confined to the convent, where she had been placed immediately on her 
father's second marriage.  The present Countess, who had neither 
sufficient ability, or inclination, to superintend the education of 
her daughter-in-law, had advised this step, and the dread of superior 
beauty had since urged her to employ every art, that might prevail on 
the Count to prolong the period of Blanche's seclusion; it was, 
therefore, with extreme mortification, that she now understood he 
would no longer submit on this subject, yet it afforded her some 
consolation to consider, that, though the Lady Blanche would emerge 
from her convent, the shades of the country would, for some time, 
veil her beauty from the public eye.

On the morning, which commenced the journey, the postillions stopped 
at the convent, by the Count's order, to take up Blanche, whose heart 
beat with delight, at the prospect of novelty and freedom now before 
her.  As the time of her departure drew nigh, her impatience had 
increased, and the last night, during which she counted every note of 
every hour, had appeared the most tedious of any she had ever known.  
The morning light, at length, dawned; the matin-bell rang; she heard 
the nuns descending from their chambers, and she started from a 
sleepless pillow to welcome the day, which was to emancipate her from 
the severities of a cloister, and introduce her to a world, where 
pleasure was ever smiling, and goodness ever blessed--where, in 
short, nothing but pleasure and goodness reigned!  When the bell of 
the great gate rang, and the sound was followed by that of carriage 
wheels, she ran, with a palpitating heart, to her lattice, and, 
perceiving her father's carriage in the court below, danced, with 
airy steps, along the gallery, where she was met by a nun with a 
summons from the abbess.  In the next moment, she was in the parlour, 
and in the presence of the Countess who now appeared to her as an 
angel, that was to lead her into happiness.  But the emotions of the 
Countess, on beholding her, were not in unison with those of Blanche, 
who had never appeared so lovely as at this moment, when her 
countenance, animated by the lightning smile of joy, glowed with the 
beauty of happy innocence.

After conversing for a few minutes with the abbess, the Countess rose 
to go.  This was the moment, which Blanche had anticipated with such 
eager expectation, the summit from which she looked down upon the 
fairy-land of happiness, and surveyed all its enchantment; was it a 
moment, then, for tears of regret?  Yet it was so.  She turned, with 
an altered and dejected countenance, to her young companions, who 
were come to bid her farewell, and wept!  Even my lady abbess, so 
stately and so solemn, she saluted with a degree of sorrow, which, an 
hour before, she would have believed it impossible to feel, and which 
may be accounted for by considering how reluctantly we all part, even 
with unpleasing objects, when the separation is consciously for ever.  
Again, she kissed the poor nuns and then followed the Countess from 
that spot with tears, which she expected to leave only with smiles.

But the presence of her father and the variety of objects, on the 
road, soon engaged her attention, and dissipated the shade, which 
tender regret had thrown upon her spirits.  Inattentive to a 
conversation, which was passing between the Countess and a 
Mademoiselle Bearn, her friend, Blanche sat, lost in pleasing 
reverie, as she watched the clouds floating silently along the blue 
expanse, now veiling the sun and stretching their shadows along the 
distant scene, and then disclosing all his brightness.  The journey 
continued to give Blanche inexpressible delight, for new scenes of 
nature were every instant opening to her view, and her fancy became 
stored with gay and beautiful imagery.

It was on the evening of the seventh day, that the travellers came 
within view of Chateau-le-Blanc, the romantic beauty of whose 
situation strongly impressed the imagination of Blanche, who 
observed, with sublime astonishment, the Pyrenean mountains, which 
had been seen only at a distance during the day, now rising within a 
few leagues, with their wild cliffs and immense precipices, which the 
evening clouds, floating round them, now disclosed, and again veiled.  
The setting rays, that tinged their snowy summits with a roseate hue, 
touched their lower points with various colouring, while the blueish 
tint, that pervaded their shadowy recesses, gave the strength of 
contrast to the splendour of light.  The plains of Languedoc, 
blushing with the purple vine and diversified with groves of 
mulberry, almond and olives, spread far to the north and the east; to 
the south, appeared the Mediterranean, clear as crystal, and blue as 
the heavens it reflected, bearing on its bosom vessels, whose white 
sails caught the sun-beams, and gave animation to the scene.  On a 
high promontory, washed by the waters of the Mediterranean, stood her 
father's mansion, almost secluded from the eye by woods of 
intermingled pine, oak and chesnut, which crowned the eminence, and 
sloped towards the plains, on one side; while, on the other, they 
extended to a considerable distance along the sea-shores.

As Blanche drew nearer, the gothic features of this antient mansion 
successively appeared--first an embattled turret, rising above the 
trees--then the broken arch of an immense gate-way, retiring beyond 
them; and she almost fancied herself approaching a castle, such as is 
often celebrated in early story, where the knights look out from the 
battlements on some champion below, who, clothed in black armour, 
comes, with his companions, to rescue the fair lady of his love from 
the oppression of his rival; a sort of legends, to which she had once 
or twice obtained access in the library of her convent, that, like 
many others, belonging to the monks, was stored with these reliques 
of romantic fiction.

The carriages stopped at a gate, which led into the domain of the 
chateau, but which was now fastened; and the great bell, that had 
formerly served to announce the arrival of strangers, having long 
since fallen from its station, a servant climbed over a ruined part 
of the adjoining wall, to give notice to those within of the arrival 
of their lord.

As Blanche leaned from the coach window, she resigned herself to the 
sweet and gentle emotions, which the hour and the scenery awakened.  
The sun had now left the earth, and twilight began to darken the 
mountains; while the distant waters, reflecting the blush that still 
glowed in the west, appeared like a line of light, skirting the 
horizon.  The low murmur of waves, breaking on the shore, came in the 
breeze, and, now and then, the melancholy dashing of oars was feebly 
heard from a distance.  She was suffered to indulge her pensive mood, 
for the thoughts of the rest of the party were silently engaged upon 
the subjects of their several interests.  Meanwhile, the Countess, 
reflecting, with regret, upon the gay parties she had left at Paris, 
surveyed, with disgust, what she thought the gloomy woods and 
solitary wildness of the scene; and, shrinking from the prospect of 
being shut up in an old castle, was prepared to meet every object 
with displeasure.  The feelings of Henri were somewhat similar to 
those of the Countess; he gave a mournful sigh to the delights of the 
capital, and to the remembrance of a lady, who, he believed, had 
engaged his affections, and who had certainly fascinated his 
imagination; but the surrounding country, and the mode of life, on 
which he was entering, had, for him, at least, the charm of novelty, 
and his regret was softened by the gay expectations of youth.  The 
gates being at length unbarred, the carriage moved slowly on, under 
spreading chesnuts, that almost excluded the remains of day, 
following what had been formerly a road, but which now, overgrown 
with luxuriant vegetation, could be traced only by the boundary, 
formed by trees, on either side, and which wound for near half a mile 
among the woods, before it reached the chateau.  This was the very 
avenue that St. Aubert and Emily had formerly entered, on their first 
arrival in the neighbourhood, with the hope of finding a house, that 
would receive them, for the night, and had so abruptly quitted, on 
perceiving the wildness of the place, and a figure, which the 
postillion had fancied was a robber.

'What a dismal place is this!' exclaimed the Countess, as the 
carriage penetrated the deeper recesses of the woods.  'Surely, my 
lord, you do not mean to pass all the autumn in this barbarous spot!  
One ought to bring hither a cup of the waters of Lethe, that the 
remembrance of pleasanter scenes may not heighten, at least, the 
natural dreariness of these.'

'I shall be governed by circumstances, madam,' said the Count, 'this 
barbarous spot was inhabited by my ancestors.'

The carriage now stopped at the chateau, where, at the door of the 
great hall, appeared the old steward and the Parisian servants, who 
had been sent to prepare the chateau, waiting to receive their lord.  
Lady Blanche now perceived, that the edifice was not built entirely 
in the gothic style, but that it had additions of a more modern date; 
the large and gloomy hall, however, into which she now entered, was 
entirely gothic, and sumptuous tapestry, which it was now too dark to 
distinguish, hung upon the walls, and depictured scenes from some of 
the antient Provencal romances.  a vast gothic window, embroidered 
with CLEMATIS and eglantine, that ascended to the south, led the eye, 
now that the casements were thrown open, through this verdant shade, 
over a sloping lawn, to the tops of dark woods, that hung upon the 
brow of the promontory.  Beyond, appeared the waters of the 
Mediterranean, stretching far to the south, and to the east, where 
they were lost in the horizon; while, to the north-east, they were 
bounded by the luxuriant shores of Languedoc and Provence, enriched 
with wood, and gay with vines and sloping pastures; and, to the 
south-west, by the majestic Pyrenees, now fading from the eye, 
beneath the gradual gloom.

Blanche, as she crossed the hall, stopped a moment to observe this 
lovely prospect, which the evening twilight obscured, yet did not 
conceal.  But she was quickly awakened from the complacent delight, 
which this scene had diffused upon her mind, by the Countess, who, 
discontented with every object around, and impatient for refreshment 
and repose, hastened forward to a large parlour, whose cedar 
wainscot, narrow, pointed casements, and dark ceiling of carved 
cypress wood, gave it an aspect of peculiar gloom, which the dingy 
green velvet of the chairs and couches, fringed with tarnished gold, 
had once been designed to enliven.

While the Countess enquired for refreshment, the Count, attended by 
his son, went to look over some part of the chateau, and Lady Blanche 
reluctantly remained to witness the discontent and ill-humour of her 
step-mother.

'How long have you lived in this desolate place?' said her ladyship, 
to the old house keeper, who came to pay her duty.

'Above twenty years, your ladyship, on the next feast of St. Jerome.'

'How happened it, that you have lived here so long, and almost alone, 
too?  I understood, that the chateau had been shut up for some 
years?'

'Yes, madam, it was for many years after my late lord, the Count, 
went to the wars; but it is above twenty years, since I and my 
husband came into his service.  The place is so large, and has of 
late been so lonely, that we were lost in it, and, after some time, 
we went to live in a cottage at the end of the woods, near some of 
the tenants, and came to look after the chateau, every now and then.  
When my lord returned to France from the wars, he took a dislike to 
the place, and never came to live here again, and so he was satisfied 
with our remaining at the cottage.  Alas--alas! how the chateau is 
changed from what it once was!  What delight my late lady used to 
take in it!  I well remember when she came here a bride, and how fine 
it was.  Now, it has been neglected so long, and is gone into such 
decay!  I shall never see those days again!'

The Countess appearing to be somewhat offended by the thoughtless 
simplicity, with which the old woman regretted former times, Dorothee 
added--'But the chateau will now be inhabited, and cheerful again; 
not all the world could tempt me to live in it alone.'

'Well, the experiment will not be made, I believe,' said the 
Countess, displeased that her own silence had been unable to awe the 
loquacity of this rustic old housekeeper, now spared from further 
attendance by the entrance of the Count, who said he had been viewing 
part of the chateau, and found, that it would require considerable 
repairs and some alterations, before it would be perfectly 
comfortable, as a place of residence.  'I am sorry to hear it, my 
lord,' replied the Countess.  'And why sorry, madam?'  'Because the 
place will ill repay your trouble; and were it even a paradise, it 
would be insufferable at such a distance from Paris.'

The Count made no reply, but walked abruptly to a window.  'There are 
windows, my lord, but they neither admit entertainment, or light; 
they shew only a scene of savage nature.'

'I am at a loss, madam,' said the Count, 'to conjecture what you mean 
by savage nature.  Do those plains, or those woods, or that fine 
expanse of water, deserve the name?'

'Those mountains certainly do, my lord,' rejoined the Countess, 
pointing to the Pyrenees, 'and this chateau, though not a work of 
rude nature, is, to my taste, at least, one of savage art.'  The 
Count coloured highly.  'This place, madam, was the work of my 
ancestors,' said he, 'and you must allow me to say, that your present 
conversation discovers neither good taste, or good manners.'  
Blanche, now shocked at an altercation, which appeared to be 
increasing to a serious disagreement, rose to leave the room, when 
her mother's woman entered it; and the Countess, immediately desiring 
to be shewn to her own apartment, withdrew, attended by Mademoiselle 
Bearn.

Lady Blanche, it being not yet dark, took this opportunity of 
exploring new scenes, and, leaving the parlour, she passed from the 
hall into a wide gallery, whose walls were decorated by marble 
pilasters, which supported an arched roof, composed of a rich mosaic 
work.  Through a distant window, that seemed to terminate the 
gallery, were seen the purple clouds of evening and a landscape, 
whose features, thinly veiled in twilight, no longer appeared 
distinctly, but, blended into one grand mass, stretched to the 
horizon, coloured only with a tint of solemn grey.

The gallery terminated in a saloon, to which the window she had seen 
through an open door, belonged; but the increasing dusk permitted her 
only an imperfect view of this apartment, which seemed to be 
magnificent and of modern architecture; though it had been either 
suffered to fall into decay, or had never been properly finished.  
The windows, which were numerous and large, descended low, and 
afforded a very extensive, and what Blanche's fancy represented to 
be, a very lovely prospect; and she stood for some time, surveying 
the grey obscurity and depicturing imaginary woods and mountains, 
vallies and rivers, on this scene of night; her solemn sensations 
rather assisted, than interrupted, by the distant bark of a watch-
dog, and by the breeze, as it trembled upon the light foliage of the 
shrubs.  Now and then, appeared for a moment, among the woods, a 
cottage light; and, at length, was heard, afar off, the evening bell 
of a convent, dying on the air.  When she withdrew her thoughts from 
these subjects of fanciful delight, the gloom and silence of the 
saloon somewhat awed her; and, having sought the door of the gallery, 
and pursued, for a considerable time, a dark passage, she came to a 
hall, but one totally different from that she had formerly seen.  By 
the twilight, admitted through an open portico, she could just 
distinguish this apartment to be of very light and airy architecture, 
and that it was paved with white marble, pillars of which supported 
the roof, that rose into arches built in the Moorish style.  While 
Blanche stood on the steps of this portico, the moon rose over the 
sea, and gradually disclosed, in partial light, the beauties of the 
eminence, on which she stood, whence a lawn, now rude and overgrown 
with high grass, sloped to the woods, that, almost surrounding the 
chateau, extended in a grand sweep down the southern sides of the 
promontory to the very margin of the ocean.  Beyond the woods, on the 
north-side, appeared a long tract of the plains of Languedoc; and, to 
the east, the landscape she had before dimly seen, with the towers of 
a monastery, illumined by the moon, rising over dark groves.

The soft and shadowy tint, that overspread the scene, the waves, 
undulating in the moon-light, and their low and measured murmurs on 
the beach, were circumstances, that united to elevate the 
unaccustomed mind of Blanche to enthusiasm.

'And have I lived in this glorious world so long,' said she, 'and 
never till now beheld such a prospect--never experienced these 
delights!  Every peasant girl, on my father's domain, has viewed from 
her infancy the face of nature; has ranged, at liberty, her romantic 
wilds, while I have been shut in a cloister from the view of these 
beautiful appearances, which were designed to enchant all eyes, and 
awaken all hearts.  How can the poor nuns and friars feel the full 
fervour of devotion, if they never see the sun rise, or set?  Never, 
till this evening, did I know what true devotion is; for, never 
before did I see the sun sink below the vast earth!  To-morrow, for 
the first time in my life, I will see it rise.  O, who would live in 
Paris, to look upon black walls and dirty streets, when, in the 
country, they might gaze on the blue heavens, and all the green 
earth!'

This enthusiastic soliloquy was interrupted by a rustling noise in 
the hall; and, while the loneliness of the place made her sensible to 
fear, she thought she perceived something moving between the pillars.  
For a moment, she continued silently observing it, till, ashamed of 
her ridiculous apprehensions, she recollected courage enough to 
demand who was there.  'O my young lady, is it you?' said the old 
housekeeper, who was come to shut the windows, 'I am glad it is you.'  
The manner, in which she spoke this, with a faint breath, rather 
surprised Blanche, who said, 'You seemed frightened, Dorothee, what 
is the matter?'

'No, not frightened, ma'amselle,' replied Dorothee, hesitating and 
trying to appear composed, 'but I am old, and--a little matter 
startles me.'  The Lady Blanche smiled at the distinction.  'I am 
glad, that my lord the Count is come to live at the chateau, 
ma'amselle,' continued Dorothee, 'for it has been many a year 
deserted, and dreary enough; now, the place will look a little as it 
used to do, when my poor lady was alive.'  Blanche enquired how long 
it was, since the Marchioness died?  'Alas! my lady,' replied 
Dorothee, 'so long--that I have ceased to count the years!  The 
place, to my mind, has mourned ever since, and I am sure my lord's 
vassals have!  But you have lost yourself, ma'amselle,--shall I shew 
you to the other side of the chateau?'

Blanche enquired how long this part of the edifice had been built.  
'Soon after my lord's marriage, ma'am,' replied Dorothee.  'The place 
was large enough without this addition, for many rooms of the old 
building were even then never made use of, and my lord had a princely 
household too; but he thought the antient mansion gloomy, and gloomy 
enough it is!'  Lady Blanche now desired to be shewn to the inhabited 
part of the chateau; and, as the passages were entirely dark, 
Dorothee conducted her along the edge of the lawn to the opposite 
side of the edifice, where, a door opening into the great hall, she 
was met by Mademoiselle Bearn.  'Where have you been so long?' said 
she, 'I had begun to think some wonderful adventure had befallen you, 
and that the giant of this enchanted castle, or the ghost, which, no 
doubt, haunts it, had conveyed you through a trap-door into some 
subterranean vault, whence you was never to return.'

'No,' replied Blanche, laughingly, 'you seem to love adventures so 
well, that I leave them for you to achieve.'

'Well, I am willing to achieve them, provided I am allowed to 
describe them.'

'My dear Mademoiselle Bearn,' said Henri, as he met her at the door 
of the parlour, 'no ghost of these days would be so savage as to 
impose silence on you.  Our ghosts are more civilized than to condemn 
a lady to a purgatory severer even, than their own, be it what it 
may.'

Mademoiselle Bearn replied only by a laugh; and, the Count now 
entering the room, supper was served, during which he spoke little, 
frequently appeared to be abstracted from the company, and more than 
once remarked, that the place was greatly altered, since he had last 
seen it.  'Many years have intervened since that period,' said he; 
'and, though the grand features of the scenery admit of no change, 
they impress me with sensations very different from those I formerly 
experienced.'

'Did these scenes, sir,' said Blanche, 'ever appear more lovely, than 
they do now?  To me this seems hardly possible.'  The Count, 
regarding her with a melancholy smile, said, 'They once were as 
delightful to me, as they are now to you; the landscape is not 
changed, but time has changed me; from my mind the illusion, which 
gave spirit to the colouring of nature, is fading fast!  If you live, 
my dear Blanche, to re-visit this spot, at the distance of many 
years, you will, perhaps, remember and understand the feelings of 
your father.'

Lady Blanche, affected by these words, remained silent; she looked 
forward to the period, which the Count anticipated, and considering, 
that he, who now spoke, would then probably be no more, her eyes, 
bent to the ground, were filed with tears.  She gave her hand to her 
father, who, smiling affectionately, rose from his chair, and went to 
a window to conceal his emotion.

The fatigues of the day made the party separate at an early hour, 
when Blanche retired through a long oak gallery to her chamber, whose 
spacious and lofty walls, high antiquated casements, and, what was 
the effect of these, its gloomy air, did not reconcile her to its 
remote situation, in this antient building.  The furniture, also, was 
of antient date; the bed was of blue damask, trimmed with tarnished 
gold lace, and its lofty tester rose in the form of a canopy, whence 
the curtains descended, like those of such tents as are sometimes 
represented in old pictures, and, indeed, much resembling those, 
exhibited on the faded tapestry, with which the chamber was hung.  To 
Blanche, every object here was matter of curiosity; and, taking the 
light from her woman to examine the tapestry, she perceived, that it 
represented scenes from the wars of Troy, though the almost 
colourless worsted now mocked the glowing actions they once had 
painted.  She laughed at the ludicrous absurdity she observed, till, 
recollecting, that the hands, which had wove it, were, like the poet, 
whose thoughts of fire they had attempted to express, long since 
mouldered into dust, a train of melancholy ideas passed over her 
mind, and she almost wept.

Having given her woman a strict injunction to awaken her, before sun-
rise, she dismissed her; and then, to dissipate the gloom, which 
reflection had cast upon her spirits, opened one of the high 
casements, and was again cheered by the face of living nature.  The 
shadowy earth, the air, and ocean--all was still.  Along the deep 
serene of the heavens, a few light clouds floated slowly, through 
whose skirts the stars now seemed to tremble, and now to emerge with 
purer splendour.  Blanche's thoughts arose involuntarily to the Great 
Author of the sublime objects she contemplated, and she breathed a 
prayer of finer devotion, than any she had ever uttered beneath the 
vaulted roof of a cloister.  At this casement, she remained till the 
glooms of midnight were stretched over the prospect.  She then 
retired to her pillow, and, 'with gay visions of to-morrow,' to those 
sweet slumbers, which health and happy innocence only know.

  To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.



CHAPTER XI


     What transport to retrace our early plays,
 Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supplied
 The woods, the mountains and the warbling maze
 Of the wild brooks!
     THOMSON

Blanche's slumbers continued, till long after the hour, which she had 
so impatiently anticipated, for her woman, fatigued with travelling, 
did not call her, till breakfast was nearly ready.  Her 
disappointment, however, was instantly forgotten, when, on opening 
the casement, she saw, on one hand, the wide sea sparkling in the 
morning rays, with its stealing sails and glancing oars; and, on the 
other, the fresh woods, the plains far-stretching and the blue 
mountains, all glowing with the splendour of day.

As she inspired the pure breeze, health spread a deeper blush upon 
her countenance, and pleasure danced in her eyes.

'Who could first invent convents!' said she, 'and who could first 
persuade people to go into them? and to make religion a pretence, 
too, where all that should inspire it, is so carefully shut out!  God 
is best pleased with the homage of a grateful heart, and, when we 
view his glories, we feel most grateful.  I never felt so much 
devotion, during the many dull years I was in the convent, as I have 
done in the few hours, that I have been here, where I need only look 
on all around me--to adore God in my inmost heart!'

Saying this, she left the window, bounded along the gallery, and, in 
the next moment, was in the breakfast room, where the Count was 
already seated.  The cheerfulness of a bright sunshine had dispersed 
the melancholy glooms of his reflections, a pleasant smile was on his 
countenance, and he spoke in an enlivening voice to Blanche, whose 
heart echoed back the tones.  Henri and, soon after, the Countess 
with Mademoiselle Bearn appeared, and the whole party seemed to 
acknowledge the influence of the scene; even the Countess was so much 
re-animated as to receive the civilities of her husband with 
complacency, and but once forgot her good-humour, which was when she 
asked whether they had any neighbours, who were likely to make THIS 
BARBAROUS SPOT more tolerable, and whether the Count believed it 
possible for her to exist here, without some amusement?

Soon after breakfast the party dispersed; the Count, ordering his 
steward to attend him in the library, went to survey the condition of 
his premises, and to visit some of his tenants; Henri hastened with 
alacrity to the shore to examine a boat, that was to bear them on a 
little voyage in the evening and to superintend the adjustment of a 
silk awning; while the Countess, attended by Mademoiselle Bearn, 
retired to an apartment on the modern side of the chateau, which was 
fitted up with airy elegance; and, as the windows opened upon 
balconies, that fronted the sea, she was there saved from a view of 
the HORRID Pyrenees.  Here, while she reclined on a sofa, and, 
casting her languid eyes over the ocean, which appeared beyond the 
wood-tops, indulged in the luxuries of ENNUI, her companion read 
aloud a sentimental novel, on some fashionable system of philosophy, 
for the Countess was herself somewhat of a PHILOSOPHER, especially as 
to INFIDELITY, and among a certain circle her opinions were waited 
for with impatience, and received as doctrines.

The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, hastened to indulge, amidst the wild 
wood-walks around the chateau, her new enthusiasm, where, as she 
wandered under the shades, her gay spirits gradually yielded to 
pensive complacency.  Now, she moved with solemn steps, beneath the 
gloom of thickly interwoven branches, where the fresh dew still hung 
upon every flower, that peeped from among the grass; and now tripped 
sportively along the path, on which the sunbeams darted and the 
checquered foliage trembled--where the tender greens of the beech, 
the acacia and the mountain-ash, mingling with the solemn tints of 
the cedar, the pine and cypress, exhibited as fine a contrast of 
colouring, as the majestic oak and oriental plane did of form, to the 
feathery lightness of the cork tree and the waving grace of the 
poplar.

Having reached a rustic seat, within a deep recess of the woods, she 
rested awhile, and, as her eyes caught, through a distant opening, a 
glimpse of the blue waters of the Mediterranean, with the white sail, 
gliding on its bosom, or of the broad mountain, glowing beneath the 
mid-day sun, her mind experienced somewhat of that exquisite delight, 
which awakens the fancy, and leads to poetry.  The hum of bees alone 
broke the stillness around her, as, with other insects of various 
hues, they sported gaily in the shade, or sipped sweets from the 
fresh flowers:  and, while Blanche watched a butter-fly, flitting 
from bud to bud, she indulged herself in imagining the pleasures of 
its short day, till she had composed the following stanzas.

  THE BUTTER-FLY TO HIS LOVE

 What bowery dell, with fragrant breath,
 Courts thee to stay thy airy flight;
 Nor seek again the purple heath,
 So oft the scene of gay delight?

 Long I've watch'd i' the lily's bell,
 Whose whiteness stole the morning's beam;
 No fluttering sounds thy coming tell,
 No waving wings, at distance, gleam.

 But fountain fresh, nor breathing grove,
 Nor sunny mead, nor blossom'd tree,
 So sweet as lily's cell shall prove,--
 The bower of constant love and me.

 When April buds begin to blow,
 The prim-rose, and the hare-bell blue,
 That on the verdant moss bank grow,
 With violet cups, that weep in dew;

 When wanton gales breathe through the shade,
 And shake the blooms, and steal their sweets,
 And swell the song of ev'ry glade,
 I range the forest's green retreats:

 There, through the tangled wood-walks play,
 Where no rude urchin paces near,
 Where sparely peeps the sultry day,
 And light dews freshen all the air.

 High on a sun-beam oft I sport
 O'er bower and fountain, vale and hill;
 Oft ev'ry blushing flow'ret court,
 That hangs its head o'er winding rill.

 But these I'll leave to be thy guide,
 And shew thee, where the jasmine spreads
 Her snowy leaf, where may-flow'rs hide,
 And rose-buds rear their peeping heads.

 With me the mountain's summit scale,
 And taste the wild-thyme's honied bloom,
 Whose fragrance, floating on the gale,
 Oft leads me to the cedar's gloom.

 Yet, yet, no sound comes in the breeze!
 What shade thus dares to tempt thy stay?
 Once, me alone thou wish'd to please,
 And with me only thou wouldst stray.

 But, while thy long delay I mourn,
 And chide the sweet shades for their guile,
 Thou may'st be true, and they forlorn,
 And fairy favours court thy smile.

 The tiny queen of fairy-land,
 Who knows thy speed, hath sent thee far,
 To bring, or ere the night-watch stand,
 Rich essence for her shadowy car:

 Perchance her acorn-cups to fill
 With nectar from the Indian rose,
 Or gather, near some haunted rill,
 May-dews, that lull to sleep Love's woes:

 Or, o'er the mountains, bade thee fly,
 To tell her fairy love to speed,
 When ev'ning steals upon the sky,
 To dance along the twilight mead.

 But now I see thee sailing low,
 Gay as the brightest flow'rs of spring,
 Thy coat of blue and jet I know,
 And well thy gold and purple wing.

 Borne on the gale, thou com'st to me;
 O! welcome, welcome to my home!
 In lily's cell we'll live in glee,
 Together o'er the mountains roam!

When Lady Blanche returned to the chateau, instead of going to the 
apartment of the Countess, she amused herself with wandering over 
that part of the edifice, which she had not yet examined, of which 
the most antient first attracted her curiosity; for, though what she 
had seen of the modern was gay and elegant, there was something in 
the former more interesting to her imagination.  Having passed up the 
great stair-case, and through the oak gallery, she entered upon a 
long suite of chambers, whose walls were either hung with tapestry, 
or wainscoted with cedar, the furniture of which looked almost as 
antient as the rooms themselves; the spacious fire-places, where no 
mark of social cheer remained, presented an image of cold desolation; 
and the whole suite had so much the air of neglect and desertion, 
that it seemed, as if the venerable persons, whose portraits hung 
upon the walls, had been the last to inhabit them.

On leaving these rooms, she found herself in another gallery, one end 
of which was terminated by a back stair-case, and the other by a 
door, that seemed to communicate with the north-side of the chateau, 
but which being fastened, she descended the stair-case, and, opening 
a door in the wall, a few steps down, found herself in a small square 
room, that formed part of the west turret of the castle.  Three 
windows presented each a separate and beautiful prospect; that to the 
north, overlooking Languedoc; another to the west, the hills 
ascending towards the Pyrenees, whose awful summits crowned the 
landscape; and a third, fronting the south, gave the Mediterranean, 
and a part of the wild shores of Rousillon, to the eye.

Having left the turret, and descended the narrow stair-case, she 
found herself in a dusky passage, where she wandered, unable to find 
her way, till impatience yielded to apprehension, and she called for 
assistance.  Presently steps approached, and light glimmered through 
a door at the other extremity of the passage, which was opened with 
caution by some person, who did not venture beyond it, and whom 
Blanche observed in silence, till the door was closing, when she 
called aloud, and, hastening towards it, perceived the old 
housekeeper.  'Dear ma'amselle! is it you?' said Dorothee, 'How could 
you find your way hither?'  Had Blanche been less occupied by her own 
fears, she would probably have observed the strong expressions of 
terror and surprise on Dorothee's countenance, who now led her 
through a long succession of passages and rooms, that looked as if 
they had been uninhabited for a century, till they reached that 
appropriated to the housekeeper, where Dorothee entreated she would 
sit down and take refreshment.  Blanche accepted the sweet meats, 
offered to her, mentioned her discovery of the pleasant turret, and 
her wish to appropriate it to her own use.  Whether Dorothee's taste 
was not so sensible to the beauties of landscape as her young lady's, 
or that the constant view of lovely scenery had deadened it, she 
forbore to praise the subject of Blanche's enthusiasm, which, 
however, her silence did not repress.  To Lady Blanche's enquiry of 
whither the door she had found fastened at the end of the gallery 
led, she replied, that it opened to a suite of rooms, which had not 
been entered, during many years, 'For,' added she, 'my late lady died 
in one of them, and I could never find in my heart to go into them 
since.'

Blanche, though she wished to see these chambers, forbore, on 
observing that Dorothee's eyes were filled with tears, to ask her to 
unlock them, and, soon after, went to dress for dinner, at which the 
whole party met in good spirits and good humour, except the Countess, 
whose vacant mind, overcome by the languor of idleness, would neither 
suffer her to be happy herself, or to contribute to the happiness of 
others.  Mademoiselle Bearn, attempting to be witty, directed her 
badinage against Henri, who answered, because he could not well avoid 
it, rather than from any inclination to notice her, whose liveliness 
sometimes amused, but whose conceit and insensibility often disgusted 
him.

The cheerfulness, with which Blanche rejoined the party, vanished, on 
her reaching the margin of the sea; she gazed with apprehension upon 
the immense expanse of waters, which, at a distance, she had beheld 
only with delight and astonishment, and it was by a strong effort, 
that she so far overcame her fears as to follow her father into the 
boat.

As she silently surveyed the vast horizon, bending round the distant 
verge of the ocean, an emotion of sublimest rapture struggled to 
overcome a sense of personal danger.  A light breeze played on the 
water, and on the silk awning of the boat, and waved the foliage of 
the receding woods, that crowned the cliffs, for many miles, and 
which the Count surveyed with the pride of conscious property, as 
well as with the eye of taste.

At some distance, among these woods, stood a pavilion, which had once 
been the scene of social gaiety, and which its situation still made 
one of romantic beauty.  Thither, the Count had ordered coffee and 
other refreshment to be carried, and thither the sailors now steered 
their course, following the windings of the shore round many a woody 
promontory and circling bay; while the pensive tones of horns and 
other wind instruments, played by the attendants in a distant boat, 
echoed among the rocks, and died along the waves.  Blanche had now 
subdued her fears; a delightful tranquillity stole over her mind, and 
held her in silence; and she was too happy even to remember the 
convent, or her former sorrows, as subjects of comparison with her 
present felicity.

The Countess felt less unhappy than she had done, since the moment of 
her leaving Paris; for her mind was now under some degree of 
restraint; she feared to indulge its wayward humours, and even wished 
to recover the Count's good opinion.  On his family, and on the 
surrounding scene, he looked with tempered pleasure and benevolent 
satisfaction, while his son exhibited the gay spirits of youth, 
anticipating new delights, and regretless of those, that were passed.

After near an hour's rowing, the party landed, and ascended a little 
path, overgrown with vegetation.  At a little distance from the point 
of the eminence, within the shadowy recess of the woods, appeared the 
pavilion, which Blanche perceived, as she caught a glimpse of its 
portico between the trees, to be built of variegated marble.  As she 
followed the Countess, she often turned her eyes with rapture towards 
the ocean, seen beneath the dark foliage, far below, and from thence 
upon the deep woods, whose silence and impenetrable gloom awakened 
emotions more solemn, but scarcely less delightful.

The pavilion had been prepared, as far as was possible, on a very 
short notice, for the reception of its visitors; but the faded 
colours of its painted walls and ceiling, and the decayed drapery of 
its once magnificent furniture, declared how long it had been 
neglected, and abandoned to the empire of the changing seasons.  
While the party partook of a collation of fruit and coffee, the 
horns, placed in a distant part of the woods, where an echo sweetened 
and prolonged their melancholy tones, broke softly on the stillness 
of the scene.  This spot seemed to attract even the admiration of the 
Countess, or, perhaps, it was merely the pleasure of planning 
furniture and decorations, that made her dwell so long on the 
necessity of repairing and adorning it; while the Count, never 
happier than when he saw her mind engaged by natural and simple 
objects, acquiesced in all her designs, concerning the pavilion.  The 
paintings on the walls and coved ceiling were to be renewed, the 
canopies and sofas were to be of light green damask; marble statues 
of wood-nymphs, bearing on their heads baskets of living flowers, 
were to adorn the recesses between the windows, which, descending to 
the ground, were to admit to every part of the room, and it was of 
octagonal form, the various landscape.  One window opened upon a 
romantic glade, where the eye roved among the woody recesses, and the 
scene was bounded only by a lengthened pomp of groves; from another, 
the woods receding disclosed the distant summits of the Pyrenees; a 
third fronted an avenue, beyond which the grey towers of Chateau-le-
Blanc, and a picturesque part of its ruin were seen partially among 
the foliage; while a fourth gave, between the trees, a glimpse of the 
green pastures and villages, that diversify the banks of the Aude.  
The Mediterranean, with the bold cliffs, that overlooked its shores, 
were the grand objects of a fifth window, and the others gave, in 
different points of view, the wild scenery of the woods.

After wandering, for some time, in these, the party returned to the 
shore and embarked; and, the beauty of the evening tempting them to 
extend their excursion, they proceeded further up the bay.  A dead 
calm had succeeded the light breeze, that wafted them hither, and the 
men took to their oars.  Around, the waters were spread into one vast 
expanse of polished mirror, reflecting the grey cliffs and feathery 
woods, that over-hung its surface, the glow of the western horizon 
and the dark clouds, that came slowly from the east.  Blanche loved 
to see the dipping oars imprint the water, and to watch the spreading 
circles they left, which gave a tremulous motion to the reflected 
landscape, without destroying the harmony of its features.

Above the darkness of the woods, her eye now caught a cluster of high 
towers, touched with the splendour of the setting rays; and, soon 
after, the horns being then silent, she heard the faint swell of 
choral voices from a distance.

'What voices are those, upon the air?' said the Count, looking round, 
and listening; but the strain had ceased.  'It seemed to be a vesper-
hymn, which I have often heard in my convent,' said Blanche.

'We are near the monastery, then,' observed the Count; and, the boat 
soon after doubling a lofty head-land, the monastery of St. Claire 
appeared, seated near the margin of the sea, where the cliffs, 
suddenly sinking, formed a low shore within a small bay, almost 
encircled with woods, among which partial features of the edifice 
were seen;--the great gate and gothic window of the hall, the 
cloisters and the side of a chapel more remote; while a venerable 
arch, which had once led to a part of the fabric, now demolished, 
stood a majestic ruin detached from the main building, beyond which 
appeared a grand perspective of the woods.  On the grey walls, the 
moss had fastened, and, round the pointed windows of the chapel, the 
ivy and the briony hung in many a fantastic wreath.

All without was silent and forsaken; but, while Blanche gazed with 
admiration on this venerable pile, whose effect was heightened by the 
strong lights and shadows thrown athwart it by a cloudy sun-set, a 
sound of many voices, slowly chanting, arose from within.  The Count 
bade his men rest on their oars.  The monks were singing the hymn of 
vespers, and some female voices mingled with the strain, which rose 
by soft degrees, till the high organ and the choral sounds swelled 
into full and solemn harmony.  The strain, soon after, dropped into 
sudden silence, and was renewed in a low and still more solemn key, 
till, at length, the holy chorus died away, and was heard no more.--
Blanche sighed, tears trembled in her eyes, and her thoughts seemed 
wafted with the sounds to heaven.  While a rapt stillness prevailed 
in the boat, a train of friars, and then of nuns, veiled in white, 
issued from the cloisters, and passed, under the shade of the woods, 
to the main body of the edifice.

The Countess was the first of her party to awaken from this pause of 
silence.

'These dismal hymns and friars make one quite melancholy,' said she; 
'twilight is coming on; pray let us return, or it will be dark before 
we get home.'

The count, looking up, now perceived, that the twilight of evening 
was anticipated by an approaching storm.  In the east a tempest was 
collecting; a heavy gloom came on, opposing and contrasting the 
glowing splendour of the setting sun.  The clamorous sea-fowl skimmed 
in fleet circles upon the surface of the sea, dipping their light 
pinions in the wave, as they fled away in search of shelter.  The 
boatmen pulled hard at their oars; but the thunder, that now muttered 
at a distance, and the heavy drops, that began to dimple the water, 
made the Count determine to put back to the monastery for shelter, 
and the course of the boat was immediately changed.  As the clouds 
approached the west, their lurid darkness changed to a deep ruddy 
glow, which, by reflection, seemed to fire the tops of the woods and 
the shattered towers of the monastery.

The appearance of the heavens alarmed the Countess and Mademoiselle 
Bearn, whose expressions of apprehension distressed the Count, and 
perplexed his men; while Blanche continued silent, now agitated with 
fear, and now with admiration, as she viewed the grandeur of the 
clouds, and their effect on the scenery, and listened to the long, 
long peals of thunder, that rolled through the air.

The boat having reached the lawn before the monastery, the Count sent 
a servant to announce his arrival, and to entreat shelter of the 
Superior, who, soon after, appeared at the great gate, attended by 
several monks, while the servant returned with a message, expressive 
at once of hospitality and pride, but of pride disguised in 
submission.  The party immediately disembarked, and, having hastily 
crossed the lawn--for the shower was now heavy--were received at the 
gate by the Superior, who, as they entered, stretched forth his hands 
and gave his blessing; and they passed into the great hall, where the 
lady abbess waited, attended by several nuns, clothed, like herself, 
in black, and veiled in white.  The veil of the abbess was, however, 
thrown half back, and discovered a countenance, whose chaste dignity 
was sweetened by the smile of welcome, with which she addressed the 
Countess, whom she led, with Blanche and Mademoiselle Bearn, into the 
convent parlour, while the Count and Henri were conducted by the 
Superior to the refectory.

The Countess, fatigued and discontented, received the politeness of 
the abbess with careless haughtiness, and had followed her, with 
indolent steps, to the parlour, over which the painted casements and 
wainscot of larch-wood threw, at all times, a melancholy shade, and 
where the gloom of evening now loured almost to darkness.

While the lady abbess ordered refreshment, and conversed with the 
Countess, Blanche withdrew to a window, the lower panes of which, 
being without painting, allowed her to observe the progress of the 
storm over the Mediterranean, whose dark waves, that had so lately 
slept, now came boldly swelling, in long succession, to the shore, 
where they burst in white foam, and threw up a high spray over the 
rocks.  A red sulphureous tint overspread the long line of clouds, 
that hung above the western horizon, beneath whose dark skirts the 
sun looking out, illumined the distant shores of Languedoc, as well 
as the tufted summits of the nearer woods, and shed a partial gleam 
on the western waves.  The rest of the scene was in deep gloom, 
except where a sun-beam, darting between the clouds, glanced on the 
white wings of the sea-fowl, that circled high among them, or touched 
the swelling sail of a vessel, which was seen labouring in the storm.  
Blanche, for some time, anxiously watched the progress of the bark, 
as it threw the waves in foam around it, and, as the lightnings 
flashed, looked to the opening heavens, with many a sigh for the fate 
of the poor mariners.

The sun, at length, set, and the heavy clouds, which had long 
impended, dropped over the splendour of his course; the vessel, 
however, was yet dimly seen, and Blanche continued to observe it, 
till the quick succession of flashes, lighting up the gloom of the 
whole horizon, warned her to retire from the window, and she joined 
the Abbess, who, having exhausted all her topics of conversation with 
the Countess, had now leisure to notice her.

But their discourse was interrupted by tremendous peals of thunder; 
and the bell of the monastery soon after ringing out, summoned the 
inhabitants to prayer.  As Blanche passed the window, she gave 
another look to the ocean, where, by the momentary flash, that 
illumined the vast body of the waters, she distinguished the vessel 
she had observed before, amidst a sea of foam, breaking the billows, 
the mast now bowing to the waves, and then rising high in air.

She sighed fervently as she gazed, and then followed the Lady Abbess 
and the Countess to the chapel.  Meanwhile, some of the Count's 
servants, having gone by land to the chateau for carriages, returned 
soon after vespers had concluded, when, the storm being somewhat 
abated, the Count and his family returned home.  Blanche was 
surprised to discover how much the windings of the shore had deceived 
her, concerning the distance of the chateau from the monastery, whose 
vesper bell she had heard, on the preceding evening, from the windows 
of the west saloon, and whose towers she would also have seen from 
thence, had not twilight veiled them.

On their arrival at the chateau, the Countess, affecting more 
fatigue, than she really felt, withdrew to her apartment, and the 
Count, with his daughter and Henri, went to the supper-room, where 
they had not been long, when they heard, in a pause of the gust, a 
firing of guns, which the Count understanding to be signals of 
distress from some vessel in the storm, went to a window, that opened 
towards the Mediterranean, to observe further; but the sea was now 
involved in utter darkness, and the loud howlings of the tempest had 
again overcome every other sound.  Blanche, remembering the bark, 
which she had before seen, now joined her father, with trembling 
anxiety.  In a few moments, the report of guns was again borne along 
the wind, and as suddenly wafted away; a tremendous burst of thunder 
followed, and, in the flash, that had preceded it, and which seemed 
to quiver over the whole surface of the waters, a vessel was 
discovered, tossing amidst the white foam of the waves at some 
distance from the shore.  Impenetrable darkness again involved the 
scene, but soon a second flash shewed the bark, with one sail 
unfurled, driving towards the coast.  Blanche hung upon her father's 
arm, with looks full of the agony of united terror and pity, which 
were unnecessary to awaken the heart of the Count, who gazed upon the 
sea with a piteous expression, and, perceiving, that no boat could 
live in the storm, forbore to send one; but he gave orders to his 
people to carry torches out upon the cliffs, hoping they might prove 
a kind of beacon to the vessel, or, at least, warn the crew of the 
rocks they were approaching.  While Henri went out to direct on what 
part of the cliffs the lights should appear, Blanche remained with 
her father, at the window, catching, every now and then, as the 
lightnings flashed, a glimpse of the vessel; and she soon saw, with 
reviving hope, the torches flaming on the blackness of night, and, as 
they waved over the cliffs, casting a red gleam on the gasping 
billows.  When the firing of guns was repeated, the torches were 
tossed high in the air, as if answering the signal, and the firing 
was then redoubled; but, though the wind bore the sound away, she 
fancied, as the lightnings glanced, that the vessel was much nearer 
the shore.

The Count's servants were now seen, running to and fro, on the rocks; 
some venturing almost to the point of the crags, and bending over, 
held out their torches fastened to long poles; while others, whose 
steps could be traced only by the course of the lights, descended the 
steep and dangerous path, that wound to the margin of the sea, and, 
with loud halloos, hailed the mariners, whose shrill whistle, and 
then feeble voices, were heard, at intervals, mingling with the 
storm.  Sudden shouts from the people on the rocks increased the 
anxiety of Blanche to an almost intolerable degree:  but her 
suspense, concerning the fate of the mariners, was soon over, when 
Henri, running breathless into the room, told that the vessel was 
anchored in the bay below, but in so shattered a condition, that it 
was feared she would part before the crew could disembark.  The Count 
immediately gave orders for his own boats to assist in bringing them 
to shore, and that such of these unfortunate strangers as could not 
be accommodated in the adjacent hamlet should be entertained at the 
chateau.  Among the latter, were Emily St. Aubert, Monsieur Du Pont, 
Ludovico and Annette, who, having embarked at Leghorn and reached 
Marseilles, were from thence crossing the Gulf of Lyons, when this 
storm overtook them.  They were received by the Count with his usual 
benignity, who, though Emily wished to have proceeded immediately to 
the monastery of St. Claire, would not allow her to leave the 
chateau, that night; and, indeed, the terror and fatigue she had 
suffered would scarcely have permitted her to go farther.

In Monsieur Du Pont the Count discovered an old acquaintance, and 
much joy and congratulation passed between them, after which Emily 
was introduced by name to the Count's family, whose hospitable 
benevolence dissipated the little embarrassment, which her situation 
had occasioned her, and the party were soon seated at the supper-
table.  The unaffected kindness of Blanche and the lively joy she 
expressed on the escape of the strangers, for whom her pity had been 
so much interested, gradually revived Emily's languid spirits; and Du 
Pont, relieved from his terrors for her and for himself, felt the 
full contrast, between his late situation on a dark and tremendous 
ocean, and his present one, in a cheerful mansion, where he was 
surrounded with plenty, elegance and smiles of welcome.

Annette, meanwhile, in the servants' hall, was telling of all the 
dangers she had encountered, and congratulating herself so heartily 
upon her own and Ludovico's escape, and on her present comforts, that 
she often made all that part of the chateau ring with merriment and 
laughter.  Ludovico's spirits were as gay as her own, but he had 
discretion enough to restrain them, and tried to check hers, though 
in vain, till her laughter, at length, ascended to MY LADY'S chamber, 
who sent to enquire what occasioned so much uproar in the chateau, 
and to command silence.

Emily withdrew early to seek the repose she so much required, but her 
pillow was long a sleepless one.  On this her return to her native 
country, many interesting remembrances were awakened; all the events 
and sufferings she had experienced, since she quitted it, came in 
long succession to her fancy, and were chased only by the image of 
Valancourt, with whom to believe herself once more in the same land, 
after they had been so long, and so distantly separated, gave her 
emotions of indescribable joy, but which afterwards yielded to 
anxiety and apprehension, when she considered the long period, that 
had elapsed, since any letter had passed between them, and how much 
might have happened in this interval to affect her future peace.  But 
the thought, that Valancourt might be now no more, or, if living, 
might have forgotten her, was so very terrible to her heart, that she 
would scarcely suffer herself to pause upon the possibility.  She 
determined to inform him, on the following day, of her arrival in 
France, which it was scarcely possible he could know but by a letter 
from herself, and, after soothing her spirits with the hope of soon 
hearing, that he was well, and unchanged in his affections, she, at 
length, sunk to repose.



CHAPTER XII


     Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia, silver-bright,
 In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of folly,
 With freedom by my side, and soft-ey'd melancholy.
     GRAY

The Lady Blanche was so much interested for Emily, that, upon hearing 
she was going to reside in the neighbouring convent, she requested 
the Count would invite her to lengthen her stay at the chateau.  'And 
you know, my dear sir,' added Blanche, 'how delighted I shall be with 
such a companion; for, at present, I have no friend to walk, or to 
read with, since Mademoiselle Bearn is my mamma's friend only.'

The Count smiled at the youthful simplicity, with which his daughter 
yielded to first impressions; and, though he chose to warn her of 
their danger, he silently applauded the benevolence, that could thus 
readily expand in confidence to a stranger.  He had observed Emily, 
with attention, on the preceding evening, and was as much pleased 
with her, as it was possible he could be with any person, on so short 
an acquaintance.  The mention, made of her by Mons. Du Pont, had also 
given him a favourable impression of Emily; but, extremely cautious 
as to those, whom he introduced to the intimacy of his daughter, he 
determined, on hearing that the former was no stranger at the convent 
of St. Claire, to visit the abbess, and, if her account corresponded 
with his wish, to invite Emily to pass some time at the chateau.  On 
this subject, he was influenced by a consideration of the Lady 
Blanche's welfare, still more than by either a wish to oblige her, or 
to befriend the orphan Emily, for whom, however, he felt considerably 
interested.

On the following morning, Emily was too much fatigued to appear; but 
Mons. Du Pont was at the breakfast-table, when the Count entered the 
room, who pressed him, as his former acquaintance, and the son of a 
very old friend, to prolong his stay at the chateau; an invitation, 
which Du Pont willingly accepted, since it would allow him to be near 
Emily; and, though he was not conscious of encouraging a hope, that 
she would ever return his affection, he had not fortitude enough to 
attempt, at present, to overcome it.

Emily, when she was somewhat recovered, wandered with her new friend 
over the grounds belonging to the chateau, as much delighted with the 
surrounding views, as Blanche, in the benevolence of her heart, had 
wished; from thence she perceived, beyond the woods, the towers of 
the monastery, and remarked, that it was to this convent she designed 
to go.

'Ah!' said Blanche with surprise, 'I am but just released from a 
convent, and would you go into one?  If you could know what pleasure 
I feel in wandering here, at liberty,--and in seeing the sky and the 
fields, and the woods all round me, I think you would not.'  Emily, 
smiling at the warmth, with which the Lady Blanche spoke, observed, 
that she did not mean to confine herself to a convent for life.

'No, you may not intend it now,' said Blanche; 'but you do not know 
to what the nuns may persuade you to consent:  I know how kind they 
will appear, and how happy, for I have seen too much of their art.'

When they returned to the chateau, Lady Blanche conducted Emily to 
her favourite turret, and from thence they rambled through the 
ancient chambers, which Blanche had visited before.  Emily was amused 
by observing the structure of these apartments, and the fashion of 
their old but still magnificent furniture, and by comparing them with 
those of the castle of Udolpho, which were yet more antique and 
grotesque.  She was also interested by Dorothee the house-keeper, who 
attended them, whose appearance was almost as antique as the objects 
around her, and who seemed no less interested by Emily, on whom she 
frequently gazed with so much deep attention, as scarcely to hear 
what was said to her.

While Emily looked from one of the casements, she perceived, with 
surprise, some objects, that were familiar to her memory;--the fields 
and woods, with the gleaming brook, which she had passed with La 
Voisin, one evening, soon after the death of Monsieur St. Aubert, in 
her way from the monastery to her cottage; and she now knew this to 
be the chateau, which he had then avoided, and concerning which he 
had dropped some remarkable hints.

Shocked by this discovery, yet scarcely knowing why, she mused for 
some time in silence, and remembered the emotion, which her father 
had betrayed on finding himself so near this mansion, and some other 
circumstances of his conduct, that now greatly interested her.  The 
music, too, which she had formerly heard, and, respecting which La 
Voisin had given such an odd account, occurred to her, and, desirous 
of knowing more concerning it, she asked Dorothee whether it returned 
at midnight, as usual, and whether the musician had yet been 
discovered.

'Yes, ma'amselle,' replied Dorothee, 'that music is still heard, but 
the musician has never been found out, nor ever will, I believe; 
though there are some people, who can guess.'

'Indeed!' said Emily, 'then why do they not pursue the enquiry?'

'Ah, young lady! enquiry enough has been made--but who can pursue a 
spirit?'

Emily smiled, and, remembering how lately she had suffered herself to 
be led away by superstition, determined now to resist its contagion; 
yet, in spight of her efforts, she felt awe mingle with her 
curiosity, on this subject; and Blanche, who had hitherto listened in 
silence, now enquired what this music was, and how long it had been 
heard.

'Ever since the death of my lady, madam,' replied Dorothee.

'Why, the place is not haunted, surely?' said Blanche, between 
jesting and seriousness.

'I have heard that music almost ever since my dear lady died,' 
continued Dorothee, 'and never before then.  But that is nothing to 
some things I could tell of.'

'Do, pray, tell them, then,' said Lady Blanche, now more in earnest 
than in jest.  'I am much interested, for I have heard sister 
Henriette, and sister Sophie, in the convent, tell of such strange 
appearances, which they themselves had witnessed!'

'You never heard, my lady, I suppose, what made us leave the chateau, 
and go and live in a cottage,' said Dorothee.  'Never!' replied 
Blanche with impatience.

'Nor the reason, that my lord, the Marquis'--Dorothee checked 
herself, hesitated, and then endeavoured to change the topic; but the 
curiosity of Blanche was too much awakened to suffer the subject thus 
easily to escape her, and she pressed the old house-keeper to proceed 
with her account, upon whom, however, no entreaties could prevail; 
and it was evident, that she was alarmed for the imprudence, into 
which she had already betrayed herself.

'I perceive,' said Emily, smiling, 'that all old mansions are 
haunted; I am lately come from a place of wonders; but unluckily, 
since I left it, I have heard almost all of them explained.'

Blanche was silent; Dorothee looked grave, and sighed; and Emily felt 
herself still inclined to believe more of the wonderful, than she 
chose to acknowledge.  Just then, she remembered the spectacle she 
had witnessed in a chamber of Udolpho, and, by an odd kind of 
coincidence, the alarming words, that had accidentally met her eye in 
the MS. papers, which she had destroyed, in obedience to the command 
of her father; and she shuddered at the meaning they seemed to 
impart, almost as much as at the horrible appearance, disclosed by 
the black veil.

The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, unable to prevail with Dorothee to 
explain the subject of her late hints, had desired, on reaching the 
door, that terminated the gallery, and which she found fastened on 
the preceding day, to see the suite of rooms beyond.  'Dear young 
lady,' said the housekeeper, 'I have told you my reason for not 
opening them; I have never seen them, since my dear lady died; and it 
would go hard with me to see them now.  Pray, madam, do not ask me 
again.'

'Certainly I will not,' replied Blanche, 'if that is really your 
objection.'

'Alas! it is,' said the old woman:  'we all loved her well, and I 
shall always grieve for her.  Time runs round! it is now many years, 
since she died; but I remember every thing, that happened then, as if 
it was but yesterday.  Many things, that have passed of late years, 
are gone quite from my memory, while those so long ago, I can see as 
if in a glass.'  She paused, but afterwards, as they walked up the 
gallery, added to Emily, 'this young lady sometimes brings the late 
Marchioness to my mind; I can remember, when she looked just as 
blooming, and very like her, when she smiles.  Poor lady! how gay she 
was, when she first came to the chateau!'

'And was she not gay, afterwards?' said Blanche.

Dorothee shook her head; and Emily observed her, with eyes strongly 
expressive of the interest she now felt.  'Let us sit down in this 
window,' said the Lady Blanche, on reaching the opposite end of the 
gallery:  'and pray, Dorothee, if it is not painful to you, tell us 
something more about the Marchioness.  I should like to look into the 
glass you spoke of just now, and see a few of the circumstances, 
which you say often pass over it.'

'No, my lady,' replied Dorothee; 'if you knew as much as I do, you 
would not, for you would find there a dismal train of them; I often 
wish I could shut them out, but they will rise to my mind.  I see my 
dear lady on her death-bed,--her very look,--and remember all she 
said--it was a terrible scene!'

'Why was it so terrible?' said Emily with emotion.

'Ah, dear young lady! is not death always terrible?' replied 
Dorothee.

To some further enquiries of Blanche Dorothee was silent; and Emily, 
observing the tears in her eyes, forbore to urge the subject, and 
endeavoured to withdraw the attention of her young friend to some 
object in the gardens, where the Count, with the Countess and 
Monsieur Du Pont, appearing, they went down to join them.

When he perceived Emily, he advanced to meet her, and presented her 
to the Countess, in a manner so benign, that it recalled most 
powerfully to her mind the idea of her late father, and she felt more 
gratitude to him, than embarrassment towards the Countess, who, 
however, received her with one of those fascinating smiles, which her 
caprice sometimes allowed her to assume, and which was now the result 
of a conversation the Count had held with her, concerning Emily.  
Whatever this might be, or whatever had passed in his conversation 
with the lady abbess, whom he had just visited, esteem and kindness 
were strongly apparent in his manner, when he addressed Emily, who 
experienced that sweet emotion, which arises from the consciousness 
of possessing the approbation of the good; for to the Count's worth 
she had been inclined to yield her confidence almost from the first 
moment, in which she had seen him.

Before she could finish her acknowledgments for the hospitality she 
had received, and mention of her design of going immediately to the 
convent, she was interrupted by an invitation to lengthen her stay at 
the chateau, which was pressed by the Count and the Countess, with an 
appearance of such friendly sincerity, that, though she much wished 
to see her old friends at the monastery, and to sigh, once more, over 
her father's grave, she consented to remain a few days at the 
chateau.

To the abbess, however, she immediately wrote, mentioning her arrival 
in Languedoc and her wish to be received into the convent, as a 
boarder; she also sent letters to Monsieur Quesnel and to Valancourt, 
whom she merely informed of her arrival in France; and, as she knew 
not where the latter might be stationed, she directed her letter to 
his brother's seat in Gascony.

In the evening, Lady Blanche and Mons. Du Pont walked with Emily to 
the cottage of La Voisin, which she had now a melancholy pleasure in 
approaching, for time had softened her grief for the loss of St. 
Aubert, though it could not annihilate it, and she felt a soothing 
sadness in indulging the recollections, which this scene recalled.  
La Voisin was still living, and seemed to enjoy, as much as formerly, 
the tranquil evening of a blameless life.  He was sitting at the door 
of his cottage, watching some of his grandchildren, playing on the 
grass before him, and, now and then, with a laugh, or a commendation, 
encouraging their sports.  He immediately recollected Emily, whom he 
was much pleased to see, and she was as rejoiced to hear, that he had 
not lost one of his family, since her departure.

'Yes, ma'amselle,' said the old man, 'we all live merrily together 
still, thank God! and I believe there is not a happier family to be 
found in Languedoc, than ours.'

Emily did not trust herself in the chamber, where St. Aubert died; 
and, after half an hour's conversation with La Voisin and his family, 
she left the cottage.

During these the first days of her stay at Chateau-le-Blanc, she was 
often affected, by observing the deep, but silent melancholy, which, 
at times, stole over Du Pont; and Emily, pitying the self-delusion, 
which disarmed him of the will to depart, determined to withdraw 
herself as soon as the respect she owed the Count and Countess De 
Villefort would permit.  The dejection of his friend soon alarmed the 
anxiety of the Count, to whom Du Pont, at length, confided the secret 
of his hopeless affection, which, however, the former could only 
commiserate, though he secretly determined to befriend his suit, if 
an opportunity of doing so should ever occur.  Considering the 
dangerous situation of Du Pont, he but feebly opposed his intention 
of leaving Chateau-le-Blanc, on the following day, but drew from him 
a promise of a longer visit, when he could return with safety to his 
peace.  Emily herself, though she could not encourage his affection, 
esteemed him both for the many virtues he possessed, and for the 
services she had received from him; and it was not without tender 
emotions of gratitude and pity, that she now saw him depart for his 
family seat in Gascony; while he took leave of her with a countenance 
so expressive of love and grief, as to interest the Count more warmly 
in his cause than before.

In a few days, Emily also left the chateau, but not before the Count 
and Countess had received her promise to repeat her visit very soon; 
and she was welcomed by the abbess, with the same maternal kindness 
she had formerly experienced, and by the nuns, with much expression 
of regard.  The well-known scenes of the convent occasioned her many 
melancholy recollections, but with these were mingled others, that 
inspired gratitude for having escaped the various dangers, that had 
pursued her, since she quitted it, and for the good, which she yet 
possessed; and, though she once more wept over her father's grave, 
with tears of tender affection, her grief was softened from its 
former acuteness.

Some time after her return to the monastery, she received a letter 
from her uncle, Mons. Quesnel, in answer to information that she had 
arrived in France, and to her enquiries, concerning such of her 
affairs as he had undertaken to conduct during her absence, 
especially as to the period for which La Vallee had been let, whither 
it was her wish to return, if it should appear, that her income would 
permit her to do so.  The reply of Mons. Quesnel was cold and formal, 
as she expected, expressing neither concern for the evils she 
suffered, nor pleasure, that she was now removed from them; nor did 
he allow the opportunity to pass, of reproving her for her rejection 
of Count Morano, whom he affected still to believe a man of honour 
and fortune; nor of vehemently declaiming against Montoni, to whom he 
had always, till now, felt himself to be inferior.  On Emily's 
pecuniary concerns, he was not very explicit; he informed her, 
however, that the term, for which La Vallee had been engaged, was 
nearly expired; but, without inviting her to his own house, added, 
that her circumstances would by no means allow her to reside there, 
and earnestly advised her to remain, for the present, in the convent 
of St. Claire.

To her enquiries respecting poor old Theresa, her late father's 
servant, he gave no answer.  In the postscript to his letter, 
Monsieur Quesnel mentioned M. Motteville, in whose hands the late St. 
Aubert had placed the chief of his personal property, as being likely 
to arrange his affairs nearly to the satisfaction of his creditors, 
and that Emily would recover much more of her fortune, than she had 
formerly reason to expect.  The letter also inclosed to Emily an 
order upon a merchant at Narbonne, for a small sum of money.

The tranquillity of the monastery, and the liberty she was suffered 
to enjoy, in wandering among the woods and shores of this delightful 
province, gradually restored her spirits to their natural tone, 
except that anxiety would sometimes intrude, concerning Valancourt, 
as the time approached, when it was possible that she might receive 
an answer to her letter.



CHAPTER XIII


     As when a wave, that from a cloud impends,
 And, swell'd with tempests, on the ship descends,
 White are the decks with foam; the winds aloud,
 Howl o'er the masts, and sing through ev'ry shroud:
 Pale, trembling, tir'd, the sailors freeze with fears,
 And instant death on ev'ry wave appears.
     POPE'S HOMER

The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, who was left much alone, became 
impatient for the company of her new friend, whom she wished to 
observe sharing in the delight she received from the beautiful 
scenery around.  She had now no person, to whom she could express her 
admiration and communicate her pleasures, no eye, that sparkled to 
her smile, or countenance, that reflected her happiness; and she 
became spiritless and pensive.  The Count, observing her 
dissatisfaction, readily yielded to her entreaties, and reminded 
Emily of her promised visit; but the silence of Valancourt, which was 
now prolonged far beyond the period, when a letter might have arrived 
from Estuviere, oppressed Emily with severe anxiety, and, rendering 
her averse to society, she would willingly have deferred her 
acceptance of this invitation, till her spirits should be relieved.  
The Count and his family, however, pressed to see her; and, as the 
circumstances, that prompted her wish for solitude, could not be 
explained, there was an appearance of caprice in her refusal, which 
she could not persevere in, without offending the friends, whose 
esteem she valued.  At length, therefore, she returned upon a second 
visit to Chateau-le-Blanc.  Here the friendly manner of Count De 
Villefort encouraged Emily to mention to him her situation, 
respecting the estates of her late aunt, and to consult him on the 
means of recovering them.  He had little doubt, that the law would 
decide in her favour, and, advising her to apply to it, offered first 
to write to an advocate at Avignon, on whose opinion he thought he 
could rely.  His kindness was gratefully accepted by Emily, who, 
soothed by the courtesy she daily experienced, would have been once 
more happy, could she have been assured of Valancourt's welfare and 
unaltered affection.  She had now been above a week at the chateau, 
without receiving intelligence of him, and, though she knew, that, if 
he was absent from his brother's residence, it was scarcely probable 
her letter had yet reached him, she could not forbear to admit doubts 
and fears, that destroyed her peace.  Again she would consider of 
all, that might have happened in the long period, since her first 
seclusion at Udolpho, and her mind was sometimes so overwhelmed with 
an apprehension, that Valancourt was no more, or that he lived no 
longer for her, that the company even of Blanche became intolerably 
oppressive, and she would sit alone in her apartment for hours 
together, when the engagements of the family allowed her to do so, 
without incivility.

In one of these solitary hours, she unlocked a little box, which 
contained some letters of Valancourt, with some drawings she had 
sketched, during her stay in Tuscany, the latter of which were no 
longer interesting to her; but, in the letters, she now, with 
melancholy indulgence, meant to retrace the tenderness, that had so 
often soothed her, and rendered her, for a moment, insensible of the 
distance, which separated her from the writer.  But their effect was 
now changed; the affection they expressed appealed so forcibly to her 
heart, when she considered that it had, perhaps, yielded to the 
powers of time and absence, and even the view of the hand-writing 
recalled so many painful recollections, that she found herself unable 
to go through the first she had opened, and sat musing, with her 
cheek resting on her arm, and tears stealing from her eyes, when old 
Dorothee entered the room to inform her, that dinner would be ready, 
an hour before the usual time.  Emily started on perceiving her, and 
hastily put up the papers, but not before Dorothee had observed both 
her agitation and her tears.

'Ah, ma'amselle!' said she, 'you, who are so young,--have you reason 
for sorrow?'

Emily tried to smile, but was unable to speak.

'Alas! dear young lady, when you come to my age, you will not weep at 
trifles; and surely you have nothing serious, to grieve you.'

'No, Dorothee, nothing of any consequence,' replied Emily.  Dorothee, 
now stooping to pick up something, that had dropped from among the 
papers, suddenly exclaimed, 'Holy Mary! what is it I see?' and then, 
trembling, sat down in a chair, that stood by the table.

'What is it you do see?' said Emily, alarmed by her manner, and 
looking round the room.

'It is herself,' said Dorothee, 'her very self! just as she looked a 
little before she died!'

Emily, still more alarmed, began now to fear, that Dorothee was 
seized with sudden phrensy, but entreated her to explain herself.

'That picture!' said she, 'where did you find it, lady? it is my 
blessed mistress herself!'

She laid on the table the miniature, which Emily had long ago found 
among the papers her father had enjoined her to destroy, and over 
which she had once seen him shed such tender and affecting tears; 
and, recollecting all the various circumstances of his conduct, that 
had long perplexed her, her emotions increased to an excess, which 
deprived her of all power to ask the questions she trembled to have 
answered, and she could only enquire, whether Dorothee was certain 
the picture resembled the late marchioness.

'O, ma'amselle!' said she, 'how came it to strike me so, the instant 
I saw it, if it was not my lady's likeness?  Ah!' added she, taking 
up the miniature, 'these are her own blue eyes--looking so sweet and 
so mild; and there is her very look, such as I have often seen it, 
when she had sat thinking for a long while, and then, the tears would 
often steal down her cheeks--but she never would complain!  It was 
that look so meek, as it were, and resigned, that used to break my 
heart and make me love her so!'

'Dorothee!' said Emily solemnly, 'I am interested in the cause of 
that grief, more so, perhaps, than you may imagine; and I entreat, 
that you will no longer refuse to indulge my curiosity;--it is not a 
common one.'

As Emily said this, she remembered the papers, with which the picture 
had been found, and had scarcely a doubt, that they had concerned the 
Marchioness de Villeroi; but with this supposition came a scruple, 
whether she ought to enquire further on a subject, which might prove 
to be the same, that her father had so carefully endeavoured to 
conceal.  Her curiosity, concerning the Marchioness, powerful as it 
was, it is probable she would now have resisted, as she had formerly 
done, on unwarily observing the few terrible words in the papers, 
which had never since been erased from her memory, had she been 
certain that the history of that lady was the subject of those 
papers, or, that such simple particulars only as it was probable 
Dorothee could relate were included in her father's command.  What 
was known to her could be no secret to many other persons; and, since 
it appeared very unlikely, that St. Aubert should attempt to conceal 
what Emily might learn by ordinary means, she at length concluded, 
that, if the papers had related to the story of the Marchioness, it 
was not those circumstances of it, which Dorothee could disclose, 
that he had thought sufficiently important to wish to have concealed.  
She, therefore, no longer hesitated to make the enquiries, that might 
lead to the gratification of her curiosity.

'Ah, ma'amselle!' said Dorothee, 'it is a sad story, and cannot be 
told now:  but what am I saying?  I never will tell it.  Many years 
have passed, since it happened; and I never loved to talk of the 
Marchioness to any body, but my husband.  He lived in the family, at 
that time, as well as myself, and he knew many particulars from me, 
which nobody else did; for I was about the person of my lady in her 
last illness, and saw and heard as much, or more than my lord 
himself.  Sweet saint! how patient she was!  When she died, I thought 
I could have died with her!'

'Dorothee,' said Emily, interrupting her, 'what you shall tell, you 
may depend upon it, shall never be disclosed by me.  I have, I repeat 
it, particular reasons for wishing to be informed on this subject, 
and am willing to bind myself, in the most solemn manner, never to 
mention what you shall wish me to conceal.'

Dorothee seemed surprised at the earnestness of Emily's manner, and, 
after regarding her for some moments, in silence, said, 'Young lady! 
that look of yours pleads for you--it is so like my dear mistress's, 
that I can almost fancy I see her before me; if you were her 
daughter, you could not remind me of her more.  But dinner will be 
ready--had you not better go down?'

'You will first promise to grant my request,' said Emily.

'And ought not you first to tell me, ma'amselle, how this picture 
fell into your hands, and the reasons you say you have for curiosity 
about my lady?'

'Why, no, Dorothee,' replied Emily, recollecting herself, 'I have 
also particular reasons for observing silence, on these subjects, at 
least, till I know further; and, remember, I do not promise ever to 
speak upon them; therefore, do not let me induce you to satisfy my 
curiosity, from an expectation, that I shall gratify yours.  What I 
may judge proper to conceal, does not concern myself alone, or I 
should have less scruple in revealing it:  let a confidence in my 
honour alone persuade you to disclose what I request.'

'Well, lady!' replied Dorothee, after a long pause, during which her 
eyes were fixed upon Emily, 'you seem so much interested,--and this 
picture and that face of yours make me think you have some reason to 
be so,--that I will trust you--and tell some things, that I never 
told before to any body, but my husband, though there are people, who 
have suspected as much.  I will tell you the particulars of my lady's 
death, too, and some of my own suspicions; but you must first promise 
me by all the saints'--

Emily, interrupting her, solemnly promised never to reveal what 
should be confided to her, without Dorothee's consent.

'But there is the horn, ma'amselle, sounding for dinner,' said 
Dorothee; 'I must be gone.'

'When shall I see you again?' enquired Emily.

Dorothee mused, and then replied, 'Why, madam, it may make people 
curious, if it is known I am so much in your apartment, and that I 
should be sorry for; so I will come when I am least likely to be 
observed.  I have little leisure in the day, and I shall have a good 
deal to say; so, if you please, ma'am, I will come, when the family 
are all in bed.'

'That will suit me very well,' replied Emily:  'Remember, then, to-
night'--

'Aye, that is well remembered,' said Dorothee, 'I fear I cannot come 
to-night, madam, for there will be the dance of the vintage, and it 
will be late, before the servants go to rest; for, when they once set 
in to dance, they will keep it up, in the cool of the air, till 
morning; at least, it used to be so in my time.'

'Ah! is it the dance of the vintage?' said Emily, with a deep sigh, 
remembering, that it was on the evening of this festival, in the 
preceding year, that St. Aubert and herself had arrived in the 
neighbourhood of Chateau-le-Blanc.  She paused a moment, overcome by 
the sudden recollection, and then, recovering herself, added--'But 
this dance is in the open woods; you, therefore, will not be wanted, 
and can easily come to me.'

Dorothee replied, that she had been accustomed to be present at the 
dance of the vintage, and she did not wish to be absent now; 'but if 
I can get away, madam, I will,' said she.

Emily then hastened to the dining-room, where the Count conducted 
himself with the courtesy, which is inseparable from true dignity, 
and of which the Countess frequently practised little, though her 
manner to Emily was an exception to her usual habit.  But, if she 
retained few of the ornamental virtues, she cherished other 
qualities, which she seemed to consider invaluable.  She had 
dismissed the grace of modesty, but then she knew perfectly well how 
to manage the stare of assurance; her manners had little of the 
tempered sweetness, which is necessary to render the female character 
interesting, but she could occasionally throw into them an 
affectation of spirits, which seemed to triumph over every person, 
who approached her.  In the country, however, she generally affected 
an elegant languor, that persuaded her almost to faint, when her 
favourite read to her a story of fictitious sorrow; but her 
countenance suffered no change, when living objects of distress 
solicited her charity, and her heart beat with no transport to the 
thought of giving them instant relief;--she was a stranger to the 
highest luxury, of which, perhaps, the human mind can be sensible, 
for her benevolence had never yet called smiles upon the face of 
misery.

In the evening, the Count, with all his family, except the Countess 
and Mademoiselle Bearn, went to the woods to witness the festivity of 
the peasants.  The scene was in a glade, where the trees, opening, 
formed a circle round the turf they highly overshadowed; between 
their branches, vines, loaded with ripe clusters, were hung in gay 
festoons; and, beneath, were tables, with fruit, wine, cheese and 
other rural fare,--and seats for the Count and his family.  At a 
little distance, were benches for the elder peasants, few of whom, 
however, could forbear to join the jocund dance, which began soon 
after sun-set, when several of sixty tripped it with almost as much 
glee and airy lightness, as those of sixteen.

The musicians, who sat carelessly on the grass, at the foot of a 
tree, seemed inspired by the sound of their own instruments, which 
were chiefly flutes and a kind of long guitar.  Behind, stood a boy, 
flourishing a tamborine, and dancing a solo, except that, as he 
sometimes gaily tossed the instrument, he tripped among the other 
dancers, when his antic gestures called forth a broader laugh, and 
heightened the rustic spirit of the scene.

The Count was highly delighted with the happiness he witnessed, to 
which his bounty had largely contributed, and the Lady Blanche joined 
the dance with a young gentleman of her father's party.  Du Pont 
requested Emily's hand, but her spirits were too much depressed, to 
permit her to engage in the present festivity, which called to her 
remembrance that of the preceding year, when St. Aubert was living, 
and of the melancholy scenes, which had immediately followed it.

Overcome by these recollections, she, at length, left the spot, and 
walked slowly into the woods, where the softened music, floating at a 
distance, soothed her melancholy mind.  The moon threw a mellow light 
among the foliage; the air was balmy and cool, and Emily, lost in 
thought, strolled on, without observing whither, till she perceived 
the sounds sinking afar off, and an awful stillness round her, except 
that, sometimes, the nightingale beguiled the silence with

     Liquid notes, that close the eye of day.

At length, she found herself near the avenue, which, on the night of 
her father's arrival, Michael had attempted to pass in search of a 
house, which was still nearly as wild and desolate as it had then 
appeared; for the Count had been so much engaged in directing other 
improvements, that he had neglected to give orders, concerning this 
extensive approach, and the road was yet broken, and the trees 
overloaded with their own luxuriance.

As she stood surveying it, and remembering the emotions, which she 
had formerly suffered there, she suddenly recollected the figure, 
that had been seen stealing among the trees, and which had returned 
no answer to Michael's repeated calls; and she experienced somewhat 
of the fear, that had then assailed her, for it did not appear 
improbable, that these deep woods were occasionally the haunt of 
banditti.  She, therefore, turned back, and was hastily pursuing her 
way to the dancers, when she heard steps approaching from the avenue; 
and, being still beyond the call of the peasants on the green, for 
she could neither hear their voices, or their music, she quickened 
her pace; but the persons following gained fast upon her, and, at 
length, distinguishing the voice of Henri, she walked leisurely, till 
he came up.  He expressed some surprise at meeting her so far from 
the company; and, on her saying, that the pleasant moon-light had 
beguiled her to walk farther than she intended, an exclamation burst 
from the lips of his companion, and she thought she heard Valancourt 
speak!  It was, indeed, he! and the meeting was such as may be 
imagined, between persons so affectionate, and so long separated as 
they had been.

In the joy of these moments, Emily forgot all her past sufferings, 
and Valancourt seemed to have forgotten, that any person but Emily 
existed; while Henri was a silent and astonished spectator of the 
scene.

Valancourt asked a thousand questions, concerning herself and 
Montoni, which there was now no time to answer; but she learned, that 
her letter had been forwarded to him, at Paris, which he had 
previously quitted, and was returning to Gascony, whither the letter 
also returned, which, at length, informed him of Emily's arrival, and 
on the receipt of which he had immediately set out for Languedoc.  On 
reaching the monastery, whence she had dated her letter, he found, to 
his extreme disappointment, that the gates were already closed for 
the night; and believing, that he should not see Emily, till the 
morrow, he was returning to his little inn, with the intention of 
writing to her, when he was overtaken by Henri, with whom he had been 
intimate at Paris, and was led to her, whom he was secretly lamenting 
that he should not see, till the following day.

Emily, with Valancourt and Henri, now returned to the green, where 
the latter presented Valancourt to the Count, who, she fancied, 
received him with less than his usual benignity, though it appeared, 
that they were not strangers to each other.  He was invited, however, 
to partake of the diversions of the evening; and, when he had paid 
his respects to the Count, and while the dancers continued their 
festivity, he seated himself by Emily, and conversed, without 
restraint.  The lights, which were hung among the trees, under which 
they sat, allowed her a more perfect view of the countenance she had 
so frequently in absence endeavoured to recollect, and she perceived, 
with some regret, that it was not the same as when last she saw it.  
There was all its wonted intelligence and fire; but it had lost much 
of the simplicity, and somewhat of the open benevolence, that used to 
characterise it.  Still, however, it was an interesting countenance; 
but Emily thought she perceived, at intervals, anxiety contract, and 
melancholy fix the features of Valancourt; sometimes, too, he fell 
into a momentary musing, and then appeared anxious to dissipate 
thought; while, at others, as he fixed his eyes on Emily, a kind of 
sudden distraction seemed to cross his mind.  In her he perceived the 
same goodness and beautiful simplicity, that had charmed him, on 
their first acquaintance.  The bloom of her countenance was somewhat 
faded, but all its sweetness remained, and it was rendered more 
interesting, than ever, by the faint expression of melancholy, that 
sometimes mingled with her smile.

At his request, she related the most important circumstances, that 
had occurred to her, since she left France, and emotions of pity and 
indignation alternately prevailed in his mind, when he heard how much 
she had suffered from the villany of Montoni.  More than once, when 
she was speaking of his conduct, of which the guilt was rather 
softened, than exaggerated, by her representation, he started from 
his seat, and walked away, apparently overcome as much by self 
accusation as by resentment.  Her sufferings alone were mentioned in 
the few words, which he could address to her, and he listened not to 
the account, which she was careful to give as distinctly as possible, 
of the present loss of Madame Montoni's estates, and of the little 
reason there was to expect their restoration.  At length, Valancourt 
remained lost in thought, and then some secret cause seemed to 
overcome him with anguish.  Again he abruptly left her.  When he 
returned, she perceived, that he had been weeping, and tenderly 
begged, that he would compose himself.  'My sufferings are all passed 
now,' said she, 'for I have escaped from the tyranny of Montoni, and 
I see you well--let me also see you happy.'

Valancourt was more agitated, than before.  'I am unworthy of you, 
Emily,' said he, 'I am unworthy of you;'--words, by his manner of 
uttering which Emily was then more shocked than by their import.  She 
fixed on him a mournful and enquiring eye.  'Do not look thus on me,' 
said he, turning away and pressing her hand; 'I cannot bear those 
looks.'

'I would ask,' said Emily, in a gentle, but agitated voice, 'the 
meaning of your words; but I perceive, that the question would 
distress you now.  Let us talk on other subjects.  To-morrow, 
perhaps, you may be more composed.  Observe those moon light woods, 
and the towers, which appear obscurely in the perspective.  You used 
to be a great admirer of landscape, and I have heard you say, that 
the faculty of deriving consolation, under misfortune, from the 
sublime prospects, which neither oppression, or poverty with-hold 
from us, was the peculiar blessing of the innocent.'  Valancourt was 
deeply affected.  'Yes,' replied he, 'I had once a taste for innocent 
and elegant delights--I had once an uncorrupted heart.'  Then, 
checking himself, he added, 'Do you remember our journey together in 
the Pyrenees?'

'Can I forget it?' said Emily.--'Would that I could!' he replied;--
'that was the happiest period of my life.  I then loved, with 
enthusiasm, whatever was truly great, or good.'  It was some time 
before Emily could repress her tears, and try to command her 
emotions.  'If you wish to forget that journey,' said she, 'it must 
certainly be my wish to forget it also.'  She paused, and then added, 
'You make me very uneasy; but this is not the time for further 
enquiry;--yet, how can I bear to believe, even for a moment, that you 
are less worthy of my esteem than formerly?  I have still sufficient 
confidence in your candour, to believe, that, when I shall ask for an 
explanation, you will give it me.'--'Yes,' said Valancourt, 'yes, 
Emily:  I have not yet lost my candour:  if I had, I could better 
have disguised my emotions, on learning what were your sufferings--
your virtues, while I--I--but I will say no more.  I did not mean to 
have said even so much--I have been surprised into the self-
accusation.  Tell me, Emily, that you will not forget that journey--
will not wish to forget it, and I will be calm.  I would not lose the 
remembrance of it for the whole earth.'

'How contradictory is this!' said Emily;--'but we may be overheard.  
My recollection of it shall depend upon yours; I will endeavour to 
forget, or to recollect it, as you may do.  Let us join the Count.'--
'Tell me first,' said Valancourt, 'that you forgive the uneasiness I 
have occasioned you, this evening, and that you will still love me.'-
-'I sincerely forgive you,' replied Emily.  'You best know whether I 
shall continue to love you, for you know whether you deserve my 
esteem.  At present, I will believe that you do.  It is unnecessary 
to say,' added she, observing his dejection, 'how much pain it would 
give me to believe otherwise.--The young lady, who approaches, is the 
Count's daughter.'

Valancourt and Emily now joined the Lady Blanche; and the party, soon 
after, sat down with the Count, his son, and the Chevalier Du Pont, 
at a banquet, spread under a gay awning, beneath the trees.  At the 
table also were seated several of the most venerable of the Count's 
tenants, and it was a festive repast to all but Valancourt and Emily.  
When the Count retired to the chateau, he did not invite Valancourt 
to accompany him, who, therefore, took leave of Emily, and retired to 
his solitary inn for the night:  meanwhile, she soon withdrew to her 
own apartment, where she mused, with deep anxiety and concern, on his 
behaviour, and on the Count's reception of him.  Her attention was 
thus so wholly engaged, that she forgot Dorothee and her appointment, 
till morning was far advanced, when, knowing that the good old woman 
would not come, she retired, for a few hours, to repose.

On the following day, when the Count had accidentally joined Emily in 
one of the walks, they talked of the festival of the preceding 
evening, and this led him to a mention of Valancourt.  'That is a 
young man of talents,' said he; 'you were formerly acquainted with 
him, I perceive.'  Emily said, that she was.  'He was introduced to 
me, at Paris,' said the Count, 'and I was much pleased with him, on 
our first acquaintance.'  He paused, and Emily trembled, between the 
desire of hearing more and the fear of shewing the Count, that she 
felt an interest on the subject.  'May I ask,' said he, at length, 
'how long you have known Monsieur Valancourt?'--'Will you allow me to 
ask your reason for the question, sir?' said she; 'and I will answer 
it immediately.'--'Certainly,' said the Count, 'that is but just.  I 
will tell you my reason.  I cannot but perceive, that Monsieur 
Valancourt admires you; in that, however, there is nothing 
extraordinary; every person, who sees you, must do the same.  I am 
above using common-place compliments; I speak with sincerity.  What I 
fear, is, that he is a favoured admirer.'--'Why do you fear it, sir?' 
said Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion.--'Because,' replied 
the Count, 'I think him not worthy of your favour.'  Emily, greatly 
agitated, entreated further explanation.  'I will give it,' said he, 
'if you will believe, that nothing but a strong interest in your 
welfare could induce me to hazard that assertion.'--'I must believe 
so, sir,' replied Emily.

'But let us rest under these trees,' said the Count, observing the 
paleness of her countenance; 'here is a seat--you are fatigued.'  
They sat down, and the Count proceeded.  'Many young ladies, 
circumstanced as you are, would think my conduct, on this occasion, 
and on so short an acquaintance, impertinent, instead of friendly; 
from what I have observed of your temper and understanding, I do not 
fear such a return from you.  Our acquaintance has been short, but 
long enough to make me esteem you, and feel a lively interest in your 
happiness.  You deserve to be very happy, and I trust that you will 
be so.'  Emily sighed softly, and bowed her thanks.  The Count paused 
again.  'I am unpleasantly circumstanced,' said he; 'but an 
opportunity of rendering you important service shall overcome 
inferior considerations.  Will you inform me of the manner of your 
first acquaintance with the Chevalier Valancourt, if the subject is 
not too painful?'

Emily briefly related the accident of their meeting in the presence 
of her father, and then so earnestly entreated the Count not to 
hesitate in declaring what he knew, that he perceived the violent 
emotion, against which she was contending, and, regarding her with a 
look of tender compassion, considered how he might communicate his 
information with least pain to his anxious auditor.

'The Chevalier and my son,' said he, 'were introduced to each other, 
at the table of a brother officer, at whose house I also met him, and 
invited him to my own, whenever he should be disengaged.  I did not 
then know, that he had formed an acquaintance with a set of men, a 
disgrace to their species, who live by plunder and pass their lives 
in continual debauchery.  I knew several of the Chevalier's family, 
resident at Paris, and considered them as sufficient pledges for his 
introduction to my own.  But you are ill; I will leave the subject.'-
-'No, sir,' said Emily, 'I beg you will proceed:  I am only 
distressed.'--'ONLY!' said the Count, with emphasis; 'however, I will 
proceed.  I soon learned, that these, his associates, had drawn him 
into a course of dissipation, from which he appeared to have neither 
the power, nor the inclination, to extricate himself.  He lost large 
sums at the gaming-table; he became infatuated with play; and was 
ruined.  I spoke tenderly of this to his friends, who assured me, 
that they had remonstrated with him, till they were weary.  I 
afterwards learned, that, in consideration of his talents for play, 
which were generally successful, when unopposed by the tricks of 
villany,--that in consideration of these, the party had initiated him 
into the secrets of their trade, and allotted him a share of their 
profits.'  'Impossible!' said Emily suddenly; 'but--pardon me, sir, I 
scarcely know what I say; allow for the distress of my mind.  I must, 
indeed, I must believe, that you have not been truly informed.  The 
Chevalier had, doubtless, enemies, who misrepresented him.'--'I 
should be most happy to believe so,' replied the Count, 'but I 
cannot.  Nothing short of conviction, and a regard for your 
happiness, could have urged me to repeat these unpleasant reports.'

Emily was silent.  She recollected Valancourt's sayings, on the 
preceding evening, which discovered the pangs of self-reproach, and 
seemed to confirm all that the Count had related.  Yet she had not 
fortitude enough to dare conviction.  Her heart was overwhelmed with 
anguish at the mere suspicion of his guilt, and she could not endure 
a belief of it.  After a silence, the Count said, 'I perceive, and 
can allow for, your want of conviction.  It is necessary I should 
give some proof of what I have asserted; but this I cannot do, 
without subjecting one, who is very dear to me, to danger.'--'What is 
the danger you apprehend, sir?' said Emily; 'if I can prevent it, you 
may safely confide in my honour.'--'On your honour I am certain I can 
rely,' said the Count; 'but can I trust your fortitude?  Do you think 
you can resist the solicitation of a favoured admirer, when he 
pleads, in affliction, for the name of one, who has robbed him of a 
blessing?'--'I shall not be exposed to such a temptation, sir,' said 
Emily, with modest pride, 'for I cannot favour one, whom I must no 
longer esteem.  I, however, readily give my word.'  Tears, in the 
mean time, contradicted her first assertion; and she felt, that time 
and effort only could eradicate an affection, which had been formed 
on virtuous esteem, and cherished by habit and difficulty.

'I will trust you then,' said the Count, 'for conviction is necessary 
to your peace, and cannot, I perceive, be obtained, without this 
confidence.  My son has too often been an eye-witness of the 
Chevalier's ill conduct; he was very near being drawn in by it; he 
was, indeed, drawn in to the commission of many follies, but I 
rescued him from guilt and destruction.  Judge then, Mademoiselle St. 
Aubert, whether a father, who had nearly lost his only son by the 
example of the Chevalier, has not, from conviction, reason to warn 
those, whom he esteems, against trusting their happiness in such 
hands.  I have myself seen the Chevalier engaged in deep play with 
men, whom I almost shuddered to look upon.  If you still doubt, I 
will refer you to my son.'

'I must not doubt what you have yourself witnessed,' replied Emily, 
sinking with grief, 'or what you assert.  But the Chevalier has, 
perhaps, been drawn only into a transient folly, which he may never 
repeat.  If you had known the justness of his former principles, you 
would allow for my present incredulity.'

'Alas!' observed the Count, 'it is difficult to believe that, which 
will make us wretched.  But I will not sooth you by flattering and 
false hopes.  We all know how fascinating the vice of gaming is, and 
how difficult it is, also, to conquer habits; the Chevalier might, 
perhaps, reform for a while, but he would soon relapse into 
dissipation--for I fear, not only the bonds of habit would be 
powerful, but that his morals are corrupted.  And--why should I 
conceal from you, that play is not his only vice? he appears to have 
a taste for every vicious pleasure.'

The Count hesitated and paused; while Emily endeavoured to support 
herself, as, with increasing perturbation, she expected what he might 
further say.  A long pause of silence ensued, during which he was 
visibly agitated; at length, he said, 'It would be a cruel delicacy, 
that could prevail with me to be silent--and I will inform you, that 
the Chevalier's extravagance has brought him twice into the prisons 
of Paris, from whence he was last extricated, as I was told upon 
authority, which I cannot doubt, by a well-known Parisian Countess, 
with whom he continued to reside, when I left Paris.'

He paused again; and, looking at Emily, perceived her countenance 
change, and that she was falling from the seat; he caught her, but 
she had fainted, and he called loudly for assistance.  They were, 
however, beyond the hearing of his servants at the chateau, and he 
feared to leave her while he went thither for assistance, yet knew 
not how otherwise to obtain it; till a fountain at no great distance 
caught his eye, and he endeavoured to support Emily against the tree, 
under which she had been sitting, while he went thither for water.  
But again he was perplexed, for he had nothing near him, in which 
water could be brought; but while, with increased anxiety, he watched 
her, he thought he perceived in her countenance symptoms of returning 
life.

It was long, however, before she revived, and then she found herself 
supported--not by the Count, but by Valancourt, who was observing her 
with looks of earnest apprehension, and who now spoke to her in a 
tone, tremulous with his anxiety.  At the sound of his well-known 
voice, she raised her eyes, but presently closed them, and a 
faintness again came over her.

The Count, with a look somewhat stern, waved him to withdraw; but he 
only sighed heavily, and called on the name of Emily, as he again 
held the water, that had been brought, to her lips.  On the Count's 
repeating his action, and accompanying it with words, Valancourt 
answered him with a look of deep resentment, and refused to leave the 
place, till she should revive, or to resign her for a moment to the 
care of any person.  In the next instant, his conscience seemed to 
inform him of what had been the subject of the Count's conversation 
with Emily, and indignation flashed in his eyes; but it was quickly 
repressed, and succeeded by an expression of serious anguish, that 
induced the Count to regard him with more pity than resentment, and 
the view of which so much affected Emily, when she again revived, 
that she yielded to the weakness of tears.  But she soon restrained 
them, and, exerting her resolution to appear recovered, she rose, 
thanked the Count and Henri, with whom Valancourt had entered the 
garden, for their care, and moved towards the chateau, without 
noticing Valancourt, who, heart-struck by her manner, exclaimed in a 
low voice--'Good God! how have I deserved this?--what has been said, 
to occasion this change?'

Emily, without replying, but with increased emotion, quickened her 
steps.  'What has thus disordered you, Emily?' said he, as he still 
walked by her side:  'give me a few moments' conversation, I entreat 
you;--I am very miserable!'

Though this was spoken in a low voice, it was overheard by the Count, 
who immediately replied, that Mademoiselle St. Aubert was then too 
much indisposed, to attend to any conversation, but that he would 
venture to promise she would see Monsieur Valancourt on the morrow, 
if she was better.

Valancourt's cheek was crimsoned:  he looked haughtily at the Count, 
and then at Emily, with successive expressions of surprise, grief and 
supplication, which she could neither misunderstand, or resist, and 
she said languidly--'I shall be better tomorrow, and if you wish to 
accept the Count's permission, I will see you then.'

'See me!' exclaimed Valancourt, as he threw a glance of mingled pride 
and resentment upon the Count; and then, seeming to recollect 
himself, he added--'But I will come, madam; I will accept the Count's 
PERMISSION.'

When they reached the door of the chateau, he lingered a moment, for 
his resentment was now fled; and then, with a look so expressive of 
tenderness and grief, that Emily's heart was not proof against it, he 
bade her good morning, and, bowing slightly to the Count, 
disappeared.

Emily withdrew to her own apartment, under such oppression of heart 
as she had seldom known, when she endeavoured to recollect all that 
the Count had told, to examine the probability of the circumstances 
he himself believed, and to consider of her future conduct towards 
Valancourt.  But, when she attempted to think, her mind refused 
controul, and she could only feel that she was miserable.  One 
moment, she sunk under the conviction, that Valancourt was no longer 
the same, whom she had so tenderly loved, the idea of whom had 
hitherto supported her under affliction, and cheered her with the 
hope of happier days,--but a fallen, a worthless character, whom she 
must teach herself to despise--if she could not forget.  Then, unable 
to endure this terrible supposition, she rejected it, and disdained 
to believe him capable of conduct, such as the Count had described, 
to whom she believed he had been misrepresented by some artful enemy; 
and there were moments, when she even ventured to doubt the integrity 
of the Count himself, and to suspect, that he was influenced by some 
selfish motive, to break her connection with Valancourt.  But this 
was the error of an instant, only; the Count's character, which she 
had heard spoken of by Du Pont and many other persons, and had 
herself observed, enabled her to judge, and forbade the supposition; 
had her confidence, indeed, been less, there appeared to be no 
temptation to betray him into conduct so treacherous, and so cruel.  
Nor did reflection suffer her to preserve the hope, that Valancourt 
had been mis-represented to the Count, who had said, that he spoke 
chiefly from his own observation, and from his son's experience.  She 
must part from Valancourt, therefore, for ever--for what of either 
happiness or tranquillity could she expect with a man, whose tastes 
were degenerated into low inclinations, and to whom vice was become 
habitual? whom she must no longer esteem, though the remembrance of 
what he once was, and the long habit of loving him, would render it 
very difficult for her to despise him.  'O Valancourt!' she would 
exclaim, 'having been separated so long--do we meet, only to be 
miserable--only to part for ever?'

Amidst all the tumult of her mind, she remembered pertinaciously the 
seeming candour and simplicity of his conduct, on the preceding 
night; and, had she dared to trust her own heart, it would have led 
her to hope much from this.  Still she could not resolve to dismiss 
him for ever, without obtaining further proof of his ill conduct; yet 
she saw no probability of procuring it, if, indeed, proof more 
positive was possible.  Something, however, it was necessary to 
decide upon, and she almost determined to be guided in her opinion 
solely by the manner, with which Valancourt should receive her hints 
concerning his late conduct.

Thus passed the hours till dinner-time, when Emily, struggling 
against the pressure of her grief, dried her tears, and joined the 
family at table, where the Count preserved towards her the most 
delicate attention; but the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn, having 
looked, for a moment, with surprise, on her dejected countenance, 
began, as usual, to talk of trifles, while the eyes of Lady Blanche 
asked much of her friend, who could only reply by a mournful smile.

Emily withdrew as soon after dinner as possible, and was followed by 
the Lady Blanche, whose anxious enquiries, however, she found herself 
quite unequal to answer, and whom she entreated to spare her on the 
subject of her distress.  To converse on any topic, was now, indeed, 
so extremely painful to her, that she soon gave up the attempt, and 
Blanche left her, with pity of the sorrow, which she perceived she 
had no power to assuage.

Emily secretly determined to go to her convent in a day or two; for 
company, especially that of the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn, was 
intolerable to her, in the present state of her spirits; and, in the 
retirement of the convent, as well as the kindness of the abbess, she 
hoped to recover the command of her mind, and to teach it resignation 
to the event, which, she too plainly perceived, was approaching.

To have lost Valancourt by death, or to have seen him married to a 
rival, would, she thought, have given her less anguish, than a 
conviction of his unworthiness, which must terminate in misery to 
himself, and which robbed her even of the solitary image her heart so 
long had cherished.  These painful reflections were interrupted, for 
a moment, by a note from Valancourt, written in evident distraction 
of mind, entreating, that she would permit him to see her on the 
approaching evening, instead of the following morning; a request, 
which occasioned her so much agitation, that she was unable to answer 
it.  She wished to see him, and to terminate her present state of 
suspense, yet shrunk from the interview, and, incapable of deciding 
for herself, she, at length, sent to beg a few moments' conversation 
with the Count in his library, where she delivered to him the note, 
and requested his advice.  After reading it, he said, that, if she 
believed herself well enough to support the interview, his opinion 
was, that, for the relief of both parties, it ought to take place, 
that evening.

'His affection for you is, undoubtedly, a very sincere one,' added 
the Count; 'and he appears so much distressed, and you, my amiable 
friend, are so ill at ease--that the sooner the affair is decided, 
the better.'

Emily replied, therefore, to Valancourt, that she would see him, and 
then exerted herself in endeavours to attain fortitude and composure, 
to bear her through the approaching scene--a scene so afflictingly 
the reverse of any, to which she had looked forward!




VOLUME 4



CHAPTER I


  Is all the council that we two have shared,
     the hours that we have spent,
 When we have chid the hasty-footed time
 For parting us--Oh! and is all forgot?

 And will you rend our ancient love asunder?
     MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

In the evening, when Emily was at length informed, that Count De 
Villefort requested to see her, she guessed that Valancourt was 
below, and, endeavouring to assume composure and to recollect all her 
spirits, she rose and left the apartment; but on reaching the door of 
the library, where she imagined him to be, her emotion returned with 
such energy, that, fearing to trust herself in the room, she returned 
into the hall, where she continued for a considerable time, unable to 
command her agitated spirits.

When she could recall them, she found in the library Valancourt, 
seated with the Count, who both rose on her entrance; but she did not 
dare to look at Valancourt, and the Count, having led her to a chair, 
immediately withdrew.

Emily remained with her eyes fixed on the floor, under such 
oppression of heart, that she could not speak, and with difficulty 
breathed; while Valancourt threw himself into a chair beside her, 
and, sighing heavily, continued silent, when, had she raised her 
eyes, she would have perceived the violent emotions, with which he 
was agitated.

At length, in a tremulous voice, he said, 'I have solicited to see 
you this evening, that I might, at least, be spared the further 
torture of suspense, which your altered manner had occasioned me, and 
which the hints I have just received from the Count have in part 
explained.  I perceive I have enemies, Emily, who envied me my late 
happiness, and who have been busy in searching out the means to 
destroy it:  I perceive, too, that time and absence have weakened the 
affection you once felt for me, and that you can now easily be taught 
to forget me.'

His last words faltered, and Emily, less able to speak than before, 
continued silent.

'O what a meeting is this!' exclaimed Valancourt, starting from his 
seat, and pacing the room with hurried steps, 'what a meeting is 
this, after our long--long separation!'  Again he sat down, and, 
after the struggle of a moment, he added in a firm but despairing 
tone, 'This is too much--I cannot bear it!  Emily, will you not speak 
to me?'

He covered his face with his hand, as if to conceal his emotion, and 
took Emily's, which she did not withdraw.  Her tears could no longer 
be restrained; and, when he raised his eyes and perceived that she 
was weeping, all his tenderness returned, and a gleam of hope 
appeared to cross his mind, for he exclaimed, 'O! you do pity me, 
then, you do love me!  Yes, you are still my own Emily--let me 
believe those tears, that tell me so!'

Emily now made an effort to recover her firmness, and, hastily drying 
them, 'Yes,' said she, 'I do pity you--I weep for you--but, ought I 
to think of you with affection?  You may remember, that yester-
evening I said, I had still sufficient confidence in your candour to 
believe, that, when I should request an explanation of your words, 
you would give it.  This explanation is now unnecessary, I understand 
them too well; but prove, at least, that your candour is deserving of 
the confidence I give it, when I ask you, whether you are conscious 
of being the same estimable Valancourt--whom I once loved.'

'Once loved!' cried he,--'the same--the same!'  He paused in extreme 
emotion, and then added, in a voice at once solemn, and dejected,--
'No--I am not the same!--I am lost--I am no longer worthy of you!'

He again concealed his face.  Emily was too much affected by this 
honest confession to reply immediately, and, while she struggled to 
overcome the pleadings of her heart, and to act with the decisive 
firmness, which was necessary for her future peace, she perceived all 
the danger of trusting long to her resolution, in the presence of 
Valancourt, and was anxious to conclude an interview, that tortured 
them both; yet, when she considered, that this was probably their 
last meeting, her fortitude sunk at once, and she experienced only 
emotions of tenderness and of despondency.

Valancourt, meanwhile, lost in emotions of remorse and grief, which 
he had neither the power, or the will to express, sat insensible 
almost of the presence of Emily, his features still concealed, and 
his breast agitated by convulsive sighs.

'Spare me the necessity,' said Emily, recollecting her fortitude, 
'spare me the necessity of mentioning those circumstances of your 
conduct, which oblige me to break our connection forever.--We must 
part, I now see you for the last time.'

'Impossible!' cried Valancourt, roused from his deep silence, 'You 
cannot mean what you say!--you cannot mean to throw me from you 
forever!'

'We must part,' repeated Emily, with emphasis,--'and that forever!  
Your own conduct has made this necessary.'

'This is the Count's determination,' said he haughtily, 'not yours, 
and I shall enquire by what authority he interferes between us.'  He 
now rose, and walked about the room in great emotion.

'Let me save you from this error,' said Emily, not less agitated--'it 
is my determination, and, if you reflect a moment on your late 
conduct, you will perceive, that my future peace requires it.'

'Your future peace requires, that we should part--part forever!' said 
Valancourt, 'How little did I ever expect to hear you say so!'

'And how little did I expect, that it would be necessary for me to 
say so!' rejoined Emily, while her voice softened into tenderness, 
and her tears flowed again.--'That you--you, Valancourt, would ever 
fall from my esteem!'

He was silent a moment, as if overwhelmed by the consciousness of no 
longer deserving this esteem, as well as the certainty of having lost 
it, and then, with impassioned grief, lamented the criminality of his 
late conduct and the misery to which it had reduced him, till, 
overcome by a recollection of the past and a conviction of the 
future, he burst into tears, and uttered only deep and broken sighs.

The remorse he had expressed, and the distress he suffered could not 
be witnessed by Emily with indifference, and, had she not called to 
her recollection all the circumstances, of which Count De Villefort 
had informed her, and all he had said of the danger of confiding in 
repentance, formed under the influence of passion, she might perhaps 
have trusted to the assurances of her heart, and have forgotten his 
misconduct in the tenderness, which that repentance excited.

Valancourt, returning to the chair beside her, at length, said, in a 
calm voice, ''Tis true, I am fallen--fallen from my own esteem! but 
could you, Emily, so soon, so suddenly resign, if you had not before 
ceased to love me, or, if your conduct was not governed by the 
designs, I will say, the selfish designs of another person!  Would 
you not otherwise be willing to hope for my reformation--and could 
you bear, by estranging me from you, to abandon me to misery--to 
myself!'--Emily wept aloud.--'No, Emily--no--you would not do this, 
if you still loved me.  You would find your own happiness in saving 
mine.'

'There are too many probabilities against that hope,' said Emily, 'to 
justify me in trusting the comfort of my whole life to it.  May I not 
also ask, whether you could wish me to do this, if you really loved 
me?'

'Really loved you!' exclaimed Valancourt--'is it possible you can 
doubt my love!  Yet it is reasonable, that you should do so, since 
you see, that I am less ready to suffer the horror of parting with 
you, than that of involving you in my ruin.  Yes, Emily--I am ruined-
-irreparably ruined--I am involved in debts, which I can never 
discharge!'  Valancourt's look, which was wild, as he spoke this, 
soon settled into an expression of gloomy despair; and Emily, while 
she was compelled to admire his sincerity, saw, with unutterable 
anguish, new reasons for fear in the suddenness of his feelings and 
the extent of the misery, in which they might involve him.  After 
some minutes, she seemed to contend against her grief and to struggle 
for fortitude to conclude the interview.  'I will not prolong these 
moments,' said she, 'by a conversation, which can answer no good 
purpose.  Valancourt, farewell!'

'You are not going?' said he, wildly interrupting her--'You will not 
leave me thus--you will not abandon me even before my mind has 
suggested any possibility of compromise between the last indulgence 
of my despair and the endurance of my loss!'  Emily was terrified by 
the sternness of his look, and said, in a soothing voice, 'You have 
yourself acknowledged, that it is necessary we should part;--if you 
wish, that I should believe you love me, you will repeat the 
acknowledgment.'--'Never--never,' cried he--'I was distracted when I 
made it.  O! Emily--this is too much;--though you are not deceived as 
to my faults, you must be deluded into this exasperation against 
them.  The Count is the barrier between us; but he shall not long 
remain so.'

'You are, indeed, distracted,' said Emily, 'the Count is not your 
enemy; on the contrary, he is my friend, and that might, in some 
degree, induce you to consider him as yours.'--'Your friend!' said 
Valancourt, hastily, 'how long has he been your friend, that he can 
so easily make you forget your lover?  Was it he, who recommended to 
your favour the Monsieur Du Pont, who, you say, accompanied you from 
Italy, and who, I say, has stolen your affections?  But I have no 
right to question you;--you are your own mistress.  Du Pont, perhaps, 
may not long triumph over my fallen fortunes!'  Emily, more 
frightened than before by the frantic looks of Valancourt, said, in a 
tone scarcely audible, 'For heaven's sake be reasonable--be composed.  
Monsieur Du Pont is not your rival, nor is the Count his advocate.  
You have no rival; nor, except yourself, an enemy.  My heart is wrung 
with anguish, which must increase while your frantic behaviour shews 
me, more than ever, that you are no longer the Valancourt I have been 
accustomed to love.'

He made no reply, but sat with his arms rested on the table and his 
face concealed by his hands; while Emily stood, silent and trembling, 
wretched for herself and dreading to leave him in this state of mind.

'O excess of misery!' he suddenly exclaimed, 'that I can never lament 
my sufferings, without accusing myself, nor remember you, without 
recollecting the folly and the vice, by which I have lost you!  Why 
was I forced to Paris, and why did I yield to allurements, which were 
to make me despicable for ever!  O! why cannot I look back, without 
interruption, to those days of innocence and peace, the days of our 
early love!'--The recollection seemed to melt his heart, and the 
frenzy of despair yielded to tears.  After a long pause, turning 
towards her and taking her hand, he said, in a softened voice, 
'Emily, can you bear that we should part--can you resolve to give up 
an heart, that loves you like mine--an heart, which, though it has 
erred--widely erred, is not irretrievable from error, as, you well 
know, it never can be retrievable from love?'  Emily made no reply, 
but with her tears.  'Can you,' continued he, 'can you forget all our 
former days of happiness and confidence--when I had not a thought, 
that I might wish to conceal from you--when I had no taste--no 
pleasures, in which you did not participate?'

'O do not lead me to the remembrance of those days,' said Emily, 
'unless you can teach me to forget the present; I do not mean to 
reproach you; if I did, I should be spared these tears; but why will 
you render your present sufferings more conspicuous, by contrasting 
them with your former virtues?'

'Those virtues,' said Valancourt, 'might, perhaps, again be mine, if 
your affection, which nurtured them, was unchanged;--but I fear, 
indeed, I see, that you can no longer love me; else the happy hours, 
which we have passed together, would plead for me, and you could not 
look back upon them unmoved.  Yet, why should I torture myself with 
the remembrance--why do I linger here?  Am I not ruined--would it not 
be madness to involve you in my misfortunes, even if your heart was 
still my own?  I will not distress you further.  Yet, before I go,' 
added he, in a solemn voice, 'let me repeat, that, whatever may be my 
destiny--whatever I may be doomed to suffer, I must always love you--
most fondly love you!  I am going, Emily, I am going to leave you--to 
leave you, forever!'  As he spoke the last words, his voice trembled, 
and he threw himself again into the chair, from which he had risen.  
Emily was utterly unable to leave the room, or to say farewell.  All 
impression of his criminal conduct and almost of his follies was 
obliterated from her mind, and she was sensible only of pity and 
grief.

'My fortitude is gone,' said Valancourt at length; 'I can no longer 
even struggle to recall it.  I cannot now leave you--I cannot bid you 
an eternal farewell; say, at least, that you will see me once again.'  
Emily's heart was somewhat relieved by the request, and she 
endeavoured to believe, that she ought not to refuse it.  Yet she was 
embarrassed by recollecting, that she was a visitor in the house of 
the Count, who could not be pleased by the return of Valancourt.  
Other considerations, however, soon overcame this, and she granted 
his request, on the condition, that he would neither think of the 
Count, as his enemy, nor Du Pont as his rival.  He then left her, 
with a heart, so much lightened by this short respite, that he almost 
lost every former sense of misfortune.

Emily withdrew to her own room, that she might compose her spirits 
and remove the traces of her tears, which would encourage the 
censorious remarks of the Countess and her favourite, as well as 
excite the curiosity of the rest of the family.  She found it, 
however, impossible to tranquillize her mind, from which she could 
not expel the remembrance of the late scene with Valancourt, or the 
consciousness, that she was to see him again, on the morrow.  This 
meeting now appeared more terrible to her than the last, for the 
ingenuous confession he had made of his ill conduct and his 
embarrassed circumstances, with the strength and tenderness of 
affection, which this confession discovered, had deeply impressed 
her, and, in spite of all she had heard and believed to his 
disadvantage, her esteem began to return.  It frequently appeared to 
her impossible, that he could have been guilty of the depravities, 
reported of him, which, if not inconsistent with his warmth and 
impetuosity, were entirely so with his candour and sensibility.  
Whatever was the criminality, which had given rise to the reports, 
she could not now believe them to be wholly true, nor that his heart 
was finally closed against the charms of virtue.  The deep 
consciousness, which he felt as well as expressed of his errors, 
seemed to justify the opinion; and, as she understood not the 
instability of youthful dispositions, when opposed by habit, and that 
professions frequently deceive those, who make, as well as those, who 
hear them, she might have yielded to the flattering persuasions of 
her own heart and the pleadings of Valancourt, had she not been 
guided by the superior prudence of the Count.  He represented to her, 
in a clear light, the danger of her present situation, that of 
listening to promises of amendment, made under the influence of 
strong passion, and the slight hope, which could attach to a 
connection, whose chance of happiness rested upon the retrieval of 
ruined circumstances and the reform of corrupted habits.  On these 
accounts, he lamented, that Emily had consented to a second 
interview, for he saw how much it would shake her resolution and 
increase the difficulty of her conquest.

Her mind was now so entirely occupied by nearer interests, that she 
forgot the old housekeeper and the promised history, which so lately 
had excited her curiosity, but which Dorothee was probably not very 
anxious to disclose, for night came; the hours passed; and she did 
not appear in Emily's chamber.  With the latter it was a sleepless 
and dismal night; the more she suffered her memory to dwell on the 
late scenes with Valancourt, the more her resolution declined, and 
she was obliged to recollect all the arguments, which the Count had 
made use of to strengthen it, and all the precepts, which she had 
received from her deceased father, on the subject of self-command, to 
enable her to act, with prudence and dignity, on this the most severe 
occasion of her life.  There were moments, when all her fortitude 
forsook her, and when, remembering the confidence of former times, 
she thought it impossible, that she could renounce Valancourt.  His 
reformation then appeared certain; the arguments of Count De 
Villefort were forgotten; she readily believed all she wished, and 
was willing to encounter any evil, rather than that of an immediate 
separation.

Thus passed the night in ineffectual struggles between affection and 
reason, and she rose, in the morning, with a mind, weakened and 
irresolute, and a frame, trembling with illness.



CHAPTER II


 Come, weep with me;--past hope, past cure, past help!
     ROMEO AND JULIET

Valancourt, meanwhile, suffered the tortures of remorse and despair.  
The sight of Emily had renewed all the ardour, with which he first 
loved her, and which had suffered a temporary abatement from absence 
and the passing scenes of busy life.  When, on the receipt of her 
letter, he set out for Languedoc, he then knew, that his own folly 
had involved him in ruin, and it was no part of his design to conceal 
this from her.  But he lamented only the delay which his ill-conduct 
must give to their marriage, and did not foresee, that the 
information could induce her to break their connection forever.  
While the prospect of this separation overwhelmed his mind, before 
stung with self-reproach, he awaited their second interview, in a 
state little short of distraction, yet was still inclined to hope, 
that his pleadings might prevail upon her not to exact it.  In the 
morning, he sent to know at what hour she would see him; and his note 
arrived, when she was with the Count, who had sought an opportunity 
of again conversing with her of Valancourt; for he perceived the 
extreme distress of her mind, and feared, more than ever, that her 
fortitude would desert her.  Emily having dismissed the messenger, 
the Count returned to the subject of their late conversation, urging 
his fear of Valancourt's entreaties, and again pointing out to her 
the lengthened misery, that must ensue, if she should refuse to 
encounter some present uneasiness.  His repeated arguments could, 
indeed, alone have protected her from the affection she still felt 
for Valancourt, and she resolved to be governed by them.

The hour of interview, at length, arrived.  Emily went to it, at 
least, with composure of manner, but Valancourt was so much agitated, 
that he could not speak, for several minutes, and his first words 
were alternately those of lamentation, entreaty, and self-reproach.  
Afterward, he said, 'Emily, I have loved you--I do love you, better 
than my life; but I am ruined by my own conduct.  Yet I would seek to 
entangle you in a connection, that must be miserable for you, rather 
than subject myself to the punishment, which is my due, the loss of 
you.  I am a wretch, but I will be a villain no longer.--I will not 
endeavour to shake your resolution by the pleadings of a selfish 
passion.  I resign you, Emily, and will endeavour to find consolation 
in considering, that, though I am miserable, you, at least, may be 
happy.  The merit of the sacrifice is, indeed, not my own, for I 
should never have attained strength of mind to surrender you, if your 
prudence had not demanded it.'

He paused a moment, while Emily attempted to conceal the tears, which 
came to her eyes.  She would have said, 'You speak now, as you were 
wont to do,' but she checked herself.--'Forgive me, Emily,' said he, 
'all the sufferings I have occasioned you, and, sometimes, when you 
think of the wretched Valancourt, remember, that his only consolation 
would be to believe, that you are no longer unhappy by his folly.'  
The tears now fell fast upon her cheek, and he was relapsing into the 
phrensy of despair, when Emily endeavoured to recall her fortitude 
and to terminate an interview, which only seemed to increase the 
distress of both.  Perceiving her tears and that she was rising to 
go, Valancourt struggled, once more, to overcome his own feelings and 
to sooth hers.  'The remembrance of this sorrow,' said he, 'shall in 
future be my protection.  O! never again will example, or temptation 
have power to seduce me to evil, exalted as I shall be by the 
recollection of your grief for me.'

Emily was somewhat comforted by this assurance.  'We are now parting 
for ever,' said she; 'but, if my happiness is dear to you, you will 
always remember, that nothing can contribute to it more, than to 
believe, that you have recovered your own esteem.'  Valancourt took 
her hand;--his eyes were covered with tears, and the farewell he 
would have spoken was lost in sighs.  After a few moments, Emily 
said, with difficulty and emotion, 'Farewell, Valancourt, may you be 
happy!'  She repeated her 'farewell,' and attempted to withdraw her 
hand, but he still held it and bathed it with his tears.  'Why 
prolong these moments?' said Emily, in a voice scarcely audible, 
'they are too painful to us both.'  'This is too--too much,' 
exclaimed Valancourt, resigning her hand and throwing himself into a 
chair, where he covered his face with his hands and was overcome, for 
some moments, by convulsive sighs.  After a long pause, during which 
Emily wept in silence, and Valancourt seemed struggling with his 
grief, she again rose to take leave of him.  Then, endeavouring to 
recover his composure, 'I am again afflicting you,' said he, 'but let 
the anguish I suffer plead for me.'  He then added, in a solemn 
voice, which frequently trembled with the agitation of his heart, 
'Farewell, Emily, you will always be the only object of my 
tenderness.  Sometimes you will think of the unhappy Valancourt, and 
it will be with pity, though it may not be with esteem.  O! what is 
the whole world to me, without you--without your esteem!'  He checked 
himself--'I am falling again into the error I have just lamented.  I 
must not intrude longer upon your patience, or I shall relapse into 
despair.'

He once more bade Emily adieu, pressed her hand to his lips, looked 
at her, for the last time, and hurried out of the room.

Emily remained in the chair, where he had left her, oppressed with a 
pain at her heart, which scarcely permitted her to breathe, and 
listening to his departing steps, sinking fainter and fainter, as he 
crossed the hall.  She was, at length, roused by the voice of the 
Countess in the garden, and, her attention being then awakened, the 
first object, which struck her sight, was the vacant chair, where 
Valancourt had sat.  The tears, which had been, for some time, 
repressed by the kind of astonishment, that followed his departure, 
now came to her relief, and she was, at length, sufficiently composed 
to return to her own room.



CHAPTER III


  This is no mortal business, nor no sound
 That the earth owes!
     SHAKESPEARE

We now return to the mention of Montoni, whose rage and 
disappointment were soon lost in nearer interests, than any, which 
the unhappy Emily had awakened.  His depredations having exceeded 
their usual limits, and reached an extent, at which neither the 
timidity of the then commercial senate of Venice, nor their hope of 
his occasional assistance would permit them to connive, the same 
effort, it was resolved, should complete the suppression of his power 
and the correction of his outrages.  While a corps of considerable 
strength was upon the point of receiving orders to march for Udolpho, 
a young officer, prompted partly by resentment, for some injury, 
received from Montoni, and partly by the hope of distinction, 
solicited an interview with the Minister, who directed the 
enterprise.  To him he represented, that the situation of Udolpho 
rendered it too strong to be taken by open force, except after some 
tedious operations; that Montoni had lately shewn how capable he was 
of adding to its strength all the advantages, which could be derived 
from the skill of a commander; that so considerable a body of troops, 
as that allotted to the expedition, could not approach Udolpho 
without his knowledge, and that it was not for the honour of the 
republic to have a large part of its regular force employed, for such 
a time as the siege of Udolpho would require, upon the attack of a 
handful of banditti.  The object of the expedition, he thought, might 
be accomplished much more safely and speedily by mingling contrivance 
with force.  It was possible to meet Montoni and his party, without 
their walls, and to attack them then; or, by approaching the 
fortress, with the secrecy, consistent with the march of smaller 
bodies of troops, to take advantage either of the treachery, or 
negligence of some of his party, and to rush unexpectedly upon the 
whole even in the castle of Udolpho.

This advice was seriously attended to, and the officer, who gave it, 
received the command of the troops, demanded for his purpose.  His 
first efforts were accordingly those of contrivance alone.  In the 
neighbourhood of Udolpho, he waited, till he had secured the 
assistance of several of the condottieri, of whom he found none, that 
he addressed, unwilling to punish their imperious master and to 
secure their own pardon from the senate.  He learned also the number 
of Montoni's troops, and that it had been much increased, since his 
late successes.  The conclusion of his plan was soon effected.  
Having returned with his party, who received the watch-word and other 
assistance from their friends within, Montoni and his officers were 
surprised by one division, who had been directed to their apartment, 
while the other maintained the slight combat, which preceded the 
surrender of the whole garrison.  Among the persons, seized with 
Montoni, was Orsino, the assassin, who had joined him on his first 
arrival at Udolpho, and whose concealment had been made known to the 
senate by Count Morano, after the unsuccessful attempt of the latter 
to carry off Emily.  It was, indeed, partly for the purpose of 
capturing this man, by whom one of the senate had been murdered, that 
the expedition was undertaken, and its success was so acceptable to 
them, that Morano was instantly released, notwithstanding the 
political suspicions, which Montoni, by his secret accusation, had 
excited against him.  The celerity and ease, with which this whole 
transaction was completed, prevented it from attracting curiosity, or 
even from obtaining a place in any of the published records of that 
time; so that Emily, who remained in Languedoc, was ignorant of the 
defeat and signal humiliation of her late persecutor.

Her mind was now occupied with sufferings, which no effort of reason 
had yet been able to controul.  Count De Villefort, who sincerely 
attempted whatever benevolence could suggest for softening them, 
sometimes allowed her the solitude she wished for, sometimes led her 
into friendly parties, and constantly protected her, as much as 
possible, from the shrewd enquiries and critical conversation of the 
Countess.  He often invited her to make excursions, with him and his 
daughter, during which he conversed entirely on questions, suitable 
to her taste, without appearing to consult it, and thus endeavoured 
gradually to withdraw her from the subject of her grief, and to awake 
other interests in her mind.  Emily, to whom he appeared as the 
enlightened friend and protector of her youth, soon felt for him the 
tender affection of a daughter, and her heart expanded to her young 
friend Blanche, as to a sister, whose kindness and simplicity 
compensated for the want of more brilliant qualities.  It was long 
before she could sufficiently abstract her mind from Valancourt to 
listen to the story, promised by old Dorothee, concerning which her 
curiosity had once been so deeply interested; but Dorothee, at 
length, reminded her of it, and Emily desired, that she would come, 
that night, to her chamber.

Still her thoughts were employed by considerations, which weakened 
her curiosity, and Dorothee's tap at the door, soon after twelve, 
surprised her almost as much as if it had not been appointed.  'I am 
come, at last, lady,' said she; 'I wonder what it is makes my old 
limbs shake so, to-night.  I thought, once or twice, I should have 
dropped, as I was a-coming.'  Emily seated her in a chair, and 
desired, that she would compose her spirits, before she entered upon 
the subject, that had brought her thither.  'Alas,' said Dorothee, 
'it is thinking of that, I believe, which has disturbed me so.  In my 
way hither too, I passed the chamber, where my dear lady died, and 
every thing was so still and gloomy about me, that I almost fancied I 
saw her, as she appeared upon her death-bed.'

Emily now drew her chair near to Dorothee, who went on.  'It is about 
twenty years since my lady Marchioness came a bride to the chateau.  
O! I well remember how she looked, when she came into the great hall, 
where we servants were all assembled to welcome her, and how happy my 
lord the Marquis seemed.  Ah! who would have thought then!--But, as I 
was saying, ma'amselle, I thought the Marchioness, with all her sweet 
looks, did not look happy at heart, and so I told my husband, and he 
said it was all fancy; so I said no more, but I made my remarks, for 
all that.  My lady Marchioness was then about your age, and, as I 
have often thought, very like you.  Well! my lord the Marquis kept 
open house, for a long time, and gave such entertainments and there 
were such gay doings as have never been in the chateau since.  I was 
younger, ma'amselle, then, than I am now, and was as gay at the best 
of them.  I remember I danced with Philip, the butler, in a pink 
gown, with yellow ribbons, and a coif, not such as they wear now, but 
plaited high, with ribbons all about it.  It was very becoming 
truly;--my lord, the Marquis, noticed me.  Ah! he was a good-natured 
gentleman then--who would have thought that he!'--

'But the Marchioness, Dorothee,' said Emily, 'you was telling me of 
her.'

'O yes, my lady Marchioness, I thought she did not seem happy at 
heart, and once, soon after the marriage, I caught her crying in her 
chamber; but, when she saw me, she dried her eyes, and pretended to 
smile.  I did not dare then to ask what was the matter; but, the next 
time I saw her crying, I did, and she seemed displeased;--so I said 
no more.  I found out, some time after, how it was.  Her father, it 
seems, had commanded her to marry my lord, the Marquis, for his 
money, and there was another nobleman, or else a chevalier, that she 
liked better and that was very fond of her, and she fretted for the 
loss of him, I fancy, but she never told me so.  My lady always tried 
to conceal her tears from the Marquis, for I have often seen her, 
after she has been so sorrowful, look so calm and sweet, when he came 
into the room!  But my lord, all of a sudden, grew gloomy and 
fretful, and very unkind sometimes to my lady.  This afflicted her 
very much, as I saw, for she never complained, and she used to try so 
sweetly to oblige him and to bring him into a good humour, that my 
heart has often ached to see it.  But he used to be stubborn, and 
give her harsh answers, and then, when she found it all in vain, she 
would go to her own room, and cry so!  I used to hear her in the 
anti-room, poor dear lady! but I seldom ventured to go to her.  I 
used, sometimes, to think my lord was jealous.  To be sure my lady 
was greatly admired, but she was too good to deserve suspicion.  
Among the many chevaliers, that visited at the chateau, there was 
one, that I always thought seemed just suited for my lady; he was so 
courteous, yet so spirited, and there was such a grace, as it were, 
in all he did, or said.  I always observed, that, whenever he had 
been there, the Marquis was more gloomy and my lady more thoughtful, 
and it came into my head, that this was the chevalier she ought to 
have married, but I never could learn for certain.'

'What was the chevalier's name, Dorothee?' said Emily.

'Why that I will not tell even to you, ma'amselle, for evil may come 
of it.  I once heard from a person, who is since dead, that the 
Marchioness was not in law the wife of the Marquis, for that she had 
before been privately married to the gentleman she was so much 
attached to, and was afterwards afraid to own it to her father, who 
was a very stern man; but this seems very unlikely, and I never gave 
much faith to it.  As I was saying, the Marquis was most out of 
humour, as I thought, when the chevalier I spoke of had been at the 
chateau, and, at last, his ill treatment of my lady made her quite 
miserable.  He would see hardly any visitors at the castle, and made 
her live almost by herself.  I was her constant attendant, and saw 
all she suffered, but still she never complained.

'After matters had gone on thus, for near a year, my lady was taken 
ill, and I thought her long fretting had made her so,--but, alas! I 
fear it was worse than that.'

'Worse! Dorothee,' said Emily, 'can that be possible?'

'I fear it was so, madam, there were strange appearances.  But I will 
only tell what happened.  My lord, the Marquis--'

'Hush, Dorothee, what sounds were those?' said Emily.

Dorothee changed countenance, and, while they both listened, they 
heard, on the stillness of the night, music of uncommon sweetness.

'I have surely heard that voice before!' said Emily, at length.

'I have often heard it, and at this same hour,' said Dorothee, 
solemnly, 'and, if spirits ever bring music--that is surely the music 
of one!'

Emily, as the sounds drew nearer, knew them to be the same she had 
formerly heard at the time of her father's death, and, whether it was 
the remembrance they now revived of that melancholy event, or that 
she was struck with superstitious awe, it is certain she was so much 
affected, that she had nearly fainted.

'I think I once told you, madam,' said Dorothee, 'that I first heard 
this music, soon after my lady's death!  I well remember the night!'-
-

'Hark! it comes again!' said Emily, 'let us open the window, and 
listen.'

They did so; but, soon, the sounds floated gradually away into 
distance, and all was again still; they seemed to have sunk among the 
woods, whose tufted tops were visible upon the clear horizon, while 
every other feature of the scene was involved in the night-shade, 
which, however, allowed the eye an indistinct view of some objects in 
the garden below.

As Emily leaned on the window, gazing with a kind of thrilling awe 
upon the obscurity beneath, and then upon the cloudless arch above, 
enlightened only by the stars, Dorothee, in a low voice, resumed her 
narrative.

'I was saying, ma'amselle, that I well remember when first I heard 
that music.  It was one night, soon after my lady's death, that I had 
sat up later than usual, and I don't know how it was, but I had been 
thinking a great deal about my poor mistress, and of the sad scene I 
had lately witnessed.  The chateau was quite still, and I was in the 
chamber at a good distance from the rest of the servants, and this, 
with the mournful things I had been thinking of, I suppose, made me 
low spirited, for I felt very lonely and forlorn, as it were, and 
listened often, wishing to hear a sound in the chateau, for you know, 
ma'amselle, when one can hear people moving, one does not so much 
mind, about one's fears.  But all the servants were gone to bed, and 
I sat, thinking and thinking, till I was almost afraid to look round 
the room, and my poor lady's countenance often came to my mind, such 
as I had seen her when she was dying, and, once or twice, I almost 
thought I saw her before me,--when suddenly I heard such sweet music!  
It seemed just at my window, and I shall never forget what I felt.  I 
had not power to move from my chair, but then, when I thought it was 
my dear lady's voice, the tears came to my eyes.  I had often heard 
her sing, in her life-time, and to be sure she had a very fine voice; 
it had made me cry to hear her, many a time, when she has sat in her 
oriel, of an evening, playing upon her lute such sad songs, and 
singing so.  O! it went to one's heart!  I have listened in the anti-
chamber, for the hour together, and she would sometimes sit playing, 
with the window open, when it was summer time, till it was quite 
dark, and when I have gone in, to shut it, she has hardly seemed to 
know what hour it was.  But, as I said, madam,' continued Dorothee, 
'when first I heard the music, that came just now, I thought it was 
my late lady's, and I have often thought so again, when I have heard 
it, as I have done at intervals, ever since.  Sometimes, many months 
have gone by, but still it has returned.'

'It is extraordinary,' observed Emily, 'that no person has yet 
discovered the musician.'

'Aye, ma'amselle, if it had been any thing earthly it would have been 
discovered long ago, but who could have courage to follow a spirit, 
and if they had, what good could it do?--for spirits, YOU KNOW, 
ma'am, can take any shape, or no shape, and they will be here, one 
minute, and, the next perhaps, in a quite different place!'

'Pray resume your story of the Marchioness,' said Emily, 'and 
acquaint me with the manner of her death.'

'I will, ma'am,' said Dorothee, 'but shall we leave the window?'

'This cool air refreshes me,' replied Emily, 'and I love to hear it 
creep along the woods, and to look upon this dusky landscape.  You 
was speaking of my lord, the Marquis, when the music interrupted us.'

'Yes, madam, my lord, the Marquis, became more and more gloomy; and 
my lady grew worse and worse, till, one night, she was taken very 
ill, indeed.  I was called up, and, when I came to her bedside, I was 
shocked to see her countenance--it was so changed!  She looked 
piteously up at me, and desired I would call the Marquis again, for 
he was not yet come, and tell him she had something particular to say 
to him.  At last, he came, and he did, to be sure, seem very sorry to 
see her, but he said very little.  My lady told him she felt herself 
to be dying, and wished to speak with him alone, and then I left the 
room, but I shall never forget his look as I went.'

'When I returned, I ventured to remind my lord about sending for a 
doctor, for I supposed he had forgot to do so, in his grief; but my 
lady said it was then too late; but my lord, so far from thinking so, 
seemed to think light of her disorder--till she was seized with such 
terrible pains!  O, I never shall forget her shriek!  My lord then 
sent off a man and horse for the doctor, and walked about the room 
and all over the chateau in the greatest distress; and I staid by my 
dear lady, and did what I could to ease her sufferings.  She had 
intervals of ease, and in one of these she sent for my lord again; 
when he came, I was going, but she desired I would not leave her.  O!  
I shall never forget what a scene passed--I can hardly bear to think 
of it now!  My lord was almost distracted, for my lady behaved with 
so much goodness, and took such pains to comfort him, that, if he 
ever had suffered a suspicion to enter his head, he must now have 
been convinced he was wrong.  And to be sure he did seem to be 
overwhelmed with the thought of his treatment of her, and this 
affected her so much, that she fainted away.

'We then got my lord out of the room; he went into his library, and 
threw himself on the floor, and there he staid, and would hear no 
reason, that was talked to him.  When my lady recovered, she enquired 
for him, but, afterwards, said she could not bear to see his grief, 
and desired we would let her die quietly.  She died in my arms, 
ma'amselle, and she went off as peacefully as a child, for all the 
violence of her disorder was passed.'

Dorothee paused, and wept, and Emily wept with her; for she was much 
affected by the goodness of the late Marchioness, and by the meek 
patience, with which she had suffered.

'When the doctor came,' resumed Dorothee, 'alas! he came too late; he 
appeared greatly shocked to see her, for soon after her death a 
frightful blackness spread all over her face.  When he had sent the 
attendants out of the room, he asked me several odd questions about 
the Marchioness, particularly concerning the manner, in which she had 
been seized, and he often shook his head at my answers, and seemed to 
mean more, than he chose to say.  But I understood him too well.  
However, I kept my remarks to myself, and only told them to my 
husband, who bade me hold my tongue.  Some of the other servants, 
however, suspected what I did, and strange reports were whispered 
about the neighbourhood, but nobody dared to make any stir about 
them.  When my lord heard that my lady was dead, he shut himself up, 
and would see nobody but the doctor, who used to be with him alone, 
sometimes for an hour together; and, after that, the doctor never 
talked with me again about my lady.  When she was buried in the 
church of the convent, at a little distance yonder, if the moon was 
up you might see the towers here, ma'amselle, all my lord's vassals 
followed the funeral, and there was not a dry eye among them, for she 
had done a deal of good among the poor.  My lord, the Marquis, I 
never saw any body so melancholy as he was afterwards, and sometimes 
he would be in such fits of violence, that we almost thought he had 
lost his senses.  He did not stay long at the chateau, but joined his 
regiment, and, soon after, all the servants, except my husband and I, 
received notice to go, for my lord went to the wars.  I never saw him 
after, for he would not return to the chateau, though it is such a 
fine place, and never finished those fine rooms he was building on 
the west side of it, and it has, in a manner, been shut up ever 
since, till my lord the Count came here.'

'The death of the Marchioness appears extraordinary,' said Emily, who 
was anxious to know more than she dared to ask.

'Yes, madam,' replied Dorothee, 'it was extraordinary; I have told 
you all I saw, and you may easily guess what I think, I cannot say 
more, because I would not spread reports, that might offend my lord 
the Count.'

'You are very right,' said Emily;--'where did the Marquis die?'--'In 
the north of France, I believe, ma'amselle,' replied Dorothee.  'I 
was very glad, when I heard my lord the Count was coming, for this 
had been a sad desolate place, these many years, and we heard such 
strange noises, sometimes, after my lady's death, that, as I told you 
before, my husband and I left it for a neighbouring cottage.  And 
now, lady, I have told you all this sad history, and all my thoughts, 
and you have promised, you know, never to give the least hint about 
it.'--'I have,' said Emily, 'and I will be faithful to my promise, 
Dorothee;--what you have told has interested me more than you can 
imagine.  I only wish I could prevail upon you to tell the name of 
the chevalier, whom you thought so deserving of the Marchioness.'

Dorothee, however, steadily refused to do this, and then returned to 
the notice of Emily's likeness to the late Marchioness.  'There is 
another picture of her,' added she, 'hanging in a room of the suite, 
which was shut up.  It was drawn, as I have heard, before she was 
married, and is much more like you than the miniature.'  When Emily 
expressed a strong desire to see this, Dorothee replied, that she did 
not like to open those rooms; but Emily reminded her, that the Count 
had talked the other day of ordering them to be opened; of which 
Dorothee seemed to consider much, and then she owned, that she should 
feel less, if she went into them with Emily first, than otherwise, 
and at length promised to shew the picture.

The night was too far advanced and Emily was too much affected by the 
narrative of the scenes, which had passed in those apartments, to 
wish to visit them at this hour, but she requested that Dorothee 
would return on the following night, when they were not likely to be 
observed, and conduct her thither.  Besides her wish to examine the 
portrait, she felt a thrilling curiosity to see the chamber, in which 
the Marchioness had died, and which Dorothee had said remained, with 
the bed and furniture, just as when the corpse was removed for 
interment.  The solemn emotions, which the expectation of viewing 
such a scene had awakened, were in unison with the present tone of 
her mind, depressed by severe disappointment.  Cheerful objects 
rather added to, than removed this depression; but, perhaps, she 
yielded too much to her melancholy inclination, and imprudently 
lamented the misfortune, which no virtue of her own could have taught 
her to avoid, though no effort of reason could make her look unmoved 
upon the self-degradation of him, whom she had once esteemed and 
loved.

Dorothee promised to return, on the following night, with the keys of 
the chambers, and then wished Emily good repose, and departed.  
Emily, however, continued at the window, musing upon the melancholy 
fate of the Marchioness and listening, in awful expectation, for a 
return of the music.  But the stillness of the night remained long 
unbroken, except by the murmuring sounds of the woods, as they waved 
in the breeze, and then by the distant bell of the convent, striking 
one.  She now withdrew from the window, and, as she sat at her bed-
side, indulging melancholy reveries, which the loneliness of the hour 
assisted, the stillness was suddenly interrupted not by music, but by 
very uncommon sounds, that seemed to come either from the room, 
adjoining her own, or from one below.  The terrible catastrophe, that 
had been related to her, together with the mysterious circumstances, 
said to have since occurred in the chateau, had so much shocked her 
spirits, that she now sunk, for a moment, under the weakness of 
superstition.  The sounds, however, did not return, and she retired, 
to forget in sleep the disastrous story she had heard.



CHAPTER IV


 Now it is the time of night,
 That, the graves all gaping wide,
 Every one lets forth his spite,
 In the church-way path to glide.
     SHAKESPEARE

On the next night, about the same hour as before, Dorothee came to 
Emily's chamber, with the keys of that suite of rooms, which had been 
particularly appropriated to the late Marchioness.  These extended 
along the north side of the chateau, forming part of the old 
building; and, as Emily's room was in the south, they had to pass 
over a great extent of the castle, and by the chambers of several of 
the family, whose observations Dorothee was anxious to avoid, since 
it might excite enquiry, and raise reports, such as would displease 
the Count.  She, therefore, requested, that Emily would wait half an 
hour, before they ventured forth, that they might be certain all the 
servants were gone to bed.  It was nearly one, before the chateau was 
perfectly still, or Dorothee thought it prudent to leave the chamber.  
In this interval, her spirits seemed to be greatly affected by the 
remembrance of past events, and by the prospect of entering again 
upon places, where these had occurred, and in which she had not been 
for so many years.  Emily too was affected, but her feelings had more 
of solemnity, and less of fear.  From the silence, into which 
reflection and expectation had thrown them, they, at length, roused 
themselves, and left the chamber.  Dorothee, at first, carried the 
lamp, but her hand trembled so much with infirmity and alarm, that 
Emily took it from her, and offered her arm, to support her feeble 
steps.

They had to descend the great stair-case, and, after passing over a 
wide extent of the chateau, to ascend another, which led to the suite 
of rooms they were in quest of.  They stepped cautiously along the 
open corridor, that ran round the great hall, and into which the 
chambers of the Count, Countess, and the Lady Blanche, opened, and, 
from thence, descending the chief stair-case, they crossed the hall 
itself.  Proceeding through the servants hall, where the dying embers 
of a wood fire still glimmered on the hearth, and the supper table 
was surrounded by chairs, that obstructed their passage, they came to 
the foot of the back stair-case.  Old Dorothee here paused, and 
looked around; 'Let us listen,' said she, 'if any thing is stirring; 
Ma'amselle, do you hear any voice?'  'None,' said Emily, 'there 
certainly is no person up in the chateau, besides ourselves.'--'No, 
ma'amselle,' said Dorothee, 'but I have never been here at this hour 
before, and, after what I know, my fears are not wonderful.'--'What 
do you know?' said Emily.--'O, ma'amselle, we have no time for 
talking now; let us go on.  That door on the left is the one we must 
open.'

They proceeded, and, having reached the top of the stair-case, 
Dorothee applied the key to the lock.  'Ah,' said she, as she 
endeavoured to turn it, 'so many years have passed since this was 
opened, that I fear it will not move.'  Emily was more successful, 
and they presently entered a spacious and ancient chamber.

'Alas!' exclaimed Dorothee, as she entered, 'the last time I passed 
through this door--I followed my poor lady's corpse!'

Emily, struck with the circumstance, and affected by the dusky and 
solemn air of the apartment, remained silent, and they passed on 
through a long suite of rooms, till they came to one more spacious 
than the rest, and rich in the remains of faded magnificence.

'Let us rest here awhile, madam,' said Dorothee faintly, 'we are 
going into the chamber, where my lady died! that door opens into it.  
Ah, ma'amselle! why did you persuade me to come?'

Emily drew one of the massy arm-chairs, with which the apartment was 
furnished, and begged Dorothee would sit down, and try to compose her 
spirits.

'How the sight of this place brings all that passed formerly to my 
mind!' said Dorothee; 'it seems as if it was but yesterday since all 
that sad affair happened!'

'Hark! what noise is that?' said Emily.

Dorothee, half starting from her chair, looked round the apartment, 
and they listened--but, every thing remaining still, the old woman 
spoke again upon the subject of her sorrow.  'This saloon, 
ma'amselle, was in my lady's time the finest apartment in the 
chateau, and it was fitted up according to her own taste.  All this 
grand furniture, but you can now hardly see what it is for the dust, 
and our light is none of the best--ah! how I have seen this room 
lighted up in my lady's time!--all this grand furniture came from 
Paris, and was made after the fashion of some in the Louvre there, 
except those large glasses, and they came from some outlandish place, 
and that rich tapestry.  How the colours are faded already!--since I 
saw it last!'

'I understood, that was twenty years ago,' observed Emily.

'Thereabout, madam,' said Dorothee, 'and well remembered, but all the 
time between then and now seems as nothing.  That tapestry used to be 
greatly admired at, it tells the stories out of some famous book, or 
other, but I have forgot the name.'

Emily now rose to examine the figures it exhibited, and discovered, 
by verses in the Provencal tongue, wrought underneath each scene, 
that it exhibited stories from some of the most celebrated ancient 
romances.

Dorothee's spirits being now more composed, she rose, and unlocked 
the door that led into the late Marchioness's apartment, and Emily 
passed into a lofty chamber, hung round with dark arras, and so 
spacious, that the lamp she held up did not shew its extent; while 
Dorothee, when she entered, had dropped into a chair, where, sighing 
deeply, she scarcely trusted herself with the view of a scene so 
affecting to her.  It was some time before Emily perceived, through 
the dusk, the bed on which the Marchioness was said to have died; 
when, advancing to the upper end of the room, she discovered the high 
canopied tester of dark green damask, with the curtains descending to 
the floor in the fashion of a tent, half drawn, and remaining 
apparently, as they had been left twenty years before; and over the 
whole bedding was thrown a counterpane, or pall, of black velvet, 
that hung down to the floor.  Emily shuddered, as she held the lamp 
over it, and looked within the dark curtains, where she almost 
expected to have seen a human face, and, suddenly remembering the 
horror she had suffered upon discovering the dying Madame Montoni in 
the turret-chamber of Udolpho, her spirits fainted, and she was 
turning from the bed, when Dorothee, who had now reached it, 
exclaimed, 'Holy Virgin! methinks I see my lady stretched upon that 
pall--as when last I saw her!'

Emily, shocked by this exclamation, looked involuntarily again within 
the curtains, but the blackness of the pall only appeared; while 
Dorothee was compelled to support herself upon the side of the bed, 
and presently tears brought her some relief.

'Ah!' said she, after she had wept awhile, 'it was here I sat on that 
terrible night, and held my lady's hand, and heard her last words, 
and saw all her sufferings--HERE she died in my arms!'

'Do not indulge these painful recollections,' said Emily, 'let us go.  
Shew me the picture you mentioned, if it will not too much affect 
you.'

'It hangs in the oriel,' said Dorothee rising, and going towards a 
small door near the bed's head, which she opened, and Emily followed 
with the light, into the closet of the late Marchioness.

'Alas! there she is, ma'amselle,' said Dorothee, pointing to a 
portrait of a lady, 'there is her very self! just as she looked when 
she came first to the chateau.  You see, madam, she was all blooming 
like you, then--and so soon to be cut off!'

While Dorothee spoke, Emily was attentively examining the picture, 
which bore a strong resemblance to the miniature, though the 
expression of the countenance in each was somewhat different; but 
still she thought she perceived something of that pensive melancholy 
in the portrait, which so strongly characterised the miniature.

'Pray, ma'amselle, stand beside the picture, that I may look at you 
together,' said Dorothee, who, when the request was complied with, 
exclaimed again at the resemblance.  Emily also, as she gazed upon 
it, thought that she had somewhere seen a person very like it, though 
she could not now recollect who this was.

In this closet were many memorials of the departed Marchioness; a 
robe and several articles of her dress were scattered upon the 
chairs, as if they had just been thrown off.  On the floor were a 
pair of black satin slippers, and, on the dressing-table, a pair of 
gloves and a long black veil, which, as Emily took it up to examine, 
she perceived was dropping to pieces with age.

'Ah!' said Dorothee, observing the veil, 'my lady's hand laid it 
there; it has never been moved since!'

Emily, shuddering, immediately laid it down again.  'I well remember 
seeing her take it off,' continued Dorothee, 'it was on the night 
before her death, when she had returned from a little walk I had 
persuaded her to take in the gardens, and she seemed refreshed by it.  
I told her how much better she looked, and I remember what a languid 
smile she gave me; but, alas! she little thought, or I either, that 
she was to die, that night.'

Dorothee wept again, and then, taking up the veil, threw it suddenly 
over Emily, who shuddered to find it wrapped round her, descending 
even to her feet, and, as she endeavoured to throw it off, Dorothee 
intreated that she would keep it on for one moment.  'I thought,' 
added she, 'how like you would look to my dear mistress in that 
veil;--may your life, ma'amselle, be a happier one than hers!'

Emily, having disengaged herself from the veil, laid it again on the 
dressing-table, and surveyed the closet, where every object, on which 
her eye fixed, seemed to speak of the Marchioness.  In a large oriel 
window of painted glass, stood a table, with a silver crucifix, and a 
prayer-book open; and Emily remembered with emotion what Dorothee had 
mentioned concerning her custom of playing on her lute in this 
window, before she observed the lute itself, lying on a corner of the 
table, as if it had been carelessly placed there by the hand, that 
had so often awakened it.

'This is a sad forlorn place!' said Dorothee, 'for, when my dear lady 
died, I had no heart to put it to rights, or the chamber either; and 
my lord never came into the rooms after, so they remain just as they 
did when my lady was removed for interment.'

While Dorothee spoke, Emily was still looking on the lute, which was 
a Spanish one, and remarkably large; and then, with a hesitating 
hand, she took it up, and passed her fingers over the chords.  They 
were out of tune, but uttered a deep and full sound.  Dorothee 
started at their well-known tones, and, seeing the lute in Emily's 
hand, said, 'This is the lute my lady Marchioness loved so!  I 
remember when last she played upon it--it was on the night that she 
died.  I came as usual to undress her, and, as I entered the bed-
chamber, I heard the sound of music from the oriel, and perceiving it 
was my lady's, who was sitting there, I stepped softly to the door, 
which stood a little open, to listen; for the music--though it was 
mournful--was so sweet!  There I saw her, with the lute in her hand, 
looking upwards, and the tears fell upon her cheeks, while she sung a 
vesper hymn, so soft, and so solemn! and her voice trembled, as it 
were, and then she would stop for a moment, and wipe away her tears, 
and go on again, lower than before.  O! I had often listened to my 
lady, but never heard any thing so sweet as this; it made me cry, 
almost, to hear it.  She had been at prayers, I fancy, for there was 
the book open on the table beside her--aye, and there it lies open 
still!  Pray, let us leave the oriel, ma'amselle,' added Dorothee, 
'this is a heart-breaking place!'

Having returned into the chamber, she desired to look once more upon 
the bed, when, as they came opposite to the open door, leading into 
the saloon, Emily, in the partial gleam, which the lamp threw into 
it, thought she saw something glide along into the obscurer part of 
the room.  Her spirits had been much affected by the surrounding 
scene, or it is probable this circumstance, whether real or 
imaginary, would not have affected her in the degree it did; but she 
endeavoured to conceal her emotion from Dorothee, who, however, 
observing her countenance change, enquired if she was ill.

'Let us go,' said Emily, faintly, 'the air of these rooms is 
unwholesome;' but, when she attempted to do so, considering that she 
must pass through the apartment where the phantom of her terror had 
appeared, this terror increased, and, too faint to support herself, 
she sad down on the side of the bed.

Dorothee, believing that she was only affected by a consideration of 
the melancholy catastrophe, which had happened on this spot, 
endeavoured to cheer her; and then, as they sat together on the bed, 
she began to relate other particulars concerning it, and this without 
reflecting, that it might increase Emily's emotion, but because they 
were particularly interesting to herself.  'A little before my lady's 
death,' said she, 'when the pains were gone off, she called me to 
her, and stretching out her hand to me, I sat down just there--where 
the curtain falls upon the bed.  How well I remember her look at the 
time--death was in it!--I can almost fancy I see her now.--There she 
lay, ma'amselle--her face was upon the pillow there!  This black 
counterpane was not upon the bed then; it was laid on, after her 
death, and she was laid out upon it.'

Emily turned to look within the dusky curtains, as if she could have 
seen the countenance of which Dorothee spoke.  The edge of the white 
pillow only appeared above the blackness of the pall, but, as her 
eyes wandered over the pall itself, she fancied she saw it move.  
Without speaking, she caught Dorothee's arm, who, surprised by the 
action, and by the look of terror that accompanied it, turned her 
eyes from Emily to the bed, where, in the next moment she, too, saw 
the pall slowly lifted, and fall again.

Emily attempted to go, but Dorothee stood fixed and gazing upon the 
bed; and, at length, said--'It is only the wind, that waves it, 
ma'amselle; we have left all the doors open:  see how the air waves 
the lamp, too.--It is only the wind.'

She had scarcely uttered these words, when the pall was more 
violently agitated than before; but Emily, somewhat ashamed of her 
terrors, stepped back to the bed, willing to be convinced that the 
wind only had occasioned her alarm; when, as she gazed within the 
curtains, the pall moved again, and, in the next moment, the 
apparition of a human countenance rose above it.

Screaming with terror, they both fled, and got out of the chamber as 
fast as their trembling limbs would bear them, leaving open the doors 
of all the rooms, through which they passed.  When they reached the 
stair-case, Dorothee threw open a chamber door, where some of the 
female servants slept, and sunk breathless on the bed; while Emily, 
deprived of all presence of mind, made only a feeble attempt to 
conceal the occasion of her terror from the astonished servants; and, 
though Dorothee, when she could speak, endeavoured to laugh at her 
own fright, and was joined by Emily, no remonstrances could prevail 
with the servants, who had quickly taken the alarm, to pass even the 
remainder of the night in a room so near to these terrific chambers.

Dorothee having accompanied Emily to her own apartment, they then 
began to talk over, with some degree of coolness, the strange 
circumstance, that had just occurred; and Emily would almost have 
doubted her own perceptions, had not those of Dorothee attested their 
truth.  Having now mentioned what she had observed in the outer 
chamber, she asked the housekeeper, whether she was certain no door 
had been left unfastened, by which a person might secretly have 
entered the apartments?  Dorothee replied, that she had constantly 
kept the keys of the several doors in her own possession; that, when 
she had gone her rounds through the castle, as she frequently did, to 
examine if all was safe, she had tried these doors among the rest, 
and had always found them fastened.  It was, therefore, impossible, 
she added, that any person could have got admittance into the 
apartments; and, if they could--it was very improbable they should 
have chose to sleep in a place so cold and forlorn.

Emily observed, that their visit to these chambers had, perhaps, been 
watched, and that some person, for a frolic, had followed them into 
the rooms, with a design to frighten them, and, while they were in 
the oriel, had taken the opportunity of concealing himself in the 
bed.

Dorothee allowed, that this was possible, till she recollected, that, 
on entering the apartments, she had turned the key of the outer door, 
and this, which had been done to prevent their visit being noticed by 
any of the family, who might happen to be up, must effectually have 
excluded every person, except themselves, from the chambers; and she 
now persisted in affirming, that the ghastly countenance she had seen 
was nothing human, but some dreadful apparition.

Emily was very solemnly affected.  Of whatever nature might be the 
appearance she had witnessed, whether human or supernatural, the fate 
of the deceased Marchioness was a truth not to be doubted; and this 
unaccountable circumstance, occurring in the very scene of her 
sufferings, affected Emily's imagination with a superstitious awe, to 
which, after having detected the fallacies at Udolpho, she might not 
have yielded, had she been ignorant of the unhappy story, related by 
the housekeeper.  Her she now solemnly conjured to conceal the 
occurrence of this night, and to make light of the terror she had 
already betrayed, that the Count might not be distressed by reports, 
which would certainly spread alarm and confusion among his family.  
'Time,' she added, 'may explain this mysterious affair; meanwhile let 
us watch the event in silence.'

Dorothee readily acquiesced; but she now recollected that she had 
left all the doors of the north suite of rooms open, and, not having 
courage to return alone to lock even the outer one, Emily, after some 
effort, so far conquered her own fears, that she offered to accompany 
her to the foot of the back stair-case, and to wait there while 
Dorothee ascended, whose resolution being re-assured by this 
circumstance, she consented to go, and they left Emily's apartment 
together.

No sound disturbed the stillness, as they passed along the halls and 
galleries; but, on reaching the foot of the back stair-case, 
Dorothee's resolution failed again; having, however, paused a moment 
to listen, and no sound being heard above, she ascended, leaving 
Emily below, and, scarcely suffering her eye to glance within the 
first chamber, she fastened the door, which shut up the whole suite 
of apartments, and returned to Emily.

As they stepped along the passage, leading into the great hall, a 
sound of lamentation was heard, which seemed to come from the hall 
itself, and they stopped in new alarm to listen, when Emily presently 
distinguished the voice of Annette, whom she found crossing the hall, 
with another female servant, and so terrified by the report, which 
the other maids had spread, that, believing she could be safe only 
where her lady was, she was going for refuge to her apartment.  
Emily's endeavours to laugh, or to argue her out of these terrors, 
were equally vain, and, in compassion to her distress, she consented 
that she should remain in her room during the night.



CHAPTER V


  Hail, mildly-pleasing Solitude!
 Companion of the wise and good--

 This is the balmy breath of morn,
 Just as the dew-bent rose is born.

 But chief when evening scenes decay
 And the faint landscape swims away,
 Thine is the doubtful, soft decline,
 And that best hour of musing thine.
     THOMSON

Emily's injunctions to Annette to be silent on the subject of her 
terror were ineffectual, and the occurrence of the preceding night 
spread such alarm among the servants, who now all affirmed, that they 
had frequently heard unaccountable noises in the chateau, that a 
report soon reached the Count of the north side of the castle being 
haunted.  He treated this, at first, with ridicule, but, perceiving, 
that it was productive of serious evil, in the confusion it 
occasioned among his household, he forbade any person to repeat it, 
on pain of punishment.

The arrival of a party of his friends soon withdrew his thoughts 
entirely from this subject, and his servants had now little leisure 
to brood over it, except, indeed, in the evenings after supper, when 
they all assembled in their hall, and related stories of ghosts, till 
they feared to look round the room; started, if the echo of a closing 
door murmured along the passage, and refused to go singly to any part 
of the castle.

On these occasions Annette made a distinguished figure.  When she 
told not only of all the wonders she had witnessed, but of all that 
she had imagined, in the castle of Udolpho, with the story of the 
strange disappearance of Signora Laurentini, she made no trifling 
impression on the mind of her attentive auditors.  Her suspicions, 
concerning Montoni, she would also have freely disclosed, had not 
Ludovico, who was now in the service of the Count, prudently checked 
her loquacity, whenever it pointed to that subject.

Among the visitors at the chateau was the Baron de Saint Foix, an old 
friend of the Count, and his son, the Chevalier St. Foix, a sensible 
and amiable young man, who, having in the preceding year seen the 
Lady Blanche, at Paris, had become her declared admirer.  The 
friendship, which the Count had long entertained for his father, and 
the equality of their circumstances made him secretly approve of the 
connection; but, thinking his daughter at this time too young to fix 
her choice for life, and wishing to prove the sincerity and strength 
of the Chevalier's attachment, he then rejected his suit, though 
without forbidding his future hope.  This young man now came, with 
the Baron, his father, to claim the reward of a steady affection, a 
claim, which the Count admitted and which Blanche did not reject.

While these visitors were at the chateau, it became a scene of gaiety 
and splendour.  The pavilion in the woods was fitted up and 
frequented, in the fine evenings, as a supper-room, when the hour 
usually concluded with a concert, at which the Count and Countess, 
who were scientific performers, and the Chevaliers Henri and St. 
Foix, with the Lady Blanche and Emily, whose voices and fine taste 
compensated for the want of more skilful execution, usually assisted.  
Several of the Count's servants performed on horns and other 
instruments, some of which, placed at a little distance among the 
woods, spoke, in sweet response, to the harmony, that proceeded from 
the pavilion.

At any other period, these parties would have been delightful to 
Emily; but her spirits were now oppressed with a melancholy, which 
she perceived that no kind of what is called amusement had power to 
dissipate, and which the tender and, frequently, pathetic, melody of 
these concerts sometimes increased to a very painful degree.

She was particularly fond of walking in the woods, that hung on a 
promontory, overlooking the sea.  Their luxuriant shade was soothing 
to her pensive mind, and, in the partial views, which they afforded 
of the Mediterranean, with its winding shores and passing sails, 
tranquil beauty was united with grandeur.  The paths were rude and 
frequently overgrown with vegetation, but their tasteful owner would 
suffer little to be done to them, and scarcely a single branch to be 
lopped from the venerable trees.  On an eminence, in one of the most 
sequestered parts of these woods, was a rustic seat, formed of the 
trunk of a decayed oak, which had once been a noble tree, and of 
which many lofty branches still flourishing united with beech and 
pines to over-canopy the spot.  Beneath their deep umbrage, the eye 
passed over the tops of other woods, to the Mediterranean, and, to 
the left, through an opening, was seen a ruined watch-tower, standing 
on a point of rock, near the sea, and rising from among the tufted 
foliage.

Hither Emily often came alone in the silence of evening, and, soothed 
by the scenery and by the faint murmur, that rose from the waves, 
would sit, till darkness obliged her to return to the chateau.  
Frequently, also, she visited the watch-tower, which commanded the 
entire prospect, and, when she leaned against its broken walls, and 
thought of Valancourt, she not once imagined, what was so true, that 
this tower had been almost as frequently his resort, as her own, 
since his estrangement from the neighbouring chateau.

One evening, she lingered here to a late hour.  She had sat on the 
steps of the building, watching, in tranquil melancholy, the gradual 
effect of evening over the extensive prospect, till the gray waters 
of the Mediterranean and the massy woods were almost the only 
features of the scene, that remained visible; when, as she gazed 
alternately on these, and on the mild blue of the heavens, where the 
first pale star of evening appeared, she personified the hour in the 
following lines:--

  SONG OF THE EVENING HOUR

 Last of the Hours, that track the fading Day,
 I move along the realms of twilight air,
 And hear, remote, the choral song decay
 Of sister-nymphs, who dance around his car.

 Then, as I follow through the azure void,
 His partial splendour from my straining eye
 Sinks in the depth of space; my only guide
 His faint ray dawning on the farthest sky;

 Save that sweet, lingering strain of gayer Hours,
 Whose close my voice prolongs in dying notes,
 While mortals on the green earth own its pow'rs,
 As downward on the evening gale it floats.

 When fades along the West the Sun's last beam,
 As, weary, to the nether world he goes,
 And mountain-summits catch the purple gleam,
 And slumbering ocean faint and fainter glows,

 Silent upon the globe's broad shade I steal,
 And o'er its dry turf shed the cooling dews,
 And ev'ry fever'd herb and flow'ret heal,
 And all their fragrance on the air diffuse.

 Where'er I move, a tranquil pleasure reigns;
 O'er all the scene the dusky tints I send,
 That forests wild and mountains, stretching plains
 And peopled towns, in soft confusion blend.

 Wide o'er the world I waft the fresh'ning wind,
 Low breathing through the woods and twilight vale,
 In whispers soft, that woo the pensive mind
 Of him, who loves my lonely steps to hail.

 His tender oaten reed I watch to hear,
 Stealing its sweetness o'er some plaining rill,
 Or soothing ocean's wave, when storms are near,
 Or swelling in the breeze from distant hill!

 I wake the fairy elves, who shun the light;
 When, from their blossom'd beds, they slily peep,
 And spy my pale star, leading on the night,--
 Forth to their games and revelry they leap;

 Send all the prison'd sweets abroad in air,
 That with them slumber'd in the flow'ret's cell;
 Then to the shores and moon-light brooks repair,
 Till the high larks their matin-carol swell.

 The wood-nymphs hail my airs and temper'd shade,
 With ditties soft and lightly sportive dance,
 On river margin of some bow'ry glade,
 And strew their fresh buds as my steps advance:

 But, swift I pass, and distant regions trace,
 For moon-beams silver all the eastern cloud,
 And Day's last crimson vestige fades apace;
 Down the steep west I fly from Midnight's shroud.

The moon was now rising out of the sea.  She watched its gradual 
progress, the extending line of radiance it threw upon the waters, 
the sparkling oars, the sail faintly silvered, and the wood-tops and 
the battlements of the watch-tower, at whose foot she was sitting, 
just tinted with the rays.  Emily's spirits were in harmony with this 
scene.  As she sat meditating, sounds stole by her on the air, which 
she immediately knew to be the music and the voice she had formerly 
heard at midnight, and the emotion of awe, which she felt, was not 
unmixed with terror, when she considered her remote and lonely 
situation.  The sounds drew nearer.  She would have risen to leave 
the place, but they seemed to come from the way she must have taken 
towards the chateau, and she awaited the event in trembling 
expectation.  The sounds continued to approach, for some time, and 
then ceased.  Emily sat listening, gazing and unable to move, when 
she saw a figure emerge from the shade of the woods and pass along 
the bank, at some little distance before her.  It went swiftly, and 
her spirits were so overcome with awe, that, though she saw, she did 
not much observe it.

Having left the spot, with a resolution never again to visit it 
alone, at so late an hour, she began to approach the chateau, when 
she heard voices calling her from the part of the wood, which was 
nearest to it.  They were the shouts of the Count's servants, who 
were sent to search for her; and when she entered the supper-room, 
where he sat with Henri and Blanche, he gently reproached her with a 
look, which she blushed to have deserved.

This little occurrence deeply impressed her mind, and, when she 
withdrew to her own room, it recalled so forcibly the circumstances 
she had witnessed, a few nights before, that she had scarcely courage 
to remain alone.  She watched to a late hour, when, no sound having 
renewed her fears, she, at length, sunk to repose.  But this was of 
short continuance, for she was disturbed by a loud and unusual noise, 
that seemed to come from the gallery, into which her chamber opened.  
Groans were distinctly heard, and, immediately after, a dead weight 
fell against the door, with a violence, that threatened to burst it 
open.  She called loudly to know who was there, but received no 
answer, though, at intervals, she still thought she heard something 
like a low moaning.  Fear deprived her of the power to move.  Soon 
after, she heard footsteps in a remote part of the gallery, and, as 
they approached, she called more loudly than before, till the steps 
paused at her door.  She then distinguished the voices of several of 
the servants, who seemed too much engaged by some circumstance 
without, to attend to her calls; but, Annette soon after entering the 
room for water, Emily understood, that one of the maids had fainted, 
whom she immediately desired them to bring into her room, where she 
assisted to restore her.  When this girl had recovered her speech, 
she affirmed, that, as she was passing up the back stair-case, in the 
way to her chamber, she had seen an apparition on the second landing-
place; she held the lamp low, she said, that she might pick her way, 
several of the stairs being infirm and even decayed, and it was upon 
raising her eyes, that she saw this appearance.  It stood for a 
moment in the corner of the landing-place, which she was approaching, 
and then, gliding up the stairs, vanished at the door of the 
apartment, that had been lately opened.  She heard afterwards a 
hollow sound.

'Then the devil has got a key to that apartment,' said Dorothee, 'for 
it could be nobody but he; I locked the door myself!'

The girl, springing down the stairs and passing up the great stair-
case, had run, with a faint scream, till she reached the gallery, 
where she fell, groaning, at Emily's door.

Gently chiding her for the alarm she had occasioned, Emily tried to 
make her ashamed of her fears; but the girl persisted in saying, that 
she had seen an apparition, till she went to her own room, whither 
she was accompanied by all the servants present, except Dorothee, 
who, at Emily's request, remained with her during the night.  Emily 
was perplexed, and Dorothee was terrified, and mentioned many 
occurrences of former times, which had long since confirmed her 
superstitions; among these, according to her belief, she had once 
witnessed an appearance, like that just described, and on the very 
same spot, and it was the remembrance of it, that had made her pause, 
when she was going to ascend the stairs with Emily, and which had 
increased her reluctance to open the north apartments.  Whatever 
might be Emily's opinions, she did not disclose them, but listened 
attentively to all that Dorothee communicated, which occasioned her 
much thought and perplexity.

From this night the terror of the servants increased to such an 
excess, that several of them determined to leave the chateau, and 
requested their discharge of the Count, who, if he had any faith in 
the subject of their alarm, thought proper to dissemble it, and, 
anxious to avoid the inconvenience that threatened him, employed 
ridicule and then argument to convince them they had nothing to 
apprehend from supernatural agency.  But fear had rendered their 
minds inaccessible to reason; and it was now, that Ludovico proved at 
once his courage and his gratitude for the kindness he had received 
from the Count, by offering to watch, during a night, in the suite of 
rooms, reputed to be haunted.  He feared, he said, no spirits, and, 
if any thing of human form appeared--he would prove that he dreaded 
that as little.

The Count paused upon the offer, while the servants, who heard it, 
looked upon one another in doubt and amazement, and Annette, 
terrified for the safety of Ludovico, employed tears and entreaties 
to dissuade him from his purpose.

'You are a bold fellow,' said the Count, smiling, 'Think well of what 
you are going to encounter, before you finally determine upon it.  
However, if you persevere in your resolution, I will accept your 
offer, and your intrepidity shall not go unrewarded.'

'I desire no reward, your excellenza,' replied Ludovico, 'but your 
approbation.  Your excellenza has been sufficiently good to me 
already; but I wish to have arms, that I may be equal to my enemy, if 
he should appear.'

'Your sword cannot defend you against a ghost,' replied the Count, 
throwing a glance of irony upon the other servants, 'neither can 
bars, or bolts; for a spirit, you know, can glide through a keyhole 
as easily as through a door.'

'Give me a sword, my lord Count,' said Ludovico, 'and I will lay all 
the spirits, that shall attack me, in the red sea.'

'Well,' said the Count, 'you shall have a sword, and good cheer, too; 
and your brave comrades here will, perhaps, have courage enough to 
remain another night in the chateau, since your boldness will 
certainly, for this night, at least, confine all the malice of the 
spectre to yourself.'

Curiosity now struggled with fear in the minds of several of his 
fellow servants, and, at length, they resolved to await the event of 
Ludovico's rashness.

Emily was surprised and concerned, when she heard of his intention, 
and was frequently inclined to mention what she had witnessed in the 
north apartments to the Count, for she could not entirely divest 
herself of fears for Ludovico's safety, though her reason represented 
these to be absurd.  The necessity, however, of concealing the 
secret, with which Dorothee had entrusted her, and which must have 
been mentioned, with the late occurrence, in excuse for her having so 
privately visited the north apartments, kept her entirely silent on 
the subject of her apprehension; and she tried only to sooth Annette, 
who held, that Ludovico was certainly to be destroyed; and who was 
much less affected by Emily's consolatory efforts, than by the manner 
of old Dorothee, who often, as she exclaimed Ludovico, sighed, and 
threw up her eyes to heaven.



CHAPTER VI


  Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profound!
 Whose soft dominion o'er this castle sways,
 And all the widely-silent places round,
 Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays
 What never yet was sung in mortal lays.
     THOMSON

The Count gave orders for the north apartments to be opened and 
prepared for the reception of Ludovico; but Dorothee, remembering 
what she had lately witnessed there, feared to obey, and, not one of 
the other servants daring to venture thither, the rooms remained shut 
up till the time when Ludovico was to retire thither for the night, 
an hour, for which the whole household waited with impatience.

After supper, Ludovico, by the order of the Count, attended him in 
his closet, where they remained alone for near half an hour, and, on 
leaving which, his Lord delivered to him a sword.

'It has seen service in mortal quarrels,' said the Count, jocosely, 
'you will use it honourably, no doubt, in a spiritual one.  Tomorrow, 
let me hear that there is not one ghost remaining in the chateau.'

Ludovico received it with a respectful bow.  'You shall be obeyed, my 
Lord,' said he; 'I will engage, that no spectre shall disturb the 
peace of the chateau after this night.'

They now returned to the supper-room, where the Count's guests 
awaited to accompany him and Ludovico to the door of the north 
apartments, and Dorothee, being summoned for the keys, delivered them 
to Ludovico, who then led the way, followed by most of the 
inhabitants of the chateau.  Having reached the back stair-case, 
several of the servants shrunk back, and refused to go further, but 
the rest followed him to the top of the stair-case, where a broad 
landing-place allowed them to flock round him, while he applied the 
key to the door, during which they watched him with as much eager 
curiosity as if he had been performing some magical rite.

Ludovico, unaccustomed to the lock, could not turn it, and Dorothee, 
who had lingered far behind, was called forward, under whose hand the 
door opened slowly, and, her eye glancing within the dusky chamber, 
she uttered a sudden shriek, and retreated.  At this signal of alarm, 
the greater part of the crowd hurried down the stairs, and the Count, 
Henri and Ludovico were left alone to pursue the enquiry, who 
instantly rushed into the apartment, Ludovico with a drawn sword, 
which he had just time to draw from the scabbard, the Count with the 
lamp in his hand, and Henri carrying a basket, containing provisions 
for the courageous adventurer.

Having looked hastily round the first room, where nothing appeared to 
justify alarm, they passed on to the second; and, here too all being 
quiet, they proceeded to a third with a more tempered step.  The 
Count had now leisure to smile at the discomposure, into which he had 
been surprised, and to ask Ludovico in which room he designed to pass 
the night.

'There are several chambers beyond these, your excellenza,' said 
Ludovico, pointing to a door, 'and in one of them is a bed, they say.  
I will pass the night there, and when I am weary of watching, I can 
lie down.'

'Good;' said the Count; 'let us go on.  You see these rooms shew 
nothing, but damp walls and decaying furniture.  I have been so much 
engaged since I came to the chateau, that I have not looked into them 
till now.  Remember, Ludovico, to tell the housekeeper, to-morrow, to 
throw open these windows.  The damask hangings are dropping to 
pieces, I will have them taken down, and this antique furniture 
removed.'

'Dear sir!' said Henri, 'here is an arm-chair so massy with gilding, 
that it resembles one of the state chairs at the Louvre, more then 
any thing else.'

'Yes,' said the Count, stopping a moment to survey it, 'there is a 
history belonging to that chair, but I have not time to tell it.--Let 
us pass on.  This suite runs to a greater extent than I had imagined; 
it is many years since I was in them.  But where is the bed-room you 
speak of, Ludovico?--these are only anti-chambers to the great 
drawing-room.  I remember them in their splendour!'

'The bed, my Lord,' replied Ludovico, 'they told me, was in a room 
that opens beyond the saloon, and terminates the suite.'

'O, here is the saloon,' said the Count, as they entered the spacious 
apartment, in which Emily and Dorothee had rested.  He here stood for 
a moment, surveying the reliques of faded grandeur, which it 
exhibited--the sumptuous tapestry--the long and low sophas of velvet, 
with frames heavily carved and gilded--the floor inlaid with small 
squares of fine marble, and covered in the centre with a piece of 
very rich tapestry-work--the casements of painted glass, and the 
large Venetian mirrors, of a size and quality, such as at that period 
France could not make, which reflected, on every side, the spacious 
apartment.  These had formerly also reflected a gay and brilliant 
scene, for this had been the state-room of the chateau, and here the 
Marchioness had held the assemblies, that made part of the 
festivities of her nuptials.  If the wand of a magician could have 
recalled the vanished groups, many of them vanished even from the 
earth! that once had passed over these polished mirrors, what a 
varied and contrasted picture would they have exhibited with the 
present!  Now, instead of a blaze of lights, and a splendid and busy 
crowd, they reflected only the rays of the one glimmering lamp, which 
the Count held up, and which scarcely served to shew the three 
forlorn figures, that stood surveying the room, and the spacious and 
dusky walls around them.

'Ah!' said the Count to Henri, awaking from his deep reverie, 'how 
the scene is changed since last I saw it!  I was a young man, then, 
and the Marchioness was alive and in her bloom; many other persons 
were here, too, who are now no more!  There stood the orchestra; here 
we tripped in many a sprightly maze--the walls echoing to the dance!  
Now, they resound only one feeble voice--and even that will, ere 
long, be heard no more!  My son, remember, that I was once as young 
as yourself, and that you must pass away like those, who have 
preceded you--like those, who, as they sung and danced in this once 
gay apartment, forgot, that years are made up of moments, and that 
every step they took carried them nearer to their graves.  But such 
reflections are useless, I had almost said criminal, unless they 
teach us to prepare for eternity, since, otherwise, they cloud our 
present happiness, without guiding us to a future one.  But enough of 
this; let us go on.'

Ludovico now opened the door of the bed-room, and the Count, as he 
entered, was struck with the funereal appearance, which the dark 
arras gave to it.  He approached the bed, with an emotion of 
solemnity, and, perceiving it to be covered with the pall of black 
velvet, paused; 'What can this mean?' said he, as he gazed upon it.

'I have heard, my Lord,' said Ludovico, as he stood at the feet, 
looking within the canopied curtains, 'that the Lady Marchioness de 
Villeroi died in this chamber, and remained here till she was removed 
to be buried; and this, perhaps, Signor, may account for the pall.'

The Count made no reply, but stood for a few moments engaged in 
thought, and evidently much affected.  Then, turning to Ludovico, he 
asked him with a serious air, whether he thought his courage would 
support him through the night?  'If you doubt this,' added the Count, 
'do not be ashamed to own it; I will release you from your 
engagement, without exposing you to the triumphs of your fellow-
servants.'

Ludovico paused; pride, and something very like fear, seemed 
struggling in his breast; pride, however, was victorious;--he 
blushed, and his hesitation ceased.

'No, my Lord,' said he, 'I will go through with what I have begun; 
and I am grateful for your consideration.  On that hearth I will make 
a fire, and, with the good cheer in this basket, I doubt not I shall 
do well.'

'Be it so,' said the Count; 'but how will you beguile the tediousness 
of the night, if you do not sleep?'

'When I am weary, my Lord,' replied Ludovico, 'I shall not fear to 
sleep; in the meanwhile, I have a book, that will entertain me.'

'Well,' said the Count, 'I hope nothing will disturb you; but if you 
should be seriously alarmed in the night, come to my apartment.  I 
have too much confidence in your good sense and courage, to believe 
you will be alarmed on slight grounds; or suffer the gloom of this 
chamber, or its remote situation, to overcome you with ideal terrors.  
To-morrow, I shall have to thank you for an important service; these 
rooms shall then be thrown open, and my people will be convinced of 
their error.  Good night, Ludovico; let me see you early in the 
morning, and remember what I lately said to you.'

'I will, my Lord; good night to your excellenza; let me attend you 
with the light.'

He lighted the Count and Henri through the chambers to the outer 
door; on the landing-place stood a lamp, which one of the affrighted 
servants had left, and Henri, as he took it up, again bade Ludovico 
good night, who, having respectfully returned the wish, closed the 
door upon them, and fastened it.  Then, as he retired to the bed-
chamber, he examined the rooms, through which he passed, with more 
minuteness than he had done before, for he apprehended, that some 
person might have concealed himself in them, for the purpose of 
frightening him.  No one, however, but himself, was in these 
chambers, and, leaving open the doors, through which he passed, he 
came again to the great drawing-room, whose spaciousness and silent 
gloom somewhat awed him.  For a moment he stood, looking back through 
the long suite of rooms he had quitted, and, as he turned, perceiving 
a light and his own figure, reflected in one of the large mirrors, he 
started.  Other objects too were seen obscurely on its dark surface, 
but he paused not to examine them, and returned hastily into the bed-
room, as he surveyed which, he observed the door of the oriel, and 
opened it.  All within was still.  On looking round, his eye was 
arrested by the portrait of the deceased Marchioness, upon which he 
gazed, for a considerable time, with great attention and some 
surprise; and then, having examined the closet, he returned into the 
bed-room, where he kindled a wood fire, the bright blaze of which 
revived his spirits, which had begun to yield to the gloom and 
silence of the place, for gusts of wind alone broke at intervals this 
silence.  He now drew a small table and a chair near the fire, took a 
bottle of wine, and some cold provision out of his basket, and 
regaled himself.  When he had finished his repast, he laid his sword 
upon the table, and, not feeling disposed to sleep, drew from his 
pocket the book he had spoken of.--It was a volume of old Provencal 
tales.  Having stirred the fire upon the hearth, he began to read, 
and his attention was soon wholly occupied by the scenes, which the 
page disclosed.

The Count, meanwhile, had returned to the supper-room, whither those 
of the party, who had attended him to the north apartment, had 
retreated, upon hearing Dorothee's scream, and who were now earnest 
in their enquiries concerning those chambers.  The Count rallied his 
guests on their precipitate retreat, and on the superstitious 
inclination which had occasioned it, and this led to the question, 
Whether the spirit, after it has quitted the body, is ever permitted 
to revisit the earth; and if it is, whether it was possible for 
spirits to become visible to the sense.  The Baron was of opinion, 
that the first was probable, and the last was possible, and he 
endeavoured to justify this opinion by respectable authorities, both 
ancient and modern, which he quoted.  The Count, however, was 
decidedly against him, and a long conversation ensued, in which the 
usual arguments on these subjects were on both sides brought forward 
with skill, and discussed with candour, but without converting either 
party to the opinion of his opponent.  The effect of their 
conversation on their auditors was various.  Though the Count had 
much the superiority of the Baron in point of argument, he had 
considerably fewer adherents; for that love, so natural to the human 
mind, of whatever is able to distend its faculties with wonder and 
astonishment, attached the majority of the company to the side of the 
Baron; and, though many of the Count's propositions were 
unanswerable, his opponents were inclined to believe this the 
consequence of their own want of knowledge, on so abstracted a 
subject, rather than that arguments did not exist, which were 
forcible enough to conquer his.

Blanche was pale with attention, till the ridicule in her father's 
glance called a blush upon her countenance, and she then endeavoured 
to forget the superstitious tales she had been told in her convent.  
Meanwhile, Emily had been listening with deep attention to the 
discussion of what was to her a very interesting question, and, 
remembering the appearance she had witnessed in the apartment of the 
late Marchioness, she was frequently chilled with awe.  Several times 
she was on the point of mentioning what she had seen, but the fear of 
giving pain to the Count, and the dread of his ridicule, restrained 
her; and, awaiting in anxious expectation the event of Ludovico's 
intrepidity, she determined that her future silence should depend 
upon it.

When the party had separated for the night, and the Count retired to 
his dressing-room, the remembrance of the desolate scenes he had 
lately witnessed in his own mansion deeply affected him, but at 
length he was aroused from his reverie and his silence.  'What music 
is that I hear?'--said he suddenly to his valet, 'Who plays at this 
late hour?'

The man made no reply, and the Count continued to listen, and then 
added, 'That is no common musician; he touches the instrument with a 
delicate hand; who is it, Pierre?'

'My lord!' said the man, hesitatingly.

'Who plays that instrument?' repeated the Count.

'Does not your lordship know, then?' said the valet.

'What mean you?' said the Count, somewhat sternly.

'Nothing, my Lord, I meant nothing,' rejoined the man submissively--
'Only--that music--goes about the house at midnight often, and I 
thought your lordship might have heard it before.'

'Music goes about the house at midnight!  Poor fellow!--does nobody 
dance to the music, too?'

'It is not in the chateau, I believe, my Lord; the sounds come from 
the woods, they say, though they seem so near;--but then a spirit can 
do any thing!'

'Ah, poor fellow!' said the Count, 'I perceive you are as silly as 
the rest of them; to-morrow, you will be convinced of your ridiculous 
error.  But hark!--what voice is that?'

'O my Lord! that is the voice we often hear with the music.'

'Often!' said the Count, 'How often, pray?  It is a very fine one.'

'Why, my Lord, I myself have not heard it more than two or three 
times, but there are those who have lived here longer, that have 
heard it often enough.'

'What a swell was that!' exclaimed the Count, as he still listened, 
'And now, what a dying cadence!  This is surely something more than 
mortal!'

'That is what they say, my Lord,' said the valet; 'they say it is 
nothing mortal, that utters it; and if I might say my thoughts'--

'Peace!' said the Count, and he listened till the strain died away.

'This is strange!' said he, as he turned from the window, 'Close the 
casements, Pierre.'

Pierre obeyed, and the Count soon after dismissed him, but did not so 
soon lose the remembrance of the music, which long vibrated in his 
fancy in tones of melting sweetness, while surprise and perplexity 
engaged his thoughts.

Ludovico, meanwhile, in his remote chamber, heard, now and then, the 
faint echo of a closing door, as the family retired to rest, and then 
the hall clock, at a great distance, strike twelve.  'It is 
midnight,' said he, and he looked suspiciously round the spacious 
chamber.  The fire on the hearth was now nearly expiring, for his 
attention having been engaged by the book before him, he had 
forgotten every thing besides; but he soon added fresh wood, not 
because he was cold, though the night was stormy, but because he was 
cheerless; and, having again trimmed his lamp, he poured out a glass 
of wine, drew his chair nearer to the crackling blaze, tried to be 
deaf to the wind, that howled mournfully at the casements, 
endeavoured to abstract his mind from the melancholy, that was 
stealing upon him, and again took up his book.  It had been lent to 
him by Dorothee, who had formerly picked it up in an obscure corner 
of the Marquis's library, and who, having opened it and perceived 
some of the marvels it related, had carefully preserved it for her 
own entertainment, its condition giving her some excuse for detaining 
it from its proper station.  The damp corner into which it had 
fallen, had caused the cover to be disfigured and mouldy, and the 
leaves to be so discoloured with spots, that it was not without 
difficulty the letters could be traced.  The fictions of the 
Provencal writers, whether drawn from the Arabian legends, brought by 
the Saracens into Spain, or recounting the chivalric exploits 
performed by the crusaders, whom the Troubadors accompanied to the 
east, were generally splendid and always marvellous, both in scenery 
and incident; and it is not wonderful, that Dorothee and Ludovico 
should be fascinated by inventions, which had captivated the careless 
imagination in every rank of society, in a former age.  Some of the 
tales, however, in the book now before Ludovico, were of simple 
structure, and exhibited nothing of the magnificent machinery and 
heroic manners, which usually characterized the fables of the twelfth 
century, and of this description was the one he now happened to open, 
which, in its original style, was of great length, but which may be 
thus shortly related.  The reader will perceive, that it is strongly 
tinctured with the superstition of the times.


THE PROVENCAL TALE

'There lived, in the province of Bretagne, a noble Baron, famous for 
his magnificence and courtly hospitalities.  His castle was graced 
with ladies of exquisite beauty, and thronged with illustrious 
knights; for the honour he paid to feats of chivalry invited the 
brave of distant countries to enter his lists, and his court was more 
splendid than those of many princes.  Eight minstrels were retained 
in his service, who used to sing to their harps romantic fictions, 
taken from the Arabians, or adventures of chivalry, that befel 
knights during the crusades, or the martial deeds of the Baron, their 
lord;--while he, surrounded by his knights and ladies, banqueted in 
the great hall of his castle, where the costly tapestry, that adorned 
the walls with pictured exploits of his ancestors, the casements of 
painted glass, enriched with armorial bearings, the gorgeous banners, 
that waved along the roof, the sumptuous canopies, the profusion of 
gold and silver, that glittered on the sideboards, the numerous 
dishes, that covered the tables, the number and gay liveries of the 
attendants, with the chivalric and splendid attire of the guests, 
united to form a scene of magnificence, such as we may not hope to 
see in these DEGENERATE DAYS.

'Of the Baron, the following adventure is related.  One night, having 
retired late from the banquet to his chamber, and dismissed his 
attendants, he was surprised by the appearance of a stranger of a 
noble air, but of a sorrowful and dejected countenance.  Believing, 
that this person had been secreted in the apartment, since it 
appeared impossible he could have lately passed the anti-room, 
unobserved by the pages in waiting, who would have prevented this 
intrusion on their lord, the Baron, calling loudly for his people, 
drew his sword, which he had not yet taken from his side, and stood 
upon his defence.  The stranger slowly advancing, told him, that 
there was nothing to fear; that he came with no hostile design, but 
to communicate to him a terrible secret, which it was necessary for 
him to know.

'The Baron, appeased by the courteous manners of the stranger, after 
surveying him, for some time, in silence, returned his sword into the 
scabbard, and desired him to explain the means, by which he had 
obtained access to the chamber, and the purpose of this extraordinary 
visit.

'Without answering either of these enquiries, the stranger said, that 
he could not then explain himself, but that, if the Baron would 
follow him to the edge of the forest, at a short distance from the 
castle walls, he would there convince him, that he had something of 
importance to disclose.

'This proposal again alarmed the Baron, who could scarcely believe, 
that the stranger meant to draw him to so solitary a spot, at this 
hour of the night, without harbouring a design against his life, and 
he refused to go, observing, at the same time, that, if the 
stranger's purpose was an honourable one, he would not persist in 
refusing to reveal the occasion of his visit, in the apartment where 
they were.

'While he spoke this, he viewed the stranger still more attentively 
than before, but observed no change in his countenance, or any 
symptom, that might intimate a consciousness of evil design.  He was 
habited like a knight, was of a tall and majestic stature, and of 
dignified and courteous manners.  Still, however, he refused to 
communicate the subject of his errand in any place, but that he had 
mentioned, and, at the same time, gave hints concerning the secret he 
would disclose, that awakened a degree of solemn curiosity in the 
Baron, which, at length, induced him to consent to follow the 
stranger, on certain conditions.

'"Sir knight," said he, "I will attend you to the forest, and will 
take with me only four of my people, who shall witness our 
conference."

'To this, however, the Knight objected.

'"What I would disclose," said he, with solemnity, "is to you alone.  
There are only three living persons, to whom the circumstance is 
known; it is of more consequence to you and your house, than I shall 
now explain.  In future years, you will look back to this night with 
satisfaction or repentance, accordingly as you now determine.  As you 
would hereafter prosper--follow me; I pledge you the honour of a 
knight, that no evil shall befall you;--if you are contented to dare 
futurity--remain in your chamber, and I will depart as I came."

'"Sir knight," replied the Baron, "how is it possible, that my future 
peace can depend upon my present determination?"

'"That is not now to be told," said the stranger, "I have explained 
myself to the utmost.  It is late; if you follow me it must be 
quickly;--you will do well to consider the alternative."

'The Baron mused, and, as he looked upon the knight, he perceived his 
countenance assume a singular solemnity.'

[Here Ludovico thought he heard a noise, and he threw a glance round 
the chamber, and then held up the lamp to assist his observation; 
but, not perceiving any thing to confirm his alarm, he took up the 
book again and pursued the story.]

'The Baron paced his apartment, for some time, in silence, impressed 
by the last words of the stranger, whose extraordinary request he 
feared to grant, and feared, also, to refuse.  At length, he said, 
"Sir knight, you are utterly unknown to me; tell me yourself,--is it 
reasonable, that I should trust myself alone with a stranger, at this 
hour, in a solitary forest?  Tell me, at least, who you are, and who 
assisted to secrete you in this chamber."

'The knight frowned at these latter words, and was a moment silent; 
then, with a countenance somewhat stern, he said,

'"I am an English knight; I am called Sir Bevys of Lancaster,--and my 
deeds are not unknown at the Holy City, whence I was returning to my 
native land, when I was benighted in the neighbouring forest."

'"Your name is not unknown to fame," said the Baron, "I have heard of 
it."  (The Knight looked haughtily.)  "But why, since my castle is 
known to entertain all true knights, did not your herald announce 
you?  Why did you not appear at the banquet, where your presence 
would have been welcomed, instead of hiding yourself in my castle, 
and stealing to my chamber, at midnight?"

'The stranger frowned, and turned away in silence; but the Baron 
repeated the questions.

'"I come not," said the Knight, "to answer enquiries, but to reveal 
facts.  If you would know more, follow me, and again I pledge the 
honour of a Knight, that you shall return in safety.--Be quick in 
your determination--I must be gone."

'After some further hesitation, the Baron determined to follow the 
stranger, and to see the result of his extraordinary request; he, 
therefore, again drew forth his sword, and, taking up a lamp, bade 
the Knight lead on.  The latter obeyed, and, opening the door of the 
chamber, they passed into the anti-room, where the Baron, surprised 
to find all his pages asleep, stopped, and, with hasty violence, was 
going to reprimand them for their carelessness, when the Knight waved 
his hand, and looked so expressively upon the Baron, that the latter 
restrained his resentment, and passed on.

'The Knight, having descended a stair-case, opened a secret door, 
which the Baron had believed was known only to himself, and, 
proceeding through several narrow and winding passages, came, at 
length, to a small gate, that opened beyond the walls of the castle.  
Meanwhile, the Baron followed in silence and amazement, on perceiving 
that these secret passages were so well known to a stranger, and felt 
inclined to return from an adventure, that appeared to partake of 
treachery, as well as danger.  Then, considering that he was armed, 
and observing the courteous and noble air of his conductor, his 
courage returned, he blushed, that it had failed him for a moment, 
and he resolved to trace the mystery to its source.

'He now found himself on the heathy platform, before the great gates 
of his castle, where, on looking up, he perceived lights glimmering 
in the different casements of the guests, who were retiring to sleep; 
and, while he shivered in the blast, and looked on the dark and 
desolate scene around him, he thought of the comforts of his warm 
chamber, rendered cheerful by the blaze of wood, and felt, for a 
moment, the full contrast of his present situation.'

[Here Ludovico paused a moment, and, looking at his own fire, gave it 
a brightening stir.]

'The wind was strong, and the Baron watched his lamp with anxiety, 
expecting every moment to see it extinguished; but, though the flame 
wavered, it did not expire, and he still followed the stranger, who 
often sighed as he went, but did not speak.

'When they reached the borders of the forest, the Knight turned, and 
raised his head, as if he meant to address the Baron, but then, 
closing his lips in silence, he walked on.

'As they entered, beneath the dark and spreading boughs, the Baron, 
affected by the solemnity of the scene, hesitated whether to proceed, 
and demanded how much further they were to go.  The Knight replied 
only by a gesture, and the Baron, with hesitating steps and a 
suspicious eye, followed through an obscure and intricate path, till, 
having proceeded a considerable way, he again demanded whither they 
were going, and refused to proceed unless he was informed.

'As he said this, he looked at his own sword, and at the Knight 
alternately, who shook his head, and whose dejected countenance 
disarmed the Baron, for a moment, of suspicion.

'"A little further is the place, whither I would lead you," said the 
stranger; "no evil shall befall you--I have sworn it on the honour of 
a knight."

'The Baron, re-assured, again followed in silence, and they soon 
arrived at a deep recess of the forest, where the dark and lofty 
chesnuts entirely excluded the sky, and which was so overgrown with 
underwood, that they proceeded with difficulty.  The Knight sighed 
deeply as he passed, and sometimes paused; and having, at length, 
reached a spot, where the trees crowded into a knot, he turned, and, 
with a terrific look, pointing to the ground, the Baron saw there the 
body of a man, stretched at its length, and weltering in blood; a 
ghastly wound was on the forehead, and death appeared already to have 
contracted the features.

'The Baron, on perceiving the spectacle, started in horror, looked at 
the Knight for explanation, and was then going to raise the body and 
examine if there were yet any remains of life; but the stranger, 
waving his hand, fixed upon him a look so earnest and mournful, as 
not only much surprised him, but made him desist.

'But, what were the Baron's emotions, when, on holding the lamp near 
the features of the corpse, he discovered the exact resemblance of 
the stranger his conductor, to whom he now looked up in astonishment 
and enquiry?  As he gazed, he perceived the countenance of the Knight 
change, and begin to fade, till his whole form gradually vanished 
from his astonished sense!  While the Baron stood, fixed to the spot, 
a voice was heard to utter these words:--'

[Ludovico started, and laid down the book, for he thought he heard a 
voice in the chamber, and he looked toward the bed, where, however, 
he saw only the dark curtains and the pall.  He listened, scarcely 
daring to draw his breath, but heard only the distant roaring of the 
sea in the storm, and the blast, that rushed by the casements; when, 
concluding, that he had been deceived by its sighings, he took up his 
book to finish the story.]

'While the Baron stood, fixed to the spot, a voice was heard to utter 
these words:--*

(* This repetition seems to be intentional.  Ludovico is picking up 
the thread.)


'The body of Sir Bevys of Lancaster, a noble knight of England, lies 
before you.  He was, this night, waylaid and murdered, as he 
journeyed from the Holy City towards his native land.  Respect the 
honour of knighthood and the law of humanity; inter the body in 
christian ground, and cause his murderers to be punished.  As ye 
observe, or neglect this, shall peace and happiness, or war and 
misery, light upon you and your house for ever!'

'The Baron, when he recovered from the awe and astonishment, into 
which this adventure had thrown him, returned to his castle, whither 
he caused the body of Sir Bevys to be removed; and, on the following 
day, it was interred, with the honours of knighthood, in the chapel 
of the castle, attended by all the noble knights and ladies, who 
graced the court of Baron de Brunne.'

Ludovico, having finished this story, laid aside the book, for he 
felt drowsy, and, after putting more wood on the fire and taking 
another glass of wine, he reposed himself in the arm-chair on the 
hearth.  In his dream he still beheld the chamber where he really 
was, and, once or twice, started from imperfect slumbers, imagining 
he saw a man's face, looking over the high back of his armchair.  
This idea had so strongly impressed him, that, when he raised his 
eyes, he almost expected to meet other eyes, fixed upon his own, and 
he quitted his seat and looked behind the chair, before he felt 
perfectly convinced, that no person was there.

Thus closed the hour.



CHAPTER VII


  Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber;
 Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies,
 Which busy care draws in the brains of men;
 Therefore thou sleep'st so sound.
     SHAKESPEARE

The Count, who had slept little during the night, rose early, and, 
anxious to speak with Ludovico, went to the north apartment; but, the 
outer door having been fastened, on the preceding night, he was 
obliged to knock loudly for admittance.  Neither the knocking, or his 
voice was heard; but, considering the distance of this door from the 
bed-room, and that Ludovico, wearied with watching, had probably 
fallen into a deep sleep, the Count was not surprised on receiving no 
answer, and, leaving the door, he went down to walk in his grounds.

It was a gray autumnal morning.  The sun, rising over Provence, gave 
only a feeble light, as his rays struggled through the vapours that 
ascended from the sea, and floated heavily over the wood-tops, which 
were now varied with many a mellow tint of autumn.  The storm was 
passed, but the waves were yet violently agitated, and their course 
was traced by long lines of foam, while not a breeze fluttered in the 
sails of the vessels, near the shore, that were weighing anchor to 
depart.  The still gloom of the hour was pleasing to the Count, and 
he pursued his way through the woods, sunk in deep thought.

Emily also rose at an early hour, and took her customary walk along 
the brow of the promontory, that overhung the Mediterranean.  Her 
mind was now not occupied with the occurrences of the chateau, and 
Valancourt was the subject of her mournful thoughts; whom she had not 
yet taught herself to consider with indifference, though her judgment 
constantly reproached her for the affection, that lingered in her 
heart, after her esteem for him was departed.  Remembrance frequently 
gave her his parting look and the tones of his voice, when he had 
bade her a last farewel; and, some accidental associations now 
recalling these circumstances to her fancy, with peculiar energy, she 
shed bitter tears to the recollection.

Having reached the watch-tower, she seated herself on the broken 
steps, and, in melancholy dejection, watched the waves, half hid in 
vapour, as they came rolling towards the shore, and threw up their 
light spray round the rocks below.  Their hollow murmur and the 
obscuring mists, that came in wreaths up the cliffs, gave a solemnity 
to the scene, which was in harmony with the temper of her mind, and 
she sat, given up to the remembrance of past times, till this became 
too painful, and she abruptly quitted the place.  On passing the 
little gate of the watch-tower, she observed letters, engraved on the 
stone postern, which she paused to examine, and, though they appeared 
to have been rudely cut with a pen-knife, the characters were 
familiar to her; at length, recognizing the hand-writing of 
Valancourt, she read, with trembling anxiety the following lines, 
entitled

SHIPWRECK

 'Til solemn midnight!  On this lonely steep,
 Beneath this watch-tow'r's desolated wall,
 Where mystic shapes the wonderer appall,
 I rest; and view below the desert deep,
 As through tempestuous clouds the moon's cold light
 Gleams on the wave.  Viewless, the winds of night
 With loud mysterious force the billows sweep,
 And sullen roar the surges, far below.
 In the still pauses of the gust I hear
 The voice of spirits, rising sweet and slow,
 And oft among the clouds their forms appear.
 But hark! what shriek of death comes in the gale,
 And in the distant ray what glimmering sail
 Bends to the storm?--Now sinks the note of fear!
 Ah! wretched mariners!--no more shall day
 Unclose his cheering eye to light ye on your way!

From these lines it appeared, that Valancourt had visited the tower; 
that he had probably been here on the preceding night, for it was 
such an one as they described, and that he had left the building very 
lately, since it had not long been light, and without light it was 
impossible these letters could have been cut.  It was thus even 
probable, that he might be yet in the gardens.

As these reflections passed rapidly over the mind of Emily, they 
called up a variety of contending emotions, that almost overcame her 
spirits; but her first impulse was to avoid him, and, immediately 
leaving the tower, she returned, with hasty steps, towards the 
chateau.  As she passed along, she remembered the music she had 
lately heard near the tower, with the figure, which had appeared, 
and, in this moment of agitation, she was inclined to believe, that 
she had then heard and seen Valancourt; but other recollections soon 
convinced her of her error.  On turning into a thicker part of the 
woods, she perceived a person, walking slowly in the gloom at some 
little distance, and, her mind engaged by the idea of him, she 
started and paused, imagining this to be Valancourt.  The person 
advanced with quicker steps, and, before she could recover 
recollection enough to avoid him, he spoke, and she then knew the 
voice of the Count, who expressed some surprise, on finding her 
walking at so early an hour, and made a feeble effort to rally her on 
her love of solitude.  But he soon perceived this to be more a 
subject of concern than of light laughter, and, changing his manner, 
affectionately expostulated with Emily, on thus indulging unavailing 
regret; who, though she acknowledged the justness of all he said, 
could not restrain her tears, while she did so, and he presently 
quitted the topic.  Expressing surprise at not having yet heard from 
his friend, the Advocate at Avignon, in answer to the questions 
proposed to him, respecting the estates of the late Madame Montoni, 
he, with friendly zeal, endeavoured to cheer Emily with hopes of 
establishing her claim to them; while she felt, that the estates 
could now contribute little to the happiness of a life, in which 
Valancourt had no longer an interest.

When they returned to the chateau, Emily retired to her apartment, 
and Count De Villefort to the door of the north chambers.  This was 
still fastened, but, being now determined to arouse Ludovico, he 
renewed his calls more loudly than before, after which a total 
silence ensued, and the Count, finding all his efforts to be heard 
ineffectual, at length began to fear, that some accident had befallen 
Ludovico, whom terror of an imaginary being might have deprived of 
his senses.  He, therefore, left the door with an intention of 
summoning his servants to force it open, some of whom he now heard 
moving in the lower part of the chateau.

To the Count's enquiries, whether they had seen or heard Ludovico, 
they replied in affright, that not one of them had ventured on the 
north side of the chateau, since the preceding night.

'He sleeps soundly then,' said the Count, 'and is at such a distance 
from the outer door, which is fastened, that to gain admittance to 
the chambers it will be necessary to force it.  Bring an instrument, 
and follow me.'

The servants stood mute and dejected, and it was not till nearly all 
the household were assembled, that the Count's orders were obeyed.  
In the mean time, Dorothee was telling of a door, that opened from a 
gallery, leading from the great stair-case into the last anti-room of 
the saloon, and, this being much nearer to the bed-chamber, it 
appeared probable, that Ludovico might be easily awakened by an 
attempt to open it.  Thither, therefore, the Count went, but his 
voice was as ineffectual at this door as it had proved at the remoter 
one; and now, seriously interested for Ludovico, he was himself going 
to strike upon the door with the instrument, when he observed its 
singular beauty, and with-held the blow.  It appeared, on the first 
glance, to be of ebony, so dark and close was its grain and so high 
its polish; but it proved to be only of larch wood, of the growth of 
Provence, then famous for its forests of larch.  The beauty of its 
polished hue and of its delicate carvings determined the Count to 
spare this door, and he returned to that leading from the back stair-
case, which being, at length, forced, he entered the first anti-room, 
followed by Henri and a few of the most courageous of his servants, 
the rest awaiting the event of the enquiry on the stairs and landing-
place.

All was silent in the chambers, through which the Count passed, and, 
having reached the saloon, he called loudly upon Ludovico; after 
which, still receiving no answer, he threw open the door of the bed-
room, and entered.

The profound stillness within confirmed his apprehensions for 
Ludovico, for not even the breathings of a person in sleep were 
heard; and his uncertainty was not soon terminated, since the 
shutters being all closed, the chamber was too dark for any object to 
be distinguished in it.

The Count bade a servant open them, who, as he crossed the room to do 
so, stumbled over something, and fell to the floor, when his cry 
occasioned such panic among the few of his fellows, who had ventured 
thus far, that they instantly fled, and the Count and Henri were left 
to finish the adventure.

Henri then sprung across the room, and, opening a window-shutter, 
they perceived, that the man had fallen over a chair near the hearth, 
in which Ludovico had been sitting;--for he sat there no longer, nor 
could any where be seen by the imperfect light, that was admitted 
into the apartment.  The Count, seriously alarmed, now opened other 
shutters, that he might be enabled to examine further, and, Ludovico 
not yet appearing, he stood for a moment, suspended in astonishment 
and scarcely trusting his senses, till, his eyes glancing on the bed, 
he advanced to examine whether he was there asleep.  No person, 
however, was in it, and he proceeded to the oriel, where every thing 
remained as on the preceding night, but Ludovico was no where to be 
found.

The Count now checked his amazement, considering, that Ludovico might 
have left the chambers, during the night, overcome by the terrors, 
which their lonely desolation and the recollected reports, concerning 
them, had inspired.  Yet, if this had been the fact, the man would 
naturally have sought society, and his fellow servants had all 
declared they had not seen him; the door of the outer room also had 
been found fastened, with the key on the inside; it was impossible, 
therefore, for him to have passed through that, and all the outer 
doors of this suite were found, on examination, to be bolted and 
locked, with the keys also within them.  The Count, being then 
compelled to believe, that the lad had escaped through the casements, 
next examined them, but such as opened wide enough to admit the body 
of a man were found to be carefully secured either by iron bars, or 
by shutters, and no vestige appeared of any person having attempted 
to pass them; neither was it probable, that Ludovico would have 
incurred the risque of breaking his neck, by leaping from a window, 
when he might have walked safely through a door.

The Count's amazement did not admit of words; but he returned once 
more to examine the bed-room, where was no appearance of disorder, 
except that occasioned by the late overthrow of the chair, near which 
had stood a small table, and on this Ludovico's sword, his lamp, the 
book he had been reading, and the remnant of his flask of wine still 
remained.  At the foot of the table, too, was the basket with some 
fragments of provision and wood.

Henri and the servant now uttered their astonishment without reserve, 
and, though the Count said little, there was a seriousness in his 
manner, that expressed much.  It appeared, that Ludovico must have 
quitted these rooms by some concealed passage, for the Count could 
not believe, that any supernatural means had occasioned this event, 
yet, if there was any such passage, it seemed inexplicable why he 
should retreat through it, and it was equally surprising, that not 
even the smallest vestige should appear, by which his progress could 
be traced.  In the rooms every thing remained as much in order as if 
he had just walked out by the common way.

The Count himself assisted in lifting the arras, with which the bed-
chamber, saloon and one of the anti-rooms were hung, that he might 
discover if any door had been concealed behind it; but, after a 
laborious search, none was found, and he, at length, quitted the 
apartments, having secured the door of the last anti-chamber, the key 
of which he took into his own possession.  He then gave orders, that 
strict search should be made for Ludovico not only in the chateau, 
but in the neighbourhood, and, retiring with Henri to his closet, 
they remained there in conversation for a considerable time, and 
whatever was the subject of it, Henri from this hour lost much of his 
vivacity, and his manners were particularly grave and reserved, 
whenever the topic, which now agitated the Count's family with wonder 
and alarm, was introduced.

On the disappearing of Ludovico, Baron St. Foix seemed strengthened 
in all his former opinions concerning the probability of apparitions, 
though it was difficult to discover what connection there could 
possibly be between the two subjects, or to account for this effect 
otherwise than by supposing, that the mystery attending Ludovico, by 
exciting awe and curiosity, reduced the mind to a state of 
sensibility, which rendered it more liable to the influence of 
superstition in general.  It is, however, certain, that from this 
period the Baron and his adherents became more bigoted to their own 
systems than before, while the terrors of the Count's servants 
increased to an excess, that occasioned many of them to quit the 
mansion immediately, and the rest remained only till others could be 
procured to supply their places.

The most strenuous search after Ludovico proved unsuccessful, and, 
after several days of indefatigable enquiry, poor Annette gave 
herself up to despair, and the other inhabitants of the chateau to 
amazement.

Emily, whose mind had been deeply affected by the disastrous fate of 
the late Marchioness and with the mysterious connection, which she 
fancied had existed between her and St. Aubert, was particularly 
impressed by the late extraordinary event, and much concerned for the 
loss of Ludovico, whose integrity and faithful services claimed both 
her esteem and gratitude.  She was now very desirous to return to the 
quiet retirement of her convent, but every hint of this was received 
with real sorrow by the Lady Blanche, and affectionately set aside by 
the Count, for whom she felt much of the respectful love and 
admiration of a daughter, and to whom, by Dorothee's consent, she, at 
length, mentioned the appearance, which they had witnessed in the 
chamber of the deceased Marchioness.  At any other period, he would 
have smiled at such a relation, and have believed, that its object 
had existed only in the distempered fancy of the relater; but he now 
attended to Emily with seriousness, and, when she concluded, 
requested of her a promise, that this occurrence should rest in 
silence.  'Whatever may be the cause and the import of these 
extraordinary occurrences,' added the Count, 'time only can explain 
them.  I shall keep a wary eye upon all that passes in the chateau, 
and shall pursue every possible means of discovering the fate of 
Ludovico.  Meanwhile, we must be prudent and be silent.  I will 
myself watch in the north chambers, but of this we will say nothing, 
till the night arrives, when I purpose doing so.'

The Count then sent for Dorothee, and required of her also a promise 
of silence, concerning what she had already, or might in future 
witness of an extraordinary nature; and this ancient servant now 
related to him the particulars of the Marchioness de Villeroi's 
death, with some of which he appeared to be already acquainted, while 
by others he was evidently surprised and agitated.  After listening 
to this narrative, the Count retired to his closet, where he remained 
alone for several hours; and, when he again appeared, the solemnity 
of his manner surprised and alarmed Emily, but she gave no utterance 
to her thoughts.

On the week following the disappearance of Ludovico, all the Count's 
guests took leave of him, except the Baron, his son Mons. St. Foix, 
and Emily; the latter of whom was soon after embarrassed and 
distressed by the arrival of another visitor, Mons. Du Pont, which 
made her determine upon withdrawing to her convent immediately.  The 
delight, that appeared in his countenance, when he met her, told that 
he brought back the same ardour of passion, which had formerly 
banished him from Chateau-le-Blanc.  He was received with reserve by 
Emily, and with pleasure by the Count, who presented him to her with 
a smile, that seemed intended to plead his cause, and who did not 
hope the less for his friend, from the embarrassment she betrayed.

But M. Du Pont, with truer sympathy, seemed to understand her manner, 
and his countenance quickly lost its vivacity, and sunk into the 
languor of despondency.

On the following day, however, he sought an opportunity of declaring 
the purport of his visit, and renewed his suit; a declaration, which 
was received with real concern by Emily, who endeavoured to lessen 
the pain she might inflict by a second rejection, with assurances of 
esteem and friendship; yet she left him in a state of mind, that 
claimed and excited her tenderest compassion; and, being more 
sensible than ever of the impropriety of remaining longer at the 
chateau, she immediately sought the Count, and communicated to him 
her intention of returning to the convent.

'My dear Emily,' said he 'I observe, with extreme concern, the 
illusion you are encouraging--an illusion common to young and 
sensible minds.  Your heart has received a severe shock; you believe 
you can never entirely recover it, and you will encourage this 
belief, till the habit of indulging sorrow will subdue the strength 
of your mind, and discolour your future views with melancholy and 
regret.  Let me dissipate this illusion, and awaken you to a sense of 
your danger.'

Emily smiled mournfully, 'I know what you would say, my dear sir,' 
said she, 'and am prepared to answer you.  I feel, that my heart can 
never know a second affection; and that I must never hope even to 
recover its tranquillity--if I suffer myself to enter into a second 
engagement.'

'I know, that you feel all this,' replied the Count; 'and I know, 
also, that time will overcome these feelings, unless you cherish them 
in solitude, and, pardon me, with romantic tenderness.  Then, indeed, 
time will only confirm habit.  I am particularly empowered to speak 
on this subject, and to sympathize in your sufferings,' added the 
Count, with an air of solemnity, 'for I have known what it is to 
love, and to lament the object of my love.  Yes,' continued he, while 
his eyes filled with tears, 'I have suffered!--but those times have 
passed away--long passed! and I can now look back upon them without 
emotion.'

'My dear sir,' said Emily, timidly, 'what mean those tears?--they 
speak, I fear, another language--they plead for me.'

'They are weak tears, for they are useless ones,' replied the Count, 
drying them, 'I would have you superior to such weakness.  These, 
however, are only faint traces of a grief, which, if it had not been 
opposed by long continued effort, might have led me to the verge of 
madness!  Judge, then, whether I have not cause to warn you of an 
indulgence, which may produce so terrible an effect, and which must 
certainly, if not opposed, overcloud the years, that otherwise might 
be happy.  M. Du Pont is a sensible and amiable man, who has long 
been tenderly attached to you; his family and fortune are 
unexceptionable;--after what I have said, it is unnecessary to add, 
that I should rejoice in your felicity, and that I think M. Du Pont 
would promote it.  Do not weep, Emily,' continued the Count, taking 
her hand, 'there IS happiness reserved for you.'

He was silent a moment; and then added, in a firmer voice, 'I do not 
wish, that you should make a violent effort to overcome your 
feelings; all I, at present, ask, is, that you will check the 
thoughts, that would lead you to a remembrance of the past; that you 
will suffer your mind to be engaged by present objects; that you will 
allow yourself to believe it possible you may yet be happy; and that 
you will sometimes think with complacency of poor Du Pont, and not 
condemn him to the state of despondency, from which, my dear Emily, I 
am endeavouring to withdraw you.'

'Ah! my dear sir,' said Emily, while her tears still fell, 'do not 
suffer the benevolence of your wishes to mislead Mons. Du Pont with 
an expectation that I can ever accept his hand.  If I understand my 
own heart, this never can be; your instruction I can obey in almost 
every other particular, than that of adopting a contrary belief.'

'Leave me to understand your heart,' replied the Count, with a faint 
smile.  'If you pay me the compliment to be guided by my advice in 
other instances, I will pardon your incredulity, respecting your 
future conduct towards Mons. Du Pont.  I will not even press you to 
remain longer at the chateau than your own satisfaction will permit; 
but though I forbear to oppose your present retirement, I shall urge 
the claims of friendship for your future visits.'

Tears of gratitude mingled with those of tender regret, while Emily 
thanked the Count for the many instances of friendship she had 
received from him; promised to be directed by his advice upon every 
subject but one, and assured him of the pleasure, with which she 
should, at some future period, accept the invitation of the Countess 
and himself--If Mons. Du Pont was not at the chateau.

The Count smiled at this condition.  'Be it so,' said he, 'meanwhile 
the convent is so near the chateau, that my daughter and I shall 
often visit you; and if, sometimes, we should dare to bring you 
another visitor--will you forgive us?'

Emily looked distressed, and remained silent.

'Well,' rejoined the Count, 'I will pursue this subject no further, 
and must now entreat your forgiveness for having pressed it thus far.  
You will, however, do me the justice to believe, that I have been 
urged only by a sincere regard for your happiness, and that of my 
amiable friend Mons. Du Pont.'

Emily, when she left the Count, went to mention her intended 
departure to the Countess, who opposed it with polite expressions of 
regret; after which, she sent a note to acquaint the lady abbess, 
that she should return to the convent; and thither she withdrew on 
the evening of the following day.  M. Du Pont, in extreme regret, saw 
her depart, while the Count endeavoured to cheer him with a hope, 
that Emily would sometimes regard him with a more favourable eye.

She was pleased to find herself once more in the tranquil retirement 
of the convent, where she experienced a renewal of all the maternal 
kindness of the abbess, and of the sisterly attentions of the nuns.  
A report of the late extraordinary occurrence at the chateau had 
already reached them, and, after supper, on the evening of her 
arrival, it was the subject of conversation in the convent parlour, 
where she was requested to mention some particulars of that 
unaccountable event.  Emily was guarded in her conversation on this 
subject, and briefly related a few circumstances concerning Ludovico, 
whose disappearance, her auditors almost unanimously agreed, had been 
effected by supernatural means.

'A belief had so long prevailed,' said a nun, who was called sister 
Frances, 'that the chateau was haunted, that I was surprised, when I 
heard the Count had the temerity to inhabit it.  Its former 
possessor, I fear, had some deed of conscience to atone for; let us 
hope, that the virtues of its present owner will preserve him from 
the punishment due to the errors of the last, if, indeed, he was a 
criminal.'

'Of what crime, then, was he suspected?' said a Mademoiselle Feydeau, 
a boarder at the convent.

'Let us pray for his soul!' said a nun, who had till now sat in 
silent attention.  'If he was criminal, his punishment in this world 
was sufficient.'

There was a mixture of wildness and solemnity in her manner of 
delivering this, which struck Emily exceedingly; but Mademoiselle 
repeated her question, without noticing the solemn eagerness of the 
nun.

'I dare not presume to say what was his crime,' replied sister 
Frances; 'but I have heard many reports of an extraordinary nature, 
respecting the late Marquis de Villeroi, and among others, that, soon 
after the death of his lady, he quitted Chateau-le-Blanc, and never 
afterwards returned to it.  I was not here at the time, so I can only 
mention it from report, and so many years have passed since the 
Marchioness died, that few of our sisterhood, I believe, can do 
more.'

'But I can,' said the nun, who had before spoke, and whom they called 
sister Agnes.

'You then,' said Mademoiselle Feydeau, 'are possibly acquainted with 
circumstances, that enable you to judge, whether he was criminal or 
not, and what was the crime imputed to him.'

'I am,' replied the nun; 'but who shall dare to scrutinize my 
thoughts--who shall dare to pluck out my opinion?  God only is his 
judge, and to that judge he is gone!'

Emily looked with surprise at sister Frances, who returned her a 
significant glance.

'I only requested your opinion,' said Mademoiselle Feydeau, mildly; 
'if the subject is displeasing to you, I will drop it.'

'Displeasing!'--said the nun, with emphasis.--'We are idle talkers; 
we do not weigh the meaning of the words we use; DISPLEASING is a 
poor word.  I will go pray.'  As she said this she rose from her 
seat, and with a profound sigh quitted the room.

'What can be the meaning of this?' said Emily, when she was gone.

'It is nothing extraordinary,' replied sister Frances, 'she is often 
thus; but she had no meaning in what she says.  Her intellects are at 
times deranged.  Did you never see her thus before?'

'Never,' said Emily.  'I have, indeed, sometimes, thought, that there 
was the melancholy of madness in her look, but never before perceived 
it in her speech.  Poor soul, I will pray for her!'

'Your prayers then, my daughter, will unite with ours,' observed the 
lady abbess, 'she has need of them.'

'Dear lady,' said Mademoiselle Feydeau, addressing the abbess, 'what 
is your opinion of the late Marquis?  The strange circumstances, that 
have occurred at the chateau, have so much awakened my curiosity, 
that I shall be pardoned the question.  What was his imputed crime, 
and what the punishment, to which sister Agnes alluded?'

'We must be cautious of advancing our opinion,' said the abbess, with 
an air of reserve, mingled with solemnity, 'we must be cautious of 
advancing our opinion on so delicate a subject.  I will not take upon 
me to pronounce, that the late Marquis was criminal, or to say what 
was the crime of which he was suspected; but, concerning the 
punishment our daughter Agnes hinted, I know of none he suffered.  
She probably alluded to the severe one, which an exasperated 
conscience can inflict.  Beware, my children, of incurring so 
terrible a punishment--it is the purgatory of this life!  The late 
Marchioness I knew well; she was a pattern to such as live in the 
world; nay, our sacred order need not have blushed to copy her 
virtues!  Our holy convent received her mortal part; her heavenly 
spirit, I doubt not, ascended to its sanctuary!'

As the abbess spoke this, the last bell of vespers struck up, and she 
rose.  'Let us go, my children,' said she, 'and intercede for the 
wretched; let us go and confess our sins, and endeavour to purify our 
souls for the heaven, to which SHE is gone!'

Emily was affected by the solemnity of this exhortation, and, 
remembering her father, 'The heaven, to which HE, too, is gone!' said 
she, faintly, as she suppressed her sighs, and followed the abbess 
and the nuns to the chapel.



CHAPTER VIII


 Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd,
 Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell,
 Be thy intents wicked, or charitable,

 I will speak to thee.
     HAMLET

Count de Villefort, at length, received a letter from the advocate at 
Avignon, encouraging Emily to assert her claim to the estates of the 
late Madame Montoni; and, about the same time, a messenger arrived 
from Monsieur Quesnel with intelligence, that made an appeal to the 
law on this subject unnecessary, since it appeared, that the only 
person, who could have opposed her claim, was now no more.  A friend 
of Monsieur Quesnel, who resided at Venice, had sent him an account 
of the death of Montoni who had been brought to trial with Orsino, as 
his supposed accomplice in the murder of the Venetian nobleman.  
Orsino was found guilty, condemned and executed upon the wheel, but, 
nothing being discovered to criminate Montoni, and his colleagues, on 
this charge, they were all released, except Montoni, who, being 
considered by the senate as a very dangerous person, was, for other 
reasons, ordered again into confinement, where, it was said, he had 
died in a doubtful and mysterious manner, and not without suspicion 
of having been poisoned.  The authority, from which M. Quesnel had 
received this information, would not allow him to doubt its truth, 
and he told Emily, that she had now only to lay claim to the estates 
of her late aunt, to secure them, and added, that he would himself 
assist in the necessary forms of this business.  The term, for which 
La Vallee had been let being now also nearly expired, he acquainted 
her with the circumstance, and advised her to take the road thither, 
through Tholouse, where he promised to meet her, and where it would 
be proper for her to take possession of the estates of the late 
Madame Montoni; adding, that he would spare her any difficulties, 
that might occur on that occasion from the want of knowledge on the 
subject, and that he believed it would be necessary for her to be at 
Tholouse, in about three weeks from the present time.

An increase of fortune seemed to have awakened this sudden kindness 
in M. Quesnel towards his niece, and it appeared, that he entertained 
more respect for the rich heiress, than he had ever felt compassion 
for the poor and unfriended orphan.

The pleasure, with which she received this intelligence, was clouded 
when she considered, that he, for whose sake she had once regretted 
the want of fortune, was no longer worthy of sharing it with her; 
but, remembering the friendly admonition of the Count, she checked 
this melancholy reflection, and endeavoured to feel only gratitude 
for the unexpected good, that now attended her; while it formed no 
inconsiderable part of her satisfaction to know, that La Vallee, her 
native home, which was endeared to her by it's having been the 
residence of her parents, would soon be restored to her possession.  
There she meant to fix her future residence, for, though it could not 
be compared with the chateau at Tholouse, either for extent, or 
magnificence, its pleasant scenes and the tender remembrances, that 
haunted them, had claims upon her heart, which she was not inclined 
to sacrifice to ostentation.  She wrote immediately to thank M. 
Quesnel for the active interest he took in her concerns, and to say, 
that she would meet him at Tholouse at the appointed time.

When Count de Villefort, with Blanche, came to the convent to give 
Emily the advice of the advocate, he was informed of the contents of 
M. Quesnel's letter, and gave her his sincere congratulations, on the 
occasion; but she observed, that, when the first expression of 
satisfaction had faded from his countenance, an unusual gravity 
succeeded, and she scarcely hesitated to enquire its cause.

'It has no new occasion,' replied the Count; 'I am harassed and 
perplexed by the confusion, into which my family is thrown by their 
foolish superstition.  Idle reports are floating round me, which I 
can neither admit to be true, or prove to be false; and I am, also, 
very anxious about the poor fellow, Ludovico, concerning whom I have 
not been able to obtain information.  Every part of the chateau and 
every part of the neighbourhood, too, has, I believe, been searched, 
and I know not what further can be done, since I have already offered 
large rewards for the discovery of him.  The keys of the north 
apartment I have not suffered to be out of my possession, since he 
disappeared, and I mean to watch in those chambers, myself, this very 
night.'

Emily, seriously alarmed for the Count, united her entreaties with 
those of the Lady Blanche, to dissuade him from his purpose.

'What should I fear?' said he.  'I have no faith in supernatural 
combats, and for human opposition I shall be prepared; nay, I will 
even promise not to watch alone.'

'But who, dear sir, will have courage enough to watch with you?' said 
Emily.

'My son,' replied the Count.  'If I am not carried off in the night,' 
added he, smiling, 'you shall hear the result of my adventure, 
tomorrow.'

The Count and Lady Blanche, shortly afterwards, took leave of Emily, 
and returned to the chateau, where he informed Henri of his 
intention, who, not without some secret reluctance, consented to be 
the partner of his watch; and, when the design was mentioned after 
supper, the Countess was terrified, and the Baron, and M. Du Pont 
joined with her in entreating, that he would not tempt his fate, as 
Ludovico had done.  'We know not,' added the Baron, 'the nature, or 
the power of an evil spirit; and that such a spirit haunts those 
chambers can now, I think, scarcely be doubted.  Beware, my lord, how 
you provoke its vengeance, since it has already given us one terrible 
example of its malice.  I allow it may be probable, that the spirits 
of the dead are permitted to return to the earth only on occasions of 
high import; but the present import may be your destruction.'

The Count could not forbear smiling; 'Do you think then, Baron,' said 
he, 'that my destruction is of sufficient importance to draw back to 
earth the soul of the departed?  Alas! my good friend, there is no 
occasion for such means to accomplish the destruction of any 
individual.  Wherever the mystery rests, I trust I shall, this night, 
be able to detect it.  You know I am not superstitious.'

'I know that you are incredulous,' interrupted the Baron.

'Well, call it what you will, I mean to say, that, though you know I 
am free from superstition--if any thing supernatural has appeared, I 
doubt not it will appear to me, and if any strange event hangs over 
my house, or if any extraordinary transaction has formerly been 
connected with it, I shall probably be made acquainted with it.  At 
all events I will invite discovery; and, that I may be equal to a 
mortal attack, which in good truth, my friend, is what I most expect, 
I shall take care to be well armed.'

The Count took leave of his family, for the night, with an assumed 
gaiety, which but ill concealed the anxiety, that depressed his 
spirits, and retired to the north apartments, accompanied by his son 
and followed by the Baron, M. Du Pont and some of the domestics, who 
all bade him good night at the outer door.  In these chambers every 
thing appeared as when he had last been here; even in the bed-room no 
alteration was visible, where he lighted his own fire, for none of 
the domestics could be prevailed upon to venture thither.  After 
carefully examining the chamber and the oriel, the Count and Henri 
drew their chairs upon the hearth, set a bottle of wine and a lamp 
before them, laid their swords upon the table, and, stirring the wood 
into a blaze, began to converse on indifferent topics.  But Henri was 
often silent and abstracted, and sometimes threw a glance of mingled 
awe and curiosity round the gloomy apartment; while the Count 
gradually ceased to converse, and sat either lost in thought, or 
reading a volume of Tacitus, which he had brought to beguile the 
tediousness of the night.



CHAPTER IV


 Give thy thoughts no tongue.
     SHAKESPEARE

The Baron St. Foix, whom anxiety for his friend had kept awake, rose 
early to enquire the event of the night, when, as he passed the 
Count's closet, hearing steps within, he knocked at the door, and it 
was opened by his friend himself.  Rejoicing to see him in safety, 
and curious to learn the occurrences of the night, he had not 
immediately leisure to observe the unusual gravity, that overspread 
the features of the Count, whose reserved answers first occasioned 
him to notice it.  The Count, then smiling, endeavoured to treat the 
subject of his curiosity with levity, but the Baron was serious, and 
pursued his enquiries so closely, that the Count, at length, resuming 
his gravity, said, 'Well, my friend, press the subject no further, I 
entreat you; and let me request also, that you will hereafter be 
silent upon any thing you may think extraordinary in my future 
conduct.  I do not scruple to tell you, that I am unhappy, and that 
the watch of the last night has not assisted me to discover Ludovico; 
upon every occurrence of the night you must excuse my reserve.'

'But where is Henri?' said the Baron, with surprise and 
disappointment at this denial.

'He is well in his own apartment,' replied the Count.  'You will not 
question him on this topic, my friend, since you know my wish.'

'Certainly not,' said the Baron, somewhat chagrined, 'since it would 
be displeasing to you; but methinks, my friend, you might rely on my 
discretion, and drop this unusual reserve.  However, you must allow 
me to suspect, that you have seen reason to become a convert to my 
system, and are no longer the incredulous knight you lately appeared 
to be.'

'Let us talk no more upon this subject,' said the Count; 'you may be 
assured, that no ordinary circumstance has imposed this silence upon 
me towards a friend, whom I have called so for near thirty years; and 
my present reserve cannot make you question either my esteem, or the 
sincerity of my friendship.'

'I will not doubt either,' said the Baron, 'though you must allow me 
to express my surprise, at this silence.'

'To me I will allow it,' replied the Count, 'but I earnestly entreat 
that you will forbear to notice it to my family, as well as every 
thing remarkable you may observe in my conduct towards them.'

The Baron readily promised this, and, after conversing for some time 
on general topics, they descended to the breakfast-room, where the 
Count met his family with a cheerful countenance, and evaded their 
enquiries by employing light ridicule, and assuming an air of 
uncommon gaiety, while he assured them, that they need not apprehend 
any evil from the north chambers, since Henri and himself had been 
permitted to return from them in safety.

Henri, however, was less successful in disguising his feelings.  From 
his countenance an expression of terror was not entirely faded; he 
was often silent and thoughtful, and when he attempted to laugh at 
the eager enquiries of Mademoiselle Bearn, it was evidently only an 
attempt.

In the evening, the Count called, as he had promised, at the convent, 
and Emily was surprised to perceive a mixture of playful ridicule and 
of reserve in his mention of the north apartment.  Of what had 
occurred there, however, he said nothing, and, when she ventured to 
remind him of his promise to tell her the result of his enquiries, 
and to ask if he had received any proof, that those chambers were 
haunted, his look became solemn, for a moment, then, seeming to 
recollect himself, he smiled, and said, 'My dear Emily, do not suffer 
my lady abbess to infect your good understanding with these fancies; 
she will teach you to expect a ghost in every dark room.  But believe 
me,' added he, with a profound sigh, 'the apparition of the dead 
comes not on light, or sportive errands, to terrify, or to surprise 
the timid.'  He paused, and fell into a momentary thoughtfulness, and 
then added, 'We will say no more on this subject.'

Soon after, he took leave, and, when Emily joined some of the nuns, 
she was surprised to find them acquainted with a circumstance, which 
she had carefully avoided to mention, and expressing their admiration 
of his intrepidity in having dared to pass a night in the apartment, 
whence Ludovico had disappeared; for she had not considered with what 
rapidity a tale of wonder circulates.  The nuns had acquired their 
information from peasants, who brought fruit to the monastery, and 
whose whole attention had been fixed, since the disappearance of 
Ludovico, on what was passing in the castle.

Emily listened in silence to the various opinions of the nuns, 
concerning the conduct of the Count, most of whom condemned it as 
rash and presumptuous, affirming, that it was provoking the vengeance 
of an evil spirit, thus to intrude upon its haunts.

Sister Frances contended, that the Count had acted with the bravery 
of a virtuous mind.  He knew himself guiltless of aught, that should 
provoke a good spirit, and did not fear the spells of an evil one, 
since he could claim the protection of an higher Power, of Him, who 
can command the wicked, and will protect the innocent.

'The guilty cannot claim that protection!' said sister Agnes, 'let 
the Count look to his conduct, that he do not forfeit his claim!  Yet 
who is he, that shall dare to call himself innocent!--all earthly 
innocence is but comparative.  Yet still how wide asunder are the 
extremes of guilt, and to what an horrible depth may we fall!  Oh!'--

The nun, as she concluded, uttered a shuddering sigh, that startled 
Emily, who, looking up, perceived the eyes of Agnes fixed on hers, 
after which the sister rose, took her hand, gazed earnestly upon her 
countenance, for some moments, in silence, and then said,

'You are young--you are innocent!  I mean you are yet innocent of any 
great crime!--But you have passions in your heart,--scorpions; they 
sleep now--beware how you awaken them!--they will sting you, even 
unto death!'

Emily, affected by these words and by the solemnity, with which they 
were delivered, could not suppress her tears.

'Ah! is it so?' exclaimed Agnes, her countenance softening from its 
sternness--'so young, and so unfortunate!  We are sisters, then 
indeed.  Yet, there is no bond of kindness among the guilty,' she 
added, while her eyes resumed their wild expression, 'no gentleness,-
-no peace, no hope!  I knew them all once--my eyes could weep--but 
now they burn, for now, my soul is fixed, and fearless!--I lament no 
more!'

'Rather let us repent, and pray,' said another nun.  'We are taught 
to hope, that prayer and penitence will work our salvation.  There is 
hope for all who repent!'

'Who repent and turn to the true faith,' observed sister Frances.

'For all but me!' replied Agnes solemnly, who paused, and then 
abruptly added, 'My head burns, I believe I am not well.  O! could I 
strike from my memory all former scenes--the figures, that rise up, 
like furies, to torment me!--I see them, when I sleep, and, when I am 
awake, they are still before my eyes!  I see them now--now!'

She stood in a fixed attitude of horror, her straining eyes moving 
slowly round the room, as if they followed something.  One of the 
nuns gently took her hand, to lead her from the parlour.  Agnes 
became calm, drew her other hand across her eyes, looked again, and, 
sighing deeply, said, 'They are gone--they are gone!  I am feverish, 
I know not what I say.  I am thus, sometimes, but it will go off 
again, I shall soon be better.  Was not that the vesper-bell?'

'No,' replied Frances, 'the evening service is passed.  Let Margaret 
lead you to your cell.'

'You are right,' replied sister Agnes, 'I shall be better there.  
Good night, my sisters, remember me in your orisons.'

When they had withdrawn, Frances, observing Emily's emotion, said, 
'Do not be alarmed, our sister is often thus deranged, though I have 
not lately seen her so frantic; her usual mood is melancholy.  This 
fit has been coming on, for several days; seclusion and the customary 
treatment will restore her.'

'But how rationally she conversed, at first!' observed Emily, 'her 
ideas followed each other in perfect order.'

'Yes,' replied the nun, 'this is nothing new; nay, I have sometimes 
known her argue not only with method, but with acuteness, and then, 
in a moment, start off into madness.'

'Her conscience seems afflicted,' said Emily, 'did you ever hear what 
circumstance reduced her to this deplorable condition?'

'I have,' replied the nun, who said no more till Emily repeated the 
question, when she added in a low voice, and looking significantly 
towards the other boarders, 'I cannot tell you now, but, if you think 
it worth your while, come to my cell, to-night, when our sisterhood 
are at rest, and you shall hear more; but remember we rise to 
midnight prayers, and come either before, or after midnight.'

Emily promised to remember, and, the abbess soon after appearing, 
they spoke no more of the unhappy nun.

The Count meanwhile, on his return home, had found M. Du Pont in one 
of those fits of despondency, which his attachment to Emily 
frequently occasioned him, an attachment, that had subsisted too long 
to be easily subdued, and which had already outlived the opposition 
of his friends.  M. Du Pont had first seen Emily in Gascony, during 
the lifetime of his parent, who, on discovering his son's partiality 
for Mademoiselle St. Aubert, his inferior in point of fortune, 
forbade him to declare it to her family, or to think of her more.  
During the life of his father, he had observed the first command, but 
had found it impracticable to obey the second, and had, sometimes, 
soothed his passion by visiting her favourite haunts, among which was 
the fishing-house, where, once or twice, he addressed her in verse, 
concealing his name, in obedience to the promise he had given his 
father.  There too he played the pathetic air, to which she had 
listened with such surprise and admiration; and there he found the 
miniature, that had since cherished a passion fatal to his repose.  
During his expedition into Italy, his father died; but he received 
his liberty at a moment, when he was the least enabled to profit by 
it, since the object, that rendered it most valuable, was no longer 
within the reach of his vows.  By what accident he discovered Emily, 
and assisted to release her from a terrible imprisonment, has already 
appeared, and also the unavailing hope, with which he then encouraged 
his love, and the fruitless efforts, that he had since made to 
overcome it.

The Count still endeavoured, with friendly zeal, to sooth him with a 
belief, that patience, perseverance and prudence would finally obtain 
for him happiness and Emily:  'Time,' said he, 'will wear away the 
melancholy impression, which disappointment has left on her mind, and 
she will be sensible of your merit.  Your services have already 
awakened her gratitude, and your sufferings her pity; and trust me, 
my friend, in a heart so sensible as hers, gratitude and pity lead to 
love.  When her imagination is rescued from its present delusion, she 
will readily accept the homage of a mind like yours.'

Du Pont sighed, while he listened to these words; and, endeavouring 
to hope what his friend believed, he willingly yielded to an 
invitation to prolong his visit at the chateau, which we now leave 
for the monastery of St. Claire.

When the nuns had retired to rest, Emily stole to her appointment 
with sister Frances, whom she found in her cell, engaged in prayer, 
before a little table, where appeared the image she was addressing, 
and, above, the dim lamp that gave light to the place.  Turning her 
eyes, as the door opened, she beckoned to Emily to come in, who, 
having done so, seated herself in silence beside the nun's little 
mattress of straw, till her orisons should conclude.  The latter soon 
rose from her knees, and, taking down the lamp and placing it on the 
table, Emily perceived there a human scull and bones, lying beside an 
hour-glass; but the nun, without observing her emotion, sat down on 
the mattress by her, saying, 'Your curiosity, sister, has made you 
punctual, but you have nothing remarkable to hear in the history of 
poor Agnes, of whom I avoided to speak in the presence of my lay-
sisters, only because I would not publish her crime to them.'

'I shall consider your confidence in me as a favour,' said Emily, 
'and will not misuse it.'

'Sister Agnes,' resumed the nun, 'is of a noble family, as the 
dignity of her air must already have informed you, but I will not 
dishonour their name so much as to reveal it.  Love was the occasion 
of her crime and of her madness.  She was beloved by a gentleman of 
inferior fortune, and her father, as I have heard, bestowing her on a 
nobleman, whom she disliked, an ill-governed passion proved her 
destruction.--Every obligation of virtue and of duty was forgotten, 
and she prophaned her marriage vows; but her guilt was soon detected, 
and she would have fallen a sacrifice to the vengeance of her 
husband, had not her father contrived to convey her from his power.  
By what means he did this, I never could learn; but he secreted her 
in this convent, where he afterwards prevailed with her to take the 
veil, while a report was circulated in the world, that she was dead, 
and the father, to save his daughter, assisted the rumour, and 
employed such means as induced her husband to believe she had become 
a victim to his jealousy.  You look surprised,' added the nun, 
observing Emily's countenance; 'I allow the story is uncommon, but 
not, I believe, without a parallel.'

'Pray proceed,' said Emily, 'I am interested.'

'The story is already told,' resumed the nun, 'I have only to 
mention, that the long struggle, which Agnes suffered, between love, 
remorse and a sense of the duties she had taken upon herself in 
becoming of our order, at length unsettled her reason.  At first, she 
was frantic and melancholy by quick alternatives; then, she sunk into 
a deep and settled melancholy, which still, however, has, at times, 
been interrupted by fits of wildness, and, of late, these have again 
been frequent.'

Emily was affected by the history of the sister, some parts of whose 
story brought to her remembrance that of the Marchioness de Villeroi, 
who had also been compelled by her father to forsake the object of 
her affections, for a nobleman of his choice; but, from what Dorothee 
had related, there appeared no reason to suppose, that she had 
escaped the vengeance of a jealous husband, or to doubt for a moment 
the innocence of her conduct.  But Emily, while she sighed over the 
misery of the nun, could not forbear shedding a few tears to the 
misfortunes of the Marchioness; and, when she returned to the mention 
of sister Agnes, she asked Frances if she remembered her in her 
youth, and whether she was then beautiful.

'I was not here at the time, when she took the vows,' replied 
Frances, 'which is so long ago, that few of the present sisterhood, I 
believe, were witnesses of the ceremony; nay, ever our lady mother 
did not then preside over the convent:  but I can remember, when 
sister Agnes was a very beautiful woman.  She retains that air of 
high rank, which always distinguished her, but her beauty, you must 
perceive, is fled; I can scarcely discover even a vestige of the 
loveliness, that once animated her features.'

'It is strange,' said Emily, 'but there are moments, when her 
countenance has appeared familiar to my memory!  You will think me 
fanciful, and I think myself so, for I certainly never saw sister 
Agnes, before I came to this convent, and I must, therefore, have 
seen some person, whom she strongly resembles, though of this I have 
no recollection.'

'You have been interested by the deep melancholy of her countenance,' 
said Frances, 'and its impression has probably deluded your 
imagination; for I might as reasonably think I perceive a likeness 
between you and Agnes, as you, that you have seen her any where but 
in this convent, since this has been her place of refuge, for nearly 
as many years as make your age.'

'Indeed!' said Emily.

'Yes,' rejoined Frances, 'and why does that circumstance excite your 
surprise?'

Emily did not appear to notice this question, but remained 
thoughtful, for a few moments, and then said, 'It was about that same 
period that the Marchioness de Villeroi expired.'

'That is an odd remark,' said Frances.

Emily, recalled from her reverie, smiled, and gave the conversation 
another turn, but it soon came back to the subject of the unhappy 
nun, and Emily remained in the cell of sister Frances, till the mid-
night bell aroused her; when, apologizing for having interrupted the 
sister's repose, till this late hour, they quitted the cell together.  
Emily returned to her chamber, and the nun, bearing a glimmering 
taper, went to her devotion in the chapel.

Several days followed, during which Emily saw neither the Count, or 
any of his family; and, when, at length, he appeared, she remarked, 
with concern, that his air was unusually disturbed.

'My spirits are harassed,' said he, in answer to her anxious 
enquiries, 'and I mean to change my residence, for a little while, an 
experiment, which, I hope, will restore my mind to its usual 
tranquillity.  My daughter and myself will accompany the Baron St. 
Foix to his chateau.  It lies in a valley of the Pyrenees, that opens 
towards Gascony, and I have been thinking, Emily, that, when you set 
out for La Vallee, we may go part of the way together; it would be a 
satisfaction to me to guard you towards your home.'

She thanked the Count for his friendly consideration, and lamented, 
that the necessity for her going first to Tholouse would render this 
plan impracticable.  'But, when you are at the Baron's residence,' 
she added, 'you will be only a short journey from La Vallee, and I 
think, sir, you will not leave the country without visiting me; it is 
unnecessary to say with what pleasure I should receive you and the 
Lady Blanche.'

'I do not doubt it,' replied the Count, 'and I will not deny myself 
and Blanche the pleasure of visiting you, if your affairs should 
allow you to be at La Vallee, about the time when we can meet you 
there.'

When Emily said that she should hope to see the Countess also, she 
was not sorry to learn that this lady was going, accompanied by 
Mademoiselle Bearn, to pay a visit, for a few weeks, to a family in 
lower Languedoc.

The Count, after some further conversation on his intended journey 
and on the arrangement of Emily's, took leave; and many days did not 
succeed this visit, before a second letter from M. Quesnel informed 
her, that he was then at Tholouse, that La Vallee was at liberty, and 
that he wished her to set off for the former place, where he awaited 
her arrival, with all possible dispatch, since his own affairs 
pressed him to return to Gascony.  Emily did not hesitate to obey 
him, and, having taken an affecting leave of the Count's family, in 
which M. Du Pont was still included, and of her friends at the 
convent, she set out for Tholouse, attended by the unhappy Annette, 
and guarded by a steady servant of the Count.



CHAPTER X


 Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain,
 Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain:
 Awake but one, and lo! what myriads rise!
 Each stamps its image as the other flies!
     PLEASURES OF MEMORY

Emily pursued her journey, without any accident, along the plains of 
Languedoc towards the north-west; and, on this her return to 
Tholouse, which she had last left with Madame Montoni, she thought 
much on the melancholy fate of her aunt, who, but for her own 
imprudence, might now have been living in happiness there!  Montoni, 
too, often rose to her fancy, such as she had seen him in his days of 
triumph, bold, spirited and commanding; such also as she had since 
beheld him in his days of vengeance; and now, only a few short months 
had passed--and he had no longer the power, or the will to afflict;--
he had become a clod of earth, and his life was vanished like a 
shadow!  Emily could have wept at his fate, had she not remembered 
his crimes; for that of her unfortunate aunt she did weep, and all 
sense of her errors was overcome by the recollection of her 
misfortunes.

Other thoughts and other emotions succeeded, as Emily drew near the 
well-known scenes of her early love, and considered, that Valancourt 
was lost to her and to himself, for ever.  At length, she came to the 
brow of the hill, whence, on her departure for Italy, she had given a 
farewell look to this beloved landscape, amongst whose woods and 
fields she had so often walked with Valancourt, and where he was then 
to inhabit, when she would be far, far away!  She saw, once more, 
that chain of the Pyrenees, which overlooked La Vallee, rising, like 
faint clouds, on the horizon.  'There, too, is Gascony, extended at 
their feet!' said she, 'O my father,--my mother!  And there, too, is 
the Garonne!'  she added, drying the tears, that obscured her sight,-
-'and Tholouse, and my aunt's mansion--and the groves in her garden!-
-O my friends! are ye all lost to me--must I never, never see ye 
more!'  Tears rushed again to her eyes, and she continued to weep, 
till an abrupt turn in the road had nearly occasioned the carriage to 
overset, when, looking up, she perceived another part of the well-
known scene around Tholouse, and all the reflections and 
anticipations, which she had suffered, at the moment, when she bade 
it last adieu, came with recollected force to her heart.  She 
remembered how anxiously she had looked forward to the futurity, 
which was to decide her happiness concerning Valancourt, and what 
depressing fears had assailed her; the very words she had uttered, as 
she withdrew her last look from the prospect, came to her memory.  
'Could I but be certain,' she had then said, 'that I should ever 
return, and that Valancourt would still live for me--I should go in 
peace!'

Now, that futurity, so anxiously anticipated, was arrived, she was 
returned--but what a dreary blank appeared!--Valancourt no longer 
lived for her!  She had no longer even the melancholy satisfaction of 
contemplating his image in her heart, for he was no longer the same 
Valancourt she had cherished there--the solace of many a mournful 
hour, the animating friend, that had enabled her to bear up against 
the oppression of Montoni--the distant hope, that had beamed over her 
gloomy prospect!  On perceiving this beloved idea to be an illusion 
of her own creation, Valancourt seemed to be annihilated, and her 
soul sickened at the blank, that remained.  His marriage with a 
rival, even his death, she thought she could have endured with more 
fortitude, than this discovery; for then, amidst all her grief, she 
could have looked in secret upon the image of goodness, which her 
fancy had drawn of him, and comfort would have mingled with her 
suffering!

Drying her tears, she looked, once more, upon the landscape, which 
had excited them, and perceived, that she was passing the very bank, 
where she had taken leave of Valancourt, on the morning of her 
departure from Tholouse, and she now saw him, through her returning 
tears, such as he had appeared, when she looked from the carriage to 
give him a last adieu--saw him leaning mournfully against the high 
trees, and remembered the fixed look of mingled tenderness and 
anguish, with which he had then regarded her.  This recollection was 
too much for her heart, and she sunk back in the carriage, nor once 
looked up, till it stopped at the gates of what was now her own 
mansion.

These being opened, and by the servant, to whose care the chateau had 
been entrusted, the carriage drove into the court, where, alighting, 
she hastily passed through the great hall, now silent and solitary, 
to a large oak parlour, the common sitting room of the late Madame 
Montoni, where, instead of being received by M. Quesnel, she found a 
letter from him, informing her that business of consequence had 
obliged him to leave Tholouse two days before.  Emily was, upon the 
whole, not sorry to be spared his presence, since his abrupt 
departure appeared to indicate the same indifference, with which he 
had formerly regarded her.  This letter informed her, also, of the 
progress he had made in the settlement of her affairs, and concluded 
with directions, concerning the forms of some business, which 
remained for her to transact.  But M. Quesnel's unkindness did not 
long occupy her thoughts, which returned the remembrance of the 
persons she had been accustomed to see in this mansion, and chiefly 
of the ill-guided and unfortunate Madame Montoni.  In the room, where 
she now sat, she had breakfasted with her on the morning of their 
departure for Italy; and the view of it brought most forcibly to her 
recollection all she had herself suffered, at that time, and the many 
gay expectations, which her aunt had formed, respecting the journey 
before her.  While Emily's mind was thus engaged, her eyes wandered 
unconsciously to a large window, that looked upon the garden, and 
here new memorials of the past spoke to her heart, for she saw 
extended before her the very avenue, in which she had parted with 
Valancourt, on the eve of her journey; and all the anxiety, the 
tender interest he had shewn, concerning her future happiness, his 
earnest remonstrances against her committing herself to the power of 
Montoni, and the truth of his affection, came afresh to her memory.  
At this moment, it appeared almost impossible, that Valancourt could 
have become unworthy of her regard, and she doubted all that she had 
lately heard to his disadvantage, and even his own words, which had 
confirmed Count De Villefort's report of him.  Overcome by the 
recollections, which the view of this avenue occasioned, she turned 
abruptly from the window, and sunk into a chair beside it, where she 
sat, given up to grief, till the entrance of Annette, with coffee, 
aroused her.

'Dear madam, how melancholy this place looks now,' said Annette, 'to 
what it used to do!  It is dismal coming home, when there is nobody 
to welcome one!'

This was not the moment, in which Emily could bear the remark; her 
tears fell again, and, as soon as she had taken the coffee, she 
retired to her apartment, where she endeavoured to repose her 
fatigued spirits.  But busy memory would still supply her with the 
visions of former times:  she saw Valancourt interesting and 
benevolent, as he had been wont to appear in the days of their early 
love, and, amidst the scenes, where she had believed that they should 
sometimes pass their years together!--but, at length, sleep closed 
these afflicting scenes from her view.

On the following morning, serious occupation recovered her from such 
melancholy reflections; for, being desirous of quitting Tholouse, and 
of hastening on to La Vallee, she made some enquiries into the 
condition of the estate, and immediately dispatched a part of the 
necessary business concerning it, according to the directions of 
Mons. Quesnel.  It required a strong effort to abstract her thoughts 
from other interests sufficiently to attend to this, but she was 
rewarded for her exertions by again experiencing, that employment is 
the surest antidote to sorrow.

This day was devoted entirely to business; and, among other concerns, 
she employed means to learn the situation of all her poor tenants, 
that she might relieve their wants, or confirm their comforts.

In the evening, her spirits were so much strengthened, that she 
thought she could bear to visit the gardens, where she had so often 
walked with Valancourt; and, knowing, that, if she delayed to do so, 
their scenes would only affect her the more, whenever they should be 
viewed, she took advantage of the present state of her mind, and 
entered them.

Passing hastily the gate leading from the court into the gardens, she 
hurried up the great avenue, scarcely permitting her memory to dwell 
for a moment on the circumstance of her having here parted with 
Valancourt, and soon quitted this for other walks less interesting to 
her heart.  These brought her, at length, to the flight of steps, 
that led from the lower garden to the terrace, on seeing which, she 
became agitated, and hesitated whether to ascend, but, her resolution 
returning, she proceeded.

'Ah!' said Emily, as she ascended, 'these are the same high trees, 
that used to wave over the terrace, and these the same flowery 
thickets--the liburnum, the wild rose, and the cerinthe--which were 
wont to grow beneath them!  Ah! and there, too, on that bank, are the 
very plants, which Valancourt so carefully reared!--O, when last I 
saw them!'--she checked the thought, but could not restrain her 
tears, and, after walking slowly on for a few moments, her agitation, 
upon the view of this well-known scene, increased so much, that she 
was obliged to stop, and lean upon the wall of the terrace.  It was a 
mild, and beautiful evening.  The sun was setting over the extensive 
landscape, to which his beams, sloping from beneath a dark cloud, 
that overhung the west, gave rich and partial colouring, and touched 
the tufted summits of the groves, that rose from the garden below, 
with a yellow gleam.  Emily and Valancourt had often admired together 
this scene, at the same hour; and it was exactly on this spot, that, 
on the night preceding her departure for Italy, she had listened to 
his remonstrances against the journey, and to the pleadings of 
passionate affection.  Some observations, which she made on the 
landscape, brought this to her remembrance, and with it all the 
minute particulars of that conversation;--the alarming doubts he had 
expressed concerning Montoni, doubts, which had since been fatally 
confirmed; the reasons and entreaties he had employed to prevail with 
her to consent to an immediate marriage; the tenderness of his love, 
the paroxysms of this grief, and the conviction that he had 
repeatedly expressed, that they should never meet again in happiness!  
All these circumstances rose afresh to her mind, and awakened the 
various emotions she had then suffered.  Her tenderness for 
Valancourt became as powerful as in the moments, when she thought, 
that she was parting with him and happiness together, and when the 
strength of her mind had enabled her to triumph over present 
suffering, rather than to deserve the reproach of her conscience by 
engaging in a clandestine marriage.--'Alas!' said Emily, as these 
recollections came to her mind, 'and what have I gained by the 
fortitude I then practised?--am I happy now?--He said, we should meet 
no more in happiness; but, O! he little thought his own misconduct 
would separate us, and lead to the very evil he then dreaded!'

Her reflections increased her anguish, while she was compelled to 
acknowledge, that the fortitude she had formerly exerted, if it had 
not conducted her to happiness, had saved her from irretrievable 
misfortune--from Valancourt himself!  But in these moments she could 
not congratulate herself on the prudence, that had saved her; she 
could only lament, with bitterest anguish, the circumstances, which 
had conspired to betray Valancourt into a course of life so different 
from that, which the virtues, the tastes, and the pursuits of his 
early years had promised; but she still loved him too well to 
believe, that his heart was even now depraved, though his conduct had 
been criminal.  An observation, which had fallen from M. St. Aubert 
more than once, now occurred to her.  'This young man,' said he, 
speaking of Valancourt, 'has never been at Paris;' a remark, that had 
surprised her at the time it was uttered, but which she now 
understood, and she exclaimed sorrowfully, 'O Valancourt! if such a 
friend as my father had been with you at Paris--your noble, ingenuous 
nature would not have fallen!'

The sun was now set, and, recalling her thoughts from their 
melancholy subject, she continued her walk; for the pensive shade of 
twilight was pleasing to her, and the nightingales from the 
surrounding groves began to answer each other in the long-drawn, 
plaintive note, which always touched her heart; while all the 
fragrance of the flowery thickets, that bounded the terrace, was 
awakened by the cool evening air, which floated so lightly among 
their leaves, that they scarcely trembled as it passed.

Emily came, at length, to the steps of the pavilion, that terminated 
the terrace, and where her last interview with Valancourt, before her 
departure from Tholouse, had so unexpectedly taken place.  The door 
was now shut, and she trembled, while she hesitated whether to open 
it; but her wish to see again a place, which had been the chief scene 
of her former happiness, at length overcoming her reluctance to 
encounter the painful regret it would renew, she entered.  The room 
was obscured by a melancholy shade; but through the open lattices, 
darkened by the hanging foliage of the vines, appeared the dusky 
landscape, the Garonne reflecting the evening light, and the west 
still glowing.  A chair was placed near one of the balconies, as if 
some person had been sitting there, but the other furniture of the 
pavilion remained exactly as usual, and Emily thought it looked as if 
it had not once been moved since she set out for Italy.  The silent 
and deserted air of the place added solemnity to her emotions, for 
she heard only the low whisper of the breeze, as it shook the leaves 
of the vines, and the very faint murmur of the Garonne.

She seated herself in a chair, near the lattice, and yielded to the 
sadness of her heart, while she recollected the circumstances of her 
parting interview with Valancourt, on this spot.  It was here too, 
that she had passed some of the happiest hours of her life with him, 
when her aunt favoured the connection, for here she had often sat and 
worked, while he conversed, or read; and she now well remembered with 
what discriminating judgment, with what tempered energy, he used to 
repeat some of the sublimest passages of their favourite authors; how 
often he would pause to admire with her their excellence, and with 
what tender delight he would listen to her remarks, and correct her 
taste.

'And is it possible,' said Emily, as these recollections returned--
'is it possible, that a mind, so susceptible of whatever is grand and 
beautiful, could stoop to low pursuits, and be subdued by frivolous 
temptations?'

She remembered how often she had seen the sudden tear start in his 
eye, and had heard his voice tremble with emotion, while he related 
any great or benevolent action, or repeated a sentiment of the same 
character.  'And such a mind,' said she, 'such a heart, were to be 
sacrificed to the habits of a great city!'

These recollections becoming too painful to be endured, she abruptly 
left the pavilion, and, anxious to escape from the memorials of her 
departed happiness, returned towards the chateau.  As she passed 
along the terrace, she perceived a person, walking, with a slow step, 
and a dejected air, under the trees, at some distance.  The twilight, 
which was now deep, would not allow her to distinguish who it was, 
and she imagined it to be one of the servants, till, the sound of her 
steps seeming to reach him, he turned half round, and she thought she 
saw Valancourt!

Whoever it was, he instantly struck among the thickets on the left, 
and disappeared, while Emily, her eyes fixed on the place, whence he 
had vanished, and her frame trembling so excessively, that she could 
scarcely support herself, remained, for some moments, unable to quit 
the spot, and scarcely conscious of existence.  With her 
recollection, her strength returned, and she hurried toward the 
house, where she did not venture to enquire who had been in the 
gardens, lest she should betray her emotion; and she sat down alone, 
endeavouring to recollect the figure, air and features of the person 
she had just seen.  Her view of him, however, had been so transient, 
and the gloom had rendered it so imperfect, that she could remember 
nothing with exactness; yet the general appearance of his figure, and 
his abrupt departure, made her still believe, that this person was 
Valancourt.  Sometimes, indeed, she thought, that her fancy, which 
had been occupied by the idea of him, had suggested his image to her 
uncertain sight:  but this conjecture was fleeting.  If it was 
himself whom she had seen, she wondered much, that he should be at 
Tholouse, and more, how he had gained admittance into the garden; but 
as often as her impatience prompted her to enquire whether any 
stranger had been admitted, she was restrained by an unwillingness to 
betray her doubts; and the evening was passed in anxious conjecture, 
and in efforts to dismiss the subject from her thoughts.  But, these 
endeavours were ineffectual, and a thousand inconsistent emotions 
assailed her, whenever she fancied that Valancourt might be near her; 
now, she dreaded it to be true, and now she feared it to be false; 
and, while she constantly tried to persuade herself, that she wished 
the person, whom she had seen, might not be Valancourt, her heart as 
constantly contradicted her reason.

The following day was occupied by the visits of several neighbouring 
families, formerly intimate with Madame Montoni, who came to condole 
with Emily on her death, to congratulate her upon the acquisition of 
these estates, and to enquire about Montoni, and concerning the 
strange reports they had heard of her own situation; all which was 
done with the utmost decorum, and the visitors departed with as much 
composure as they had arrived.

Emily was wearied by these formalities, and disgusted by the 
subservient manners of many persons, who had thought her scarcely 
worthy of common attention, while she was believed to be a dependant 
on Madame Montoni.

'Surely,' said she, 'there is some magic in wealth, which can thus 
make persons pay their court to it, when it does not even benefit 
themselves.  How strange it is, that a fool or a knave, with riches, 
should be treated with more respect by the world, than a good man, or 
a wise man in poverty!'

It was evening, before she was left alone, and she then wished to 
have refreshed her spirits in the free air of her garden; but she 
feared to go thither, lest she should meet again the person, whom she 
had seen on the preceding night, and he should prove to be 
Valancourt.  The suspense and anxiety she suffered, on this subject, 
she found all her efforts unable to controul, and her secret wish to 
see Valancourt once more, though unseen by him, powerfully prompted 
her to go, but prudence and a delicate pride restrained her, and she 
determined to avoid the possibility of throwing herself in his way, 
by forbearing to visit the gardens, for several days.

When, after near a week, she again ventured thither, she made Annette 
her companion, and confined her walk to the lower grounds, but often 
started as the leaves rustled in the breeze, imagining, that some 
person was among the thickets; and, at the turn of every alley, she 
looked forward with apprehensive expectation.  She pursued her walk 
thoughtfully and silently, for her agitation would not suffer her to 
converse with Annette, to whom, however, thought and silence were so 
intolerable, that she did not scruple at length to talk to her 
mistress.

'Dear madam,' said she, 'why do you start so? one would think you 
knew what has happened.'

'What has happened?' said Emily, in a faltering voice, and trying to 
command her emotion.

'The night before last, you know, madam'--

'I know nothing, Annette,' replied her lady in a more hurried voice.

'The night before last, madam, there was a robber in the garden.'

'A robber!' said Emily, in an eager, yet doubting tone.

'I suppose he was a robber, madam.  What else could he be?'

'Where did you see him, Annette?' rejoined Emily, looking round her, 
and turning back towards the chateau.

'It was not I that saw him, madam, it was Jean the gardener.  It was 
twelve o'clock at night, and, as he was coming across the court to go 
the back way into the house, what should he see--but somebody walking 
in the avenue, that fronts the garden gate!  So, with that, Jean 
guessed how it was, and he went into the house for his gun.'

'His gun!' exclaimed Emily.

'Yes, madam, his gun; and then he came out into the court to watch 
him.  Presently, he sees him come slowly down the avenue, and lean 
over the garden gate, and look up at the house for a long time; and I 
warrant he examined it well, and settled what window he should break 
in at.'

'But the gun,' said Emily--'the gun!'

'Yes, madam, all in good time.  Presently, Jean says, the robber 
opened the gate, and was coming into the court, and then he thought 
proper to ask him his business:  so he called out again, and bade him 
say who he was, and what he wanted.  But the man would do neither; 
but turned upon his heel, and passed into the garden again.  Jean 
knew then well enough how it was, and so he fired after him.'

'Fired!' exclaimed Emily.

'Yes, madam, fired off his gun; but, Holy Virgin! what makes you look 
so pale, madam?  The man was not killed,--I dare say; but if he was, 
his comrades carried him off:  for, when Jean went in the morning, to 
look for the body, it was gone, and nothing to be seen but a track of 
blood on the ground.  Jean followed it, that he might find out where 
the man got into the garden, but it was lost in the grass, and'--

Annette was interrupted:  for Emily's spirits died away, and she 
would have fallen to the ground, if the girl had not caught her, and 
supported her to a bench, close to them.

When, after a long absence, her senses returned, Emily desired to be 
led to her apartment; and, though she trembled with anxiety to 
enquire further on the subject of her alarm, she found herself too 
ill at present, to dare the intelligence which it was possible she 
might receive of Valancourt.  Having dismissed Annette, that she 
might weep and think at liberty, she endeavoured to recollect the 
exact air of the person, whom she had seen on the terrace, and still 
her fancy gave her the figure of Valancourt.  She had, indeed, 
scarcely a doubt, that it was he whom she had seen, and at whom the 
gardener had fired:  for the manner of the latter person, as 
described by Annette, was not that of a robber; nor did it appear 
probable, that a robber would have come alone, to break into a house 
so spacious as this.

When Emily thought herself sufficiently recovered, to listen to what 
Jean might have to relate, she sent for him; but he could inform her 
of no circumstance, that might lead to a knowledge of the person, who 
had been shot, or of the consequence of the wound; and, after 
severely reprimanding him, for having fired with bullets, and 
ordering diligent enquiry to be made in the neighbourhood for the 
discovery of the wounded person, she dismissed him, and herself 
remained in the same state of terrible suspense.  All the tenderness 
she had ever felt for Valancourt, was recalled by the sense of his 
danger; and the more she considered the subject, the more her 
conviction strengthened, that it was he, who had visited the gardens, 
for the purpose of soothing the misery of disappointed affection, 
amidst the scenes of his former happiness.

'Dear madam,' said Annette, when she returned, 'I never saw you so 
affected before!  I dare say the man is not killed.'

Emily shuddered, and lamented bitterly the rashness of the gardener 
in having fired.

'I knew you would be angry enough about that, madam, or I should have 
told you before; and he knew so too; for, says he, "Annette, say 
nothing about this to my lady.  She lies on the other side of the 
house, so did not hear the gun, perhaps; but she would be angry with 
me, if she knew, seeing there is blood.  But then," says he, "how is 
one to keep the garden clear, if one is afraid to fire at a robber, 
when one sees him?"'

'No more of this,' said Emily, 'pray leave me.'

Annette obeyed, and Emily returned to the agonizing considerations, 
that had assailed her before, but which she, at length, endeavoured 
to sooth by a new remark.  If the stranger was Valancourt, it was 
certain he had come alone, and it appeared, therefore, that he had 
been able to quit the gardens, without assistance; a circumstance 
which did not seem probable, had his wound been dangerous.  With this 
consideration, she endeavoured to support herself, during the 
enquiries, that were making by her servants in the neighbourhood; but 
day after day came, and still closed in uncertainty, concerning this 
affair:  and Emily, suffering in silence, at length, drooped, and 
sunk under the pressure of her anxiety.  She was attacked by a slow 
fever, and when she yielded to the persuasion of Annette to send for 
medical advice, the physicians prescribed little beside air, gentle 
exercise and amusement:  but how was this last to be obtained?  She, 
however, endeavoured to abstract her thoughts from the subject of her 
anxiety, by employing them in promoting that happiness in others, 
which she had lost herself; and, when the evening was fine, she 
usually took an airing, including in her ride the cottages of some of 
her tenants, on whose condition she made such observations, as often 
enabled her, unasked, to fulfil their wishes.

Her indisposition and the business she engaged in, relative to this 
estate, had already protracted her stay at Tholouse, beyond the 
period she had formerly fixed for her departure to La Vallee; and now 
she was unwilling to leave the only place, where it seemed possible, 
that certainty could be obtained on the subject of her distress.  But 
the time was come, when her presence was necessary at La Vallee, a 
letter from the Lady Blanche now informing her, that the Count and 
herself, being then at the chateau of the Baron St. Foix, purposed to 
visit her at La Vallee, on their way home, as soon as they should be 
informed of her arrival there.  Blanche added, that they made this 
visit, with the hope of inducing her to return with them to Chateau-
le-Blanc.

Emily, having replied to the letter of her friend, and said that she 
should be at La Vallee in a few days, made hasty preparations for the 
journey; and, in thus leaving Tholouse, endeavoured to support 
herself with a belief, that, if any fatal accident had happened to 
Valancourt, she must in this interval have heard of it.

On the evening before her departure, she went to take leave of the 
terrace and the pavilion.  The day had been sultry, but a light 
shower, that fell just before sun-set, had cooled the air, and given 
that soft verdure to the woods and pastures, which is so refreshing 
to the eye; while the rain drops, still trembling on the shrubs, 
glittered in the last yellow gleam, that lighted up the scene, and 
the air was filled with fragrance, exhaled by the late shower, from 
herbs and flowers and from the earth itself.  But the lovely 
prospect, which Emily beheld from the terrace, was no longer viewed 
by her with delight; she sighed deeply as her eye wandered over it, 
and her spirits were in a state of such dejection, that she could not 
think of her approaching return to La Vallee, without tears, and 
seemed to mourn again the death of her father, as if it had been an 
event of yesterday.  Having reached the pavilion, she seated herself 
at the open lattice, and, while her eyes settled on the distant 
mountains, that overlooked Gascony, still gleaming on the horizon, 
though the sun had now left the plains below, 'Alas!' said she, 'I 
return to your long-lost scenes, but shall meet no more the parents, 
that were wont to render them delightful!--no more shall see the 
smile of welcome, or hear the well-known voice of fondness:--all will 
now be cold and silent in what was once my happy home.'

Tears stole down her cheek, as the remembrance of what that home had 
been, returned to her; but, after indulging her sorrow for some time, 
she checked it, accusing herself of ingratitude in forgetting the 
friends, that she possessed, while she lamented those that were 
departed; and she, at length, left the pavilion and the terrace, 
without having observed a shadow of Valancourt or of any other 
person.



CHAPTER XI


  Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!
 Ah fields belov'd in vain!
 Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
 A stranger yet to pain!
 I feel the gales, that from ye blow,
 A momentary bliss bestow,
 As waving fresh their gladsome wing,
 My weary soul they seem to sooth.
     GRAY

On the following morning, Emily left Tholouse at an early hour, and 
reached La Vallee about sun-set.  With the melancholy she experienced 
on the review of a place which had been the residence of her parents, 
and the scene of her earliest delight, was mingled, after the first 
shock had subsided, a tender and undescribable pleasure.  For time 
had so far blunted the acuteness of her grief, that she now courted 
every scene, that awakened the memory of her friends; in every room, 
where she had been accustomed to see them, they almost seemed to live 
again; and she felt that La Vallee was still her happiest home.  One 
of the first apartments she visited, was that, which had been her 
father's library, and here she seated herself in his arm-chair, and, 
while she contemplated, with tempered resignation, the picture of 
past times, which her memory gave, the tears she shed could scarcely 
be called those of grief.

Soon after her arrival, she was surprised by a visit from the 
venerable M. Barreaux, who came impatiently to welcome the daughter 
of his late respected neighbour, to her long-deserted home.  Emily 
was comforted by the presence of an old friend, and they passed an 
interesting hour in conversing of former times, and in relating some 
of the circumstances, that had occurred to each, since they parted.

The evening was so far advanced, when M. Barreaux left Emily, that 
she could not visit the garden that night; but, on the following 
morning, she traced its long-regretted scenes with fond impatience; 
and, as she walked beneath the groves, which her father had planted, 
and where she had so often sauntered in affectionate conversation 
with him, his countenance, his smile, even the accents of his voice, 
returned with exactness to her fancy, and her heart melted to the 
tender recollections.

This, too, was his favourite season of the year, at which they had 
often together admired the rich and variegated tints of these woods 
and the magical effect of autumnal lights upon the mountains; and 
now, the view of these circumstances made memory eloquent.  As she 
wandered pensively on, she fancied the following address

 TO AUTUMN

 Sweet Autumn! how thy melancholy grace
 Steals on my heart, as through these shades I wind!
 Sooth'd by thy breathing sigh, I fondly trace
 Each lonely image of the pensive mind!
 Lov'd scenes, lov'd friends--long lost! around me rise,
 And wake the melting thought, the tender tear!
 That tear, that thought, which more than mirth I prize--
 Sweet as the gradual tint, that paints thy year!
 Thy farewel smile, with fond regret, I view,
 Thy beaming lights, soft gliding o'er the woods;
 Thy distant landscape, touch'd with yellow hue
 While falls the lengthen'd gleam; thy winding floods,
 Now veil'd in shade, save where the skiff's white sails
 Swell to the breeze, and catch thy streaming ray.
 But now, e'en now!--the partial vision fails,
 And the wave smiles, as sweeps the cloud away!
 Emblem of life!--Thus checquer'd is its plan,
 Thus joy succeeds to grief--thus smiles the varied man!

One of Emily's earliest enquiries, after her arrival at La Vallee, 
was concerning Theresa, her father's old servant, whom it may be 
remembered that M. Quesnel had turned from the house when it was let, 
without any provision.  Understanding that she lived in a cottage at 
no great distance, Emily walked thither, and, on approaching, was 
pleased to see, that her habitation was pleasantly situated on a 
green slope, sheltered by a tuft of oaks, and had an appearance of 
comfort and extreme neatness.  She found the old woman within, 
picking vine-stalks, who, on perceiving her young mistress, was 
nearly overcome with joy.

'Ah! my dear young lady!' said she, 'I thought I should never see you 
again in this world, when I heard you was gone to that outlandish 
country.  I have been hardly used, since you went; I little thought 
they would have turned me out of my old master's family in my old 
age!'

Emily lamented the circumstance, and then assured her, that she would 
make her latter days comfortable, and expressed satisfaction, on 
seeing her in so pleasant an habitation.

Theresa thanked her with tears, adding, 'Yes, mademoiselle, it is a 
very comfortable home, thanks to the kind friend, who took me out of 
my distress, when you was too far off to help me, and placed me here!  
I little thought!--but no more of that--'

'And who was this kind friend?' said Emily:  'whoever it was, I shall 
consider him as mine also.'

'Ah, mademoiselle! that friend forbad me to blazon the good deed--I 
must not say, who it was.  But how you are altered since I saw you 
last!  You look so pale now, and so thin, too; but then, there is my 
old master's smile!  Yes, that will never leave you, any more than 
the goodness, that used to make him smile.  Alas-a-day! the poor lost 
a friend indeed, when he died!'

Emily was affected by this mention of her father, which Theresa 
observing, changed the subject.  'I heard, mademoiselle,' said she, 
'that Madame Cheron married a foreign gentleman, after all, and took 
you abroad; how does she do?'

Emily now mentioned her death.  'Alas!' said Theresa, 'if she had not 
been my master's sister, I should never have loved her; she was 
always so cross.  But how does that dear young gentleman do, M. 
Valancourt? he was an handsome youth, and a good one; is he well, 
mademoiselle?'

Emily was much agitated.

'A blessing on him!' continued Theresa.  'Ah, my dear young lady, you 
need not look so shy; I know all about it.  Do you think I do not 
know, that he loves you?  Why, when you was away, mademoiselle, he 
used to come to the chateau and walk about it, so disconsolate!  He 
would go into every room in the lower part of the house, and, 
sometimes, he would sit himself down in a chair, with his arms 
across, and his eyes on the floor, and there he would sit, and think, 
and think, for the hour together.  He used to be very fond of the 
south parlour, because I told him it used to be yours; and there he 
would stay, looking at the pictures, which I said you drew, and 
playing upon your lute, that hung up by the window, and reading in 
your books, till sunset, and then he must go back to his brother's 
chateau.  And then--'

'It is enough, Theresa,' said Emily.--'How long have you lived in 
this cottage--and how can I serve you?  Will you remain here, or 
return and live with me?'

'Nay, mademoiselle,' said Theresa, 'do not be so shy to your poor old 
servant.  I am sure it is no disgrace to like such a good young 
gentleman.'

A deep sigh escaped from Emily.

'Ah! how he did love to talk of you!  I loved him for that.  Nay, for 
that matter, he liked to hear me talk, for he did not say much 
himself.  But I soon found out what he came to the chateau about.  
Then, he would go into the garden, and down to the terrace, and sit 
under that great tree there, for the day together, with one of your 
books in his hand; but he did not read much, I fancy; for one day I 
happened to go that way, and I heard somebody talking.  Who can be 
here? says I:  I am sure I let nobody into the garden, but the 
Chevalier.  So I walked softly, to see who it could be; and behold! 
it was the Chevalier himself, talking to himself about you.  And he 
repeated your name, and sighed so! and said he had lost you for ever, 
for that you would never return for him.  I thought he was out in his 
reckoning there, but I said nothing, and stole away.'

'No more of this trifling,' said Emily, awakening from her reverie:  
'it displeases me.'

'But, when M. Quesnel let the chateau, I thought it would have broke 
the Chevalier's heart.'

'Theresa,' said Emily seriously, 'you must name the Chevalier no 
more!'

'Not name him, mademoiselle!' cried Theresa:  'what times are come up 
now?  Why, I love the Chevalier next to my old master and you, 
mademoiselle.'

'Perhaps your love was not well bestowed, then,' replied Emily, 
trying to conceal her tears; 'but, however that might be, we shall 
meet no more.'

'Meet no more!--not well bestowed!' exclaimed Theresa.  'What do I 
hear?  No, mademoiselle, my love was well bestowed, for it was the 
Chevalier Valancourt, who gave me this cottage, and has supported me 
in my old age, ever since M. Quesnel turned me from my master's 
house.'

'The Chevalier Valancourt!' said Emily, trembling extremely.

'Yes, mademoiselle, he himself, though he made me promise not to 
tell; but how could one help, when one heard him ill spoken of?  Ah! 
dear young lady, you may well weep, if you have behaved unkindly to 
him, for a more tender heart than his never young gentleman had.  He 
found me out in my distress, when you was too far off to help me; and 
M. Quesnel refused to do so, and bade me go to service again--Alas! I 
was too old for that!--The Chevalier found me, and bought me this 
cottage, and gave me money to furnish it, and bade me seek out 
another poor woman to live with me; and he ordered his brother's 
steward to pay me, every quarter, that which has supported me in 
comfort.  Think then, mademoiselle, whether I have not reason to 
speak well of the Chevalier.  And there are others, who could have 
afforded it better than he:  and I am afraid he has hurt himself by 
his generosity, for quarter day is gone by long since, and no money 
for me!  But do not weep so, mademoiselle:  you are not sorry surely 
to hear of the poor Chevalier's goodness?'

'Sorry!' said Emily, and wept the more.  'But how long is it since 
you have seen him?'

'Not this many a day, mademoiselle.'

'When did you hear of him?' enquired Emily, with increased emotion.

'Alas! never since he went away so suddenly into Languedoc; and he 
was but just come from Paris then, or I should have seen him, I am 
sure.  Quarter day is gone by long since, and, as I said, no money 
for me; and I begin to fear some harm has happened to him:  and if I 
was not so far from Estuviere and so lame, I should have gone to 
enquire before this time; and I have nobody to send so far.'

Emily's anxiety, as to the fate of Valancourt, was now scarcely 
endurable, and, since propriety would not suffer her to send to the 
chateau of his brother, she requested that Theresa would immediately 
hire some person to go to his steward from herself, and, when he 
asked for the quarterage due to her, to make enquiries concerning 
Valancourt.  But she first made Theresa promise never to mention her 
name in this affair, or ever with that of the Chevalier Valancourt; 
and her former faithfulness to M. St. Aubert induced Emily to confide 
in her assurances.  Theresa now joyfully undertook to procure a 
person for this errand, and then Emily, after giving her a sum of 
money to supply her with present comforts, returned, with spirits 
heavily oppressed, to her home, lamenting, more than ever, that an 
heart, possessed of so much benevolence as Valancourt's, should have 
been contaminated by the vices of the world, but affected by the 
delicate affection, which his kindness to her old servant expressed 
for herself.



CHAPTER XII


  Light thickens, and the crow
 Makes wing to the rooky wood:
 Good things of day begin to droop, and drowze;
 While night's black agents to their preys do rouze.
     MACBETH

Meanwhile Count De Villefort and Lady Blanche had passed a pleasant 
fortnight at the chateau de St. Foix, with the Baron and Baroness, 
during which they made frequent excursions among the mountains, and 
were delighted with the romantic wildness of Pyrenean scenery.  It 
was with regret, that the Count bade adieu to his old friends, 
although with the hope of being soon united with them in one family; 
for it was settled that M. St. Foix, who now attended them into 
Gascony, should receive the hand of the Lady Blanche, upon their 
arrival at Chateau-le-Blanc.  As the road, from the Baron's residence 
to La Vallee, was over some of the wildest tract of the Pyrenees, and 
where a carriage-wheel had never passed, the Count hired mules for 
himself and his family, as well as a couple of stout guides, who were 
well armed, informed of all the passes of the mountains, and who 
boasted, too, that they were acquainted with every brake and dingle 
in the way, could tell the names of all the highest points of this 
chain of Alps, knew every forest, that spread along their narrow 
vallies, the shallowest part of every torrent they must cross, and 
the exact distance of every goat-herd's and hunter's cabin they 
should have occasion to pass,--which last article of learning 
required no very capacious memory, for even such simple inhabitants 
were but thinly scattered over these wilds.

The Count left the chateau de St. Foix, early in the morning, with an 
intention of passing the night at a little inn upon the mountains, 
about half way to La Vallee, of which his guides had informed him; 
and, though this was frequented chiefly by Spanish muleteers, on 
their route into France, and, of course, would afford only sorry 
accommodation, the Count had no alternative, for it was the only 
place like an inn, on the road.

After a day of admiration and fatigue, the travellers found 
themselves, about sun-set, in a woody valley, overlooked, on every 
side, by abrupt heights.  They had proceeded for many leagues, 
without seeing a human habitation, and had only heard, now and then, 
at a distance, the melancholy tinkling of a sheep-bell; but now they 
caught the notes of merry music, and presently saw, within a little 
green recess among the rocks, a group of mountaineers, tripping 
through a dance.  The Count, who could not look upon the happiness, 
any more than on the misery of others, with indifference, halted to 
enjoy this scene of simple pleasure.  The group before him consisted 
of French and Spanish peasants, the inhabitants of a neighbouring 
hamlet, some of whom were performing a sprightly dance, the women 
with castanets in their hands, to the sounds of a lute and a 
tamborine, till, from the brisk melody of France, the music softened 
into a slow movement, to which two female peasants danced a Spanish 
Pavan.

The Count, comparing this with the scenes of such gaiety as he had 
witnessed at Paris, where false taste painted the features, and, 
while it vainly tried to supply the glow of nature, concealed the 
charms of animation--where affectation so often distorted the air, 
and vice perverted the manners--sighed to think, that natural graces 
and innocent pleasures flourished in the wilds of solitude, while 
they drooped amidst the concourse of polished society.  But the 
lengthening shadows reminded the travellers, that they had no time to 
lose; and, leaving this joyous group, they pursued their way towards 
the little inn, which was to shelter them from the night.

The rays of the setting sun now threw a yellow gleam upon the forests 
of pine and chesnut, that swept down the lower region of the 
mountains, and gave resplendent tints to the snowy points above.  But 
soon, even this light faded fast, and the scenery assumed a more 
tremendous appearance, invested with the obscurity of twilight.  
Where the torrent had been seen, it was now only heard; where the 
wild cliffs had displayed every variety of form and attitude, a dark 
mass of mountains now alone appeared; and the vale, which far, far 
below had opened its dreadful chasm, the eye could no longer fathom.  
A melancholy gleam still lingered on the summits of the highest Alps, 
overlooking the deep repose of evening, and seeming to make the 
stillness of the hour more awful.

Blanche viewed the scene in silence, and listened with enthusiasm to 
the murmur of the pines, that extended in dark lines along the 
mountains, and to the faint voice of the izard, among the rocks, that 
came at intervals on the air.  But her enthusiasm sunk into 
apprehension, when, as the shadows deepened, she looked upon the 
doubtful precipice, that bordered the road, as well as on the various 
fantastic forms of danger, that glimmered through the obscurity 
beyond it; and she asked her father, how far they were from the inn, 
and whether he did not consider the road to be dangerous at this late 
hour.  The Count repeated the first question to the guides, who 
returned a doubtful answer, adding, that, when it was darker, it 
would be safest to rest, till the moon rose.  'It is scarcely safe to 
proceed now,' said the Count; but the guides, assuring him that there 
was no danger, went on.  Blanche, revived by this assurance, again 
indulged a pensive pleasure, as she watched the progress of twilight 
gradually spreading its tints over the woods and mountains, and 
stealing from the eye every minuter feature of the scene, till the 
grand outlines of nature alone remained.  Then fell the silent dews, 
and every wild flower, and aromatic plant, that bloomed among the 
cliffs, breathed forth its sweetness; then, too, when the mountain-
bee had crept into its blossomed bed, and the hum of every little 
insect, that had floated gaily in the sun-beam, was hushed, the sound 
of many streams, not heard till now, murmured at a distance.--The 
bats alone, of all the animals inhabiting this region, seemed awake; 
and, while they flitted across the silent path, which Blanche was 
pursuing, she remembered the following lines, which Emily had given 
her:

 TO THE BAT

 From haunt of man, from day's obtrusive glare,
 Thou shroud'st thee in the ruin's ivy'd tow'r.
 Or in some shadowy glen's romantic bow'r,
 Where wizard forms their mystic charms prepare,
 Where Horror lurks, and ever-boding Care!
 But, at the sweet and silent ev'ning hour,
 When clos'd in sleep is ev'ry languid flow'r,
 Thou lov'st to sport upon the twilight air,
 Mocking the eye, that would thy course pursue,
 In many a wanton-round, elastic, gay,
 Thou flit'st athwart the pensive wand'rer's way,
 As his lone footsteps print the mountain-dew.
 From Indian isles thou com'st, with Summer's car,
 Twilight thy love--thy guide her beaming star!

To a warm imagination, the dubious forms, that float, half veiled in 
darkness, afford a higher delight, than the most distinct scenery, 
that the sun can shew.  While the fancy thus wanders over landscapes 
partly of its own creation, a sweet complacency steals upon the mind, 
and

 Refines it all to subtlest feeling,
 Bids the tear of rapture roll.

The distant note of a torrent, the weak trembling of the breeze among 
the woods, or the far-off sound of a human voice, now lost and heard 
again, are circumstances, which wonderfully heighten the enthusiastic 
tone of the mind.  The young St. Foix, who saw the presentations of a 
fervid fancy, and felt whatever enthusiasm could suggest, sometimes 
interrupted the silence, which the rest of the party seemed by mutual 
consent to preserve, remarking and pointing out to Blanche the most 
striking effect of the hour upon the scenery; while Blanche, whose 
apprehensions were beguiled by the conversation of her lover, yielded 
to the taste so congenial to his, and they conversed in a low 
restrained voice, the effect of the pensive tranquillity, which 
twilight and the scene inspired, rather than of any fear, that they 
should be heard.  But, while the heart was thus soothed to 
tenderness, St. Foix gradually mingled, with his admiration of the 
country, a mention of his affection; and he continued to speak, and 
Blanche to listen, till the mountains, the woods, and the magical 
illusions of twilight, were remembered no more.

The shadows of evening soon shifted to the gloom of night, which was 
somewhat anticipated by the vapours, that, gathering fast round the 
mountains, rolled in dark wreaths along their sides; and the guides 
proposed to rest, till the moon should rise, adding, that they 
thought a storm was coming on.  As they looked round for a spot, that 
might afford some kind of shelter, an object was perceived obscurely 
through the dusk, on a point of rock, a little way down the mountain, 
which they imagined to be a hunter's or a shepherd's cabin, and the 
party, with cautious steps, proceeded towards it.  Their labour, 
however, was not rewarded, or their apprehensions soothed; for, on 
reaching the object of their search, they discovered a monumental 
cross, which marked the spot to have been polluted by murder.

The darkness would not permit them to read the inscription; but the 
guides knew this to be a cross, raised to the memory of a Count de 
Beliard, who had been murdered here by a horde of banditti, that had 
infested this part of the Pyrenees, a few years before; and the 
uncommon size of the monument seemed to justify the supposition, that 
it was erected for a person of some distinction.  Blanche shuddered, 
as she listened to some horrid particulars of the Count's fate, which 
one of the guides related in a low, restrained tone, as if the sound 
of his own voice frightened him; but, while they lingered at the 
cross, attending to his narrative, a flash of lightning glanced upon 
the rocks, thunder muttered at a distance, and the travellers, now 
alarmed, quitted this scene of solitary horror, in search of shelter.

Having regained their former track, the guides, as they passed on, 
endeavoured to interest the Count by various stories of robbery, and 
even of murder, which had been perpetrated in the very places they 
must unavoidably pass, with accounts of their own dauntless courage 
and wonderful escapes.  The chief guide, or rather he, who was the 
most completely armed, drawing forth one of the four pistols, that 
were tucked into his belt, swore, that it had shot three robbers 
within the year.  He then brandished a clasp-knife of enormous 
length, and was going to recount the wonderful execution it had done, 
when St. Foix, perceiving, that Blanche was terrified, interrupted 
him.  The Count, meanwhile, secretly laughing at the terrible 
histories and extravagant boastings of the man, resolved to humour 
him, and, telling Blanche in a whisper, his design, began to recount 
some exploits of his own, which infinitely exceeded any related by 
the guide.

To these surprising circumstances he so artfully gave the colouring 
of truth, that the courage of the guides was visibly affected by 
them, who continued silent, long after the Count had ceased to speak.  
The loquacity of the chief hero thus laid asleep, the vigilance of 
his eyes and ears seemed more thoroughly awakened, for he listened, 
with much appearance of anxiety, to the deep thunder, which murmured 
at intervals, and often paused, as the breeze, that was now rising, 
rushed among the pines.  But, when he made a sudden halt before a 
tuft of cork trees, that projected over the road, and drew forth a 
pistol, before he would venture to brave the banditti which might 
lurk behind it, the Count could no longer refrain from laughter.

Having now, however, arrived at a level spot, somewhat sheltered from 
the air, by overhanging cliffs and by a wood of larch, that rose over 
the precipice on the left, and the guides being yet ignorant how far 
they were from the inn, the travellers determined to rest, till the 
moon should rise, or the storm disperse.  Blanche, recalled to a 
sense of the present moment, looked on the surrounding gloom, with 
terror; but giving her hand to St. Foix, she alighted, and the whole 
party entered a kind of cave, if such it could be called, which was 
only a shallow cavity, formed by the curve of impending rocks.  A 
light being struck, a fire was kindled, whose blaze afforded some 
degree of cheerfulness, and no small comfort, for, though the day had 
been hot, the night air of this mountainous region was chilling; a 
fire was partly necessary also to keep off the wolves, with which 
those wilds were infested.

Provisions being spread upon a projection of the rock, the Count and 
his family partook of a supper, which, in a scene less rude, would 
certainly have been thought less excellent.  When the repast was 
finished, St. Foix, impatient for the moon, sauntered along the 
precipice, to a point, that fronted the east; but all was yet wrapt 
in gloom, and the silence of night was broken only by the murmuring 
of woods, that waved far below, or by distant thunder, and, now and 
then, by the faint voices of the party he had quitted.  He viewed, 
with emotions of awful sublimity, the long volumes of sulphureous 
clouds, that floated along the upper and middle regions of the air, 
and the lightnings that flashed from them, sometimes silently, and, 
at others, followed by sullen peals of thunder, which the mountains 
feebly prolonged, while the whole horizon, and the abyss, on which he 
stood, were discovered in the momentary light.  Upon the succeeding 
darkness, the fire, which had been kindled in the cave, threw a 
partial gleam, illumining some points of the opposite rocks, and the 
summits of pine-woods, that hung beetling on the cliffs below, while 
their recesses seemed to frown in deeper shade.

St. Foix stopped to observe the picture, which the party in the cave 
presented, where the elegant form of Blanche was finely contrasted by 
the majestic figure of the Count, who was seated by her on a rude 
stone, and each was rendered more impressive by the grotesque habits 
and strong features of the guides and other attendants, who were in 
the back ground of the piece.  The effect of the light, too, was 
interesting; on the surrounding figures it threw a strong, though 
pale gleam, and glittered on their bright arms; while upon the 
foliage of a gigantic larch, that impended its shade over the cliff 
above, appeared a red, dusky tint, deepening almost imperceptibly 
into the blackness of night.

While St. Foix contemplated the scene, the moon, broad and yellow, 
rose over the eastern summits, from among embattled clouds, and 
shewed dimly the grandeur of the heavens, the mass of vapours, that 
rolled half way down the precipice beneath, and the doubtful 
mountains.

 What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime,
 Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast,
 And view th'enormous waste of vapour, tost
 In billows length'ning to th'horizon round!
     THE MINSTREL

From this romantic reverie he was awakened by the voices of the 
guides, repeating his name, which was reverbed from cliff to cliff, 
till an hundred tongues seemed to call him; when he soon quieted the 
fears of the Count and the Lady Blanche, by returning to the cave.  
As the storm, however, seemed approaching, they did not quit their 
place of shelter; and the Count, seated between his daughter and St. 
Foix, endeavoured to divert the fears of the former, and conversed on 
subjects, relating to the natural history of the scene, among which 
they wandered.  He spoke of the mineral and fossile substances, found 
in the depths of these mountains,--the veins of marble and granite, 
with which they abounded, the strata of shells, discovered near their 
summits, many thousand fathom above the level of the sea, and at a 
vast distance from its present shore;--of the tremendous chasms and 
caverns of the rocks, the grotesque form of the mountains, and the 
various phaenomena, that seem to stamp upon the world the history of 
the deluge.  From the natural history he descended to the mention of 
events and circumstances, connected with the civil story of the 
Pyrenees; named some of the most remarkable fortresses, which France 
and Spain had erected in the passes of these mountains; and gave a 
brief account of some celebrated sieges and encounters in early 
times, when Ambition first frightened Solitude from these her deep 
recesses, made her mountains, which before had echoed only to the 
torrent's roar, tremble with the clang of arms, and, when man's first 
footsteps in her sacred haunts had left the print of blood!

As Blanche sat, attentive to the narrative, that rendered the scenes 
doubly interesting, and resigned to solemn emotion, while she 
considered, that she was on the very ground, once polluted by these 
events, her reverie was suddenly interrupted by a sound, that came in 
the wind.--It was the distant bark of a watch-dog.  The travellers 
listened with eager hope, and, as the wind blew stronger, fancied, 
that the sound came from no great distance; and, the guides having 
little doubt, that it proceeded from the inn they were in search of, 
the Count determined to pursue his way.  The moon now afforded a 
stronger, though still an uncertain light, as she moved among broken 
clouds; and the travellers, led by the sound, recommenced their 
journey along the brow of the precipice, preceded by a single torch, 
that now contended with the moon-light; for the guides, believing 
they should reach the inn soon after sun-set, had neglected to 
provide more.  In silent caution they followed the sound, which was 
heard but at intervals, and which, after some time entirely ceased.  
The guides endeavoured, however, to point their course to the 
quarter, whence it had issued, but the deep roaring of a torrent soon 
seized their attention, and presently they came to a tremendous chasm 
of the mountain, which seemed to forbid all further progress.  
Blanche alighted from her mule, as did the Count and St. Foix, while 
the guides traversed the edge in search of a bridge, which, however 
rude, might convey them to the opposite side, and they, at length, 
confessed, what the Count had begun to suspect, that they had been, 
for some time, doubtful of their way, and were now certain only, that 
they had lost it.

At a little distance, was discovered a rude and dangerous passage, 
formed by an enormous pine, which, thrown across the chasm, united 
the opposite precipices, and which had been felled probably by the 
hunter, to facilitate his chace of the izard, or the wolf.  The whole 
party, the guides excepted, shuddered at the prospect of crossing 
this alpine bridge, whose sides afforded no kind of defence, and from 
which to fall was to die.  The guides, however, prepared to lead over 
the mules, while Blanche stood trembling on the brink, and listening 
to the roar of the waters, which were seen descending from rocks 
above, overhung with lofty pines, and thence precipitating themselves 
into the deep abyss, where their white surges gleamed faintly in the 
moon-light.  The poor animals proceeded over this perilous bridge 
with instinctive caution, neither frightened by the noise of the 
cataract, or deceived by the gloom, which the impending foliage threw 
athwart their way.  It was now, that the solitary torch, which had 
been hitherto of little service, was found to be an inestimable 
treasure; and Blanche, terrified, shrinking, but endeavouring to re-
collect all her firmness and presence of mind, preceded by her lover 
and supported by her father, followed the red gleam of the torch, in 
safety, to the opposite cliff.

As they went on, the heights contracted, and formed a narrow pass, at 
the bottom of which, the torrent they had just crossed, was heard to 
thunder.  But they were again cheered by the bark of a dog, keeping 
watch, perhaps, over the flocks of the mountains, to protect them 
from the nightly descent of the wolves.  The sound was much nearer 
than before, and, while they rejoiced in the hope of soon reaching a 
place of repose, a light was seen to glimmer at a distance.  It 
appeared at a height considerably above the level of their path, and 
was lost and seen again, as if the waving branches of trees sometimes 
excluded and then admitted its rays.  The guides hallooed with all 
their strength, but the sound of no human voice was heard in return, 
and, at length, as a more effectual means of making themselves known, 
they fired a pistol.  But, while they listened in anxious 
expectation, the noise of the explosion was alone heard, echoing 
among the rocks, and it gradually sunk into silence, which no 
friendly hint of man disturbed.  The light, however, that had been 
seen before, now became plainer, and, soon after, voices were heard 
indistinctly on the wind; but, upon the guides repeating the call, 
the voices suddenly ceased, and the light disappeared.

The Lady Blanche was now almost sinking beneath the pressure of 
anxiety, fatigue and apprehension, and the united efforts of the 
Count and St. Foix could scarcely support her spirits.  As they 
continued to advance, an object was perceived on a point of rock 
above, which, the strong rays of the moon then falling on it, 
appeared to be a watch-tower.  The Count, from its situation and some 
other circumstances, had little doubt, that it was such, and 
believing, that the light had proceeded from thence, he endeavoured 
to re-animate his daughter's spirits by the near prospect of shelter 
and repose, which, however rude the accommodation, a ruined watch-
tower might afford.

'Numerous watch-towers have been erected among the Pyrenees,' said 
the Count, anxious only to call Blanche's attention from the subject 
of her fears; 'and the method, by which they give intelligence of the 
approach of the enemy, is, you know, by fires, kindled on the summits 
of these edifices.  Signals have thus, sometimes, been communicated 
from post to post, along a frontier line of several hundred miles in 
length.  Then, as occasion may require, the lurking armies emerge 
from their fortresses and the forests, and march forth, to defend, 
perhaps, the entrance of some grand pass, where, planting themselves 
on the heights, they assail their astonished enemies, who wind along 
the glen below, with fragments of the shattered cliff, and pour death 
and defeat upon them.  The ancient forts, and watch-towers, 
overlooking the grand passes of the Pyrenees, are carefully 
preserved; but some of those in inferior stations have been suffered 
to fall into decay, and are now frequently converted into the more 
peaceful habitation of the hunter, or the shepherd, who, after a day 
of toil, retires hither, and, with his faithful dogs, forgets, near a 
cheerful blaze, the labour of the chace, or the anxiety of collecting 
his wandering flocks, while he is sheltered from the nightly storm.'

'But are they always thus peacefully inhabited?' said the Lady 
Blanche.

'No,' replied the Count, 'they are sometimes the asylum of French and 
Spanish smugglers, who cross the mountains with contraband goods from 
their respective countries, and the latter are particularly numerous, 
against whom strong parties of the king's troops are sometimes sent.  
But the desperate resolution of these adventurers, who, knowing, 
that, if they are taken, they must expiate the breach of the law by 
the most cruel death, travel in large parties, well armed, often 
daunts the courage of the soldiers.  The smugglers, who seek only 
safety, never engage, when they can possibly avoid it; the military, 
also, who know, that in these encounters, danger is certain, and 
glory almost unattainable, are equally reluctant to fight; an 
engagement, therefore, very seldom happens, but, when it does, it 
never concludes till after the most desperate and bloody conflict.  
You are inattentive, Blanche,' added the Count:  'I have wearied you 
with a dull subject; but see, yonder, in the moon-light, is the 
edifice we have been in search of, and we are fortunate to be so near 
it, before the storm bursts.'

Blanche, looking up, perceived, that they were at the foot of the 
cliff, on whose summit the building stood, but no light now issued 
from it; the barking of the dog too had, for some time, ceased, and 
the guides began to doubt, whether this was really the object of 
their search.  From the distance, at which they surveyed it, shewn 
imperfectly by a cloudy moon, it appeared to be of more extent than a 
single watch-tower; but the difficulty was how to ascend the height, 
whose abrupt declivities seemed to afford no kind of pathway.

While the guides carried forward the torch to examine the cliff, the 
Count, remaining with Blanche and St. Foix at its foot, under the 
shadow of the woods, endeavoured again to beguile the time by 
conversation, but again anxiety abstracted the mind of Blanche; and 
he then consulted, apart with St. Foix, whether it would be 
advisable, should a path be found, to venture to an edifice, which 
might possibly harbour banditti.  They considered, that their own 
party was not small, and that several of them were well armed; and, 
after enumerating the dangers, to be incurred by passing the night in 
the open wild, exposed, perhaps, to the effects of a thunder-storm, 
there remained not a doubt, that they ought to endeavour to obtain 
admittance to the edifice above, at any hazard respecting the 
inhabitants it might harbour; but the darkness, and the dead silence, 
that surrounded it, appeared to contradict the probability of its 
being inhabited at all.

A shout from the guides aroused their attention, after which, in a 
few minutes, one of the Count's servants returned with intelligence, 
that a path was found, and they immediately hastened to join the 
guides, when they all ascended a little winding way cut in the rock 
among thickets of dwarf wood, and, after much toil and some danger, 
reached the summit, where several ruined towers, surrounded by a 
massy wall, rose to their view, partially illumined by the moon-
light.  The space around the building was silent, and apparently 
forsaken, but the Count was cautious; 'Step softly,' said he, in a 
low voice, 'while we reconnoitre the edifice.'

Having proceeded silently along for some paces, they stopped at a 
gate, whose portals were terrible even in ruins, and, after a 
moment's hesitation, passed on to the court of entrance, but paused 
again at the head of a terrace, which, branching from it, ran along 
the brow of a precipice.  Over this, rose the main body of the 
edifice, which was now seen to be, not a watch-tower, but one of 
those ancient fortresses, that, from age and neglect, had fallen to 
decay.  Many parts of it, however, appeared to be still entire; it 
was built of grey stone, in the heavy Saxon-gothic style, with 
enormous round towers, buttresses of proportionable strength, and the 
arch of the large gate, which seemed to open into the hall of the 
fabric, was round, as was that of a window above.  The air of 
solemnity, which must so strongly have characterized the pile even in 
the days of its early strength, was now considerably heightened by 
its shattered battlements and half-demolished walls, and by the huge 
masses of ruin, scattered in its wide area, now silent and grass 
grown.  In this court of entrance stood the gigantic remains of an 
oak, that seemed to have flourished and decayed with the building, 
which it still appeared frowningly to protect by the few remaining 
branches, leafless and moss-grown, that crowned its trunk, and whose 
wide extent told how enormous the tree had been in a former age.  
This fortress was evidently once of great strength, and, from its 
situation on a point of rock, impending over a deep glen, had been of 
great power to annoy, as well as to resist; the Count, therefore, as 
he stood surveying it, was somewhat surprised, that it had been 
suffered, ancient as it was, to sink into ruins, and its present 
lonely and deserted air excited in his breast emotions of melancholy 
awe.  While he indulged, for a moment, these emotions, he thought he 
heard a sound of remote voices steal upon the stillness, from within 
the building, the front of which he again surveyed with scrutinizing 
eyes, but yet no light was visible.  He now determined to walk round 
the fort, to that remote part of it, whence he thought the voices had 
arisen, that he might examine whether any light could be discerned 
there, before he ventured to knock at the gate; for this purpose, he 
entered upon the terrace, where the remains of cannon were yet 
apparent in the thick walls, but he had not proceeded many paces, 
when his steps were suddenly arrested by the loud barking of a dog 
within, and which he fancied to be the same, whose voice had been the 
means of bringing the travellers thither.  It now appeared certain, 
that the place was inhabited, and the Count returned to consult again 
with St. Foix, whether he should try to obtain admittance, for its 
wild aspect had somewhat shaken his former resolution; but, after a 
second consultation, he submitted to the considerations, which before 
determined him, and which were strengthened by the discovery of the 
dog, that guarded the fort, as well as by the stillness that pervaded 
it.  He, therefore, ordered one of his servants to knock at the gate, 
who was advancing to obey him, when a light appeared through the 
loop-hole of one of the towers, and the Count called loudly, but, 
receiving no answer, he went up to the gate himself, and struck upon 
it with an iron-pointed pole, which had assisted him to climb the 
steep.  When the echoes had ceased, that this blow had awakened, the 
renewed barking,--and there were now more than one dog,--was the only 
sound, that was heard.  The Count stepped back, a few paces, to 
observe whether the light was in the tower, and, perceiving, that it 
was gone, he returned to the portal, and had lifted the pole to 
strike again, when again he fancied he heard the murmur of voices 
within, and paused to listen.  He was confirmed in the supposition, 
but they were too remote, to be heard otherwise than in a murmur, and 
the Count now let the pole fall heavily upon the gate; when almost 
immediately a profound silence followed.  It was apparent, that the 
people within had heard the sound, and their caution in admitting 
strangers gave him a favourable opinion of them.  'They are either 
hunters or shepherds,' said he, 'who, like ourselves, have probably 
sought shelter from the night within these walls, and are fearful of 
admitting strangers, lest they should prove robbers.  I will 
endeavour to remove their fears.'  So saying, he called aloud, 'We 
are friends, who ask shelter from the night.'  In a few moments, 
steps were heard within, which approached, and a voice then enquired-
-'Who calls?'  'Friends,' repeated the Count; 'open the gates, and 
you shall know more.'--Strong bolts were now heard to be undrawn, and 
a man, armed with a hunting spear, appeared.  'What is it you want at 
this hour?' said he.  The Count beckoned his attendants, and then 
answered, that he wished to enquire the way to the nearest cabin.  
'Are you so little acquainted with these mountains,' said the man, 
'as not to know, that there is none, within several leagues?  I 
cannot shew you the way; you must seek it--there's a moon.'  Saying 
this, he was closing the gate, and the Count was turning away, half 
disappointed and half afraid, when another voice was heard from 
above, and, on looking up, he saw a light, and a man's face, at the 
grate of the portal.  'Stay, friend, you have lost your way?' said 
the voice.  'You are hunters, I suppose, like ourselves:  I will be 
with you presently.'  The voice ceased, and the light disappeared.  
Blanche had been alarmed by the appearance of the man, who had opened 
the gate, and she now entreated her father to quit the place; but the 
Count had observed the hunter's spear, which he carried; and the 
words from the tower encouraged him to await the event.  The gate was 
soon opened, and several men in hunters' habits, who had heard above 
what had passed below, appeared, and, having listened some time to 
the Count, told him he was welcome to rest there for the night.  They 
then pressed him, with much courtesy, to enter, and to partake of 
such fare as they were about to sit down to.  The Count, who had 
observed them attentively while they spoke, was cautious, and 
somewhat suspicious; but he was also weary, fearful of the 
approaching storm, and of encountering alpine heights in the 
obscurity of night; being likewise somewhat confident in the strength 
and number of his attendants, he, after some further consideration, 
determined to accept the invitation.  With this resolution he called 
his servants, who, advancing round the tower, behind which some of 
them had silently listened to this conference, followed their Lord, 
the Lady Blanche, and St. Foix into the fortress.  The strangers led 
them on to a large and rude hall, partially seen by a fire that 
blazed at its extremity, round which four men, in the hunter's dress, 
were seated, and on the hearth were several dogs stretched in sleep.  
In the middle of the hall stood a large table, and over the fire some 
part of an animal was boiling.  As the Count approached, the men 
arose, and the dogs, half raising themselves, looked fiercely at the 
strangers, but, on hearing their masters' voices, kept their postures 
on the hearth.

Blanche looked round this gloomy and spacious hall; then at the men, 
and to her father, who, smiling cheerfully at her, addressed himself 
to the hunters.  'This is an hospitable hearth,' said he, 'the blaze 
of a fire is reviving after having wandered so long in these dreary 
wilds.  Your dogs are tired; what success have you had?'  'Such as we 
usually have,' replied one of the men, who had been seated in the 
hall, 'we kill our game with tolerable certainty.'  'These are fellow 
hunters,' said one of the men who had brought the Count hither, 'that 
have lost their way, and I have told them there is room enough in the 
fort for us all.'  'Very true, very true,' replied his companion, 
'What luck have you had in the chace, brothers?  We have killed two 
izards, and that, you will say, is pretty well.'  'You mistake, 
friend,' said the Count, 'we are not hunters, but travellers; but, if 
you will admit us to hunters' fare, we shall be well contented, and 
will repay your kindness.'  'Sit down then, brother,' said one of the 
men:  'Jacques, lay more fuel on the fire, the kid will soon be 
ready; bring a seat for the lady too.  Ma'amselle, will you taste our 
brandy? it is true Barcelona, and as bright as ever flowed from a 
keg.'  Blanche timidly smiled, and was going to refuse, when her 
father prevented her, by taking, with a good humoured air, the glass 
offered to his daughter; and Mons. St. Foix, who was seated next her, 
pressed her hand, and gave her an encouraging look, but her attention 
was engaged by a man, who sat silently by the fire, observing St. 
Foix, with a steady and earnest eye.

'You lead a jolly life here,' said the Count.  'The life of a hunter 
is a pleasant and a healthy one; and the repose is sweet, which 
succeeds to your labour.'

'Yes,' replied one of his hosts, 'our life is pleasant enough.  We 
live here only during the summer, and autumnal months; in winter, the 
place is dreary, and the swoln torrents, that descend from the 
heights, put a stop to the chace.'

''Tis a life of liberty and enjoyment,' said the Count:  'I should 
like to pass a month in your way very well.'

'We find employment for our guns too,' said a man who stood behind 
the Count:  'here are plenty of birds, of delicious flavour, that 
feed upon the wild thyme and herbs, that grow in the vallies.  Now I 
think of it, there is a brace of birds hung up in the stone gallery; 
go fetch them, Jacques, we will have them dressed.'

The Count now made enquiry, concerning the method of pursuing the 
chace among the rocks and precipices of these romantic regions, and 
was listening to a curious detail, when a horn was sounded at the 
gate.  Blanche looked timidly at her father, who continued to 
converse on the subject of the chace, but whose countenance was 
somewhat expressive of anxiety, and who often turned his eyes towards 
that part of the hall nearest the gate.  The horn sounded again, and 
a loud halloo succeeded.  'These are some of our companions, returned 
from their day's labour,' said a man, going lazily from his seat 
towards the gate; and in a few minutes, two men appeared, each with a 
gun over his shoulder, and pistols in his belt.  'What cheer, my 
lads? what cheer?' said they, as they approached.  'What luck?' 
returned their companions:  'have you brought home your supper?  You 
shall have none else.'

'Hah! who the devil have you brought home?' said they in bad Spanish, 
on perceiving the Count's party, 'are they from France, or Spain?--
where did you meet with them?'

'They met with us, and a merry meeting too,' replied his companion 
aloud in good French.  'This chevalier, and his party, had lost their 
way, and asked a night's lodging in the fort.'  The others made no 
reply, but threw down a kind of knapsack, and drew forth several 
brace of birds.  The bag sounded heavily as it fell to the ground, 
and the glitter of some bright metal within glanced on the eye of the 
Count, who now surveyed, with a more enquiring look, the man, that 
held the knapsack.  He was a tall robust figure, of a hard 
countenance, and had short black hair, curling in his neck.  Instead 
of the hunter's dress, he wore a faded military uniform; sandals were 
laced on his broad legs, and a kind of short trowsers hung from his 
waist.  On his head he wore a leathern cap, somewhat resembling in 
shape an ancient Roman helmet; but the brows that scowled beneath it, 
would have characterized those of the barbarians, who conquered Rome, 
rather than those of a Roman soldier.  The Count, at length, turned 
away his eyes, and remained silent and thoughtful, till, again 
raising them, he perceived a figure standing in an obscure part of 
the hall, fixed in attentive gaze on St. Foix, who was conversing 
with Blanche, and did not observe this; but the Count, soon after, 
saw the same man looking over the shoulder of the soldier as 
attentively at himself.  He withdrew his eye, when that of the Count 
met it, who felt mistrust gathering fast upon his mind, but feared to 
betray it in his countenance, and, forcing his features to assume a 
smile, addressed Blanche on some indifferent subject.  When he again 
looked round, he perceived, that the soldier and his companion were 
gone.

The man, who was called Jacques, now returned from the stone gallery.  
'A fire is lighted there,' said he, 'and the birds are dressing; the 
table too is spread there, for that place is warmer than this.'

His companions approved of the removal, and invited their guests to 
follow to the gallery, of whom Blanche appeared distressed, and 
remained seated, and St. Foix looked at the Count, who said, he 
preferred the comfortable blaze of the fire he was then near.  The 
hunters, however, commended the warmth of the other apartment, and 
pressed his removal with such seeming courtesy, that the Count, half 
doubting, and half fearful of betraying his doubts, consented to go.  
The long and ruinous passages, through which they went, somewhat 
daunted him, but the thunder, which now burst in loud peals above, 
made it dangerous to quit this place of shelter, and he forbore to 
provoke his conductors by shewing that he distrusted them.  The 
hunters led the way, with a lamp; the Count and St. Foix, who wished 
to please their hosts by some instances of familiarity, carried each 
a seat, and Blanche followed, with faltering steps.  As she passed 
on, part of her dress caught on a nail in the wall, and, while she 
stopped, somewhat too scrupulously, to disengage it, the Count, who 
was talking to St. Foix, and neither of whom observed the 
circumstance, followed their conductor round an abrupt angle of the 
passage, and Blanche was left behind in darkness.  The thunder 
prevented them from hearing her call but, having disengaged her 
dress, she quickly followed, as she thought, the way they had taken.  
A light, that glimmered at a distance, confirmed this belief, and she 
proceeded towards an open door, whence it issued, conjecturing the 
room beyond to be the stone gallery the men had spoken of.  Hearing 
voices as she advanced, she paused within a few paces of the chamber, 
that she might be certain whether she was right, and from thence, by 
the light of a lamp, that hung from the ceiling, observed four men, 
seated round a table, over which they leaned in apparent 
consultation.  In one of them she distinguished the features of him, 
whom she had observed, gazing at St. Foix, with such deep attention; 
and who was now speaking in an earnest, though restrained voice, 
till, one of his companions seeming to oppose him, they spoke 
together in a loud and harsher tone.  Blanche, alarmed by perceiving 
that neither her father, or St. Foix were there, and terrified at the 
fierce countenances and manners of these men, was turning hastily 
from the chamber, to pursue her search of the gallery, when she heard 
one of the men say:

'Let all dispute end here.  Who talks of danger?  Follow my advice, 
and there will be none--secure THEM, and the rest are an easy prey.'  
Blanche, struck with these words, paused a moment, to hear more.  
'There is nothing to be got by the rest,' said one of his companions, 
'I am never for blood when I can help it--dispatch the two others, 
and our business is done; the rest may go.'

'May they so?' exclaimed the first ruffian, with a tremendous oath--
'What! to tell how we have disposed of their masters, and to send the 
king's troops to drag us to the wheel!  You was always a choice 
adviser--I warrant we have not yet forgot St. Thomas's eve last 
year.'

Blanche's heart now sunk with horror.  Her first impulse was to 
retreat from the door, but, when she would have gone, her trembling 
frame refused to support her, and, having tottered a few paces, to a 
more obscure part of the passage, she was compelled to listen to the 
dreadful councils of those, who, she was no longer suffered to doubt, 
were banditti.  In the next moment, she heard the following words, 
'Why you would not murder the whole GANG?'

'I warrant our lives are as good as theirs,' replied his comrade.  
'If we don't kill them, they will hang us:  better they should die 
than we be hanged.'

'Better, better,' cried his comrades.

'To commit murder, is a hopeful way of escaping the gallows!' said 
the first ruffian--'many an honest fellow has run his head into the 
noose that way, though.'  There was a pause of some moments, during 
which they appeared to be considering.

'Confound those fellows,' exclaimed one of the robbers impatiently, 
'they ought to have been here by this time; they will come back 
presently with the old story, and no booty:  if they were here, our 
business would be plain and easy.  I see we shall not be able to do 
the business to-night, for our numbers are not equal to the enemy, 
and in the morning they will be for marching off, and how can we 
detain them without force?'

'I have been thinking of a scheme, that will do,' said one of his 
comrades:  'if we can dispatch the two chevaliers silently, it will 
be easy to master the rest.'

'That's a plausible scheme, in good faith,' said another with a smile 
of scorn--'If I can eat my way through the prison wall, I shall be at 
liberty!--How can we dispatch them SILENTLY?'

'By poison,' replied his companions.

'Well said! that will do,' said the second ruffian, 'that will give a 
lingering death too, and satisfy my revenge.  These barons shall take 
care how they again tempt our vengeance.'

'I knew the son, the moment I saw him,' said the man, whom Blanche 
had observed gazing on St. Foix, 'though he does not know me; the 
father I had almost forgotten.'

'Well, you may say what you will,' said the third ruffian, 'but I 
don't believe he is the Baron, and I am as likely to know as any of 
you, for I was one of them, that attacked him, with our brave lads, 
that suffered.'

'And was not I another?' said the first ruffian, 'I tell you he is 
the Baron; but what does it signify whether he is or not?--shall we 
let all this booty go out of our hands?  It is not often we have such 
luck at this.  While we run the chance of the wheel for smuggling a 
few pounds of tobacco, to cheat the king's manufactory, and of 
breaking our necks down the precipices in the chace of our food; and, 
now and then, rob a brother smuggler, or a straggling pilgrim, of 
what scarcely repays us the powder we fire at them, shall we let such 
a prize as this go?  Why they have enough about them to keep us for--
'

'I am not for that, I am not for that,' replied the third robber, 
'let us make the most of them:  only, if this is the Baron, I should 
like to have a flash the more at him, for the sake of our brave 
comrades, that he brought to the gallows.'

'Aye, aye, flash as much as you will,' rejoined the first man, 'but I 
tell you the Baron is a taller man.'

'Confound your quibbling,' said the second ruffian, 'shall we let 
them go or not?  If we stay here much longer, they will take the 
hint, and march off without our leave.  Let them be who they will, 
they are rich, or why all those servants?  Did you see the ring, he, 
you call the Baron, had on his finger?--it was a diamond; but he has 
not got it on now:  he saw me looking at it, I warrant, and took it 
off.'

'Aye, and then there is the picture; did you see that?  She has not 
taken that off,' observed the first ruffian, 'it hangs at her neck; 
if it had not sparkled so, I should not have found it out, for it was 
almost hid by her dress; those are diamonds too, and a rare many of 
them there must be, to go round such a large picture.'

'But how are we to manage this business?' said the second ruffian:  
'let us talk of that, there is no fear of there being booty enough, 
but how are we to secure it?'

'Aye, aye,' said his comrades, 'let us talk of that, and remember no 
time is to be lost.'


'I am still for poison,' observed the third, 'but consider their 
number; why there are nine or ten of them, and armed too; when I saw 
so many at the gate, I was not for letting them in, you know, nor you 
either.'

'I thought they might be some of our enemies,' replied the second, 'I 
did not so much mind numbers.'

'But you must mind them now,' rejoined his comrade, 'or it will be 
worse for you.  We are not more than six, and how can we master ten 
by open force?  I tell you we must give some of them a dose, and the 
rest may then be managed.'

'I'll tell you a better way,' rejoined the other impatiently, 'draw 
closer.'

Blanche, who had listened to this conversation, in an agony, which it 
would be impossible to describe, could no longer distinguish what was 
said, for the ruffians now spoke in lowered voices; but the hope, 
that she might save her friends from the plot, if she could find her 
way quickly to them, suddenly re-animated her spirits, and lent her 
strength enough to turn her steps in search of the gallery.  Terror, 
however, and darkness conspired against her, and, having moved a few 
yards, the feeble light, that issued from the chamber, no longer even 
contended with the gloom, and, her foot stumbling over a step that 
crossed the passage, she fell to the ground.

The noise startled the banditti, who became suddenly silent, and then 
all rushed to the passage, to examine whether any person was there, 
who might have overheard their councils.  Blanche saw them 
approaching, and perceived their fierce and eager looks:  but, before 
she could raise herself, they discovered and seized her, and, as they 
dragged her towards the chamber they had quitted, her screams drew 
from them horrible threatenings.

Having reached the room, they began to consult what they should do 
with her.  'Let us first know what she had heard,' said the chief 
robber.  'How long have you been in the passage, lady, and what 
brought you there?'

'Let us first secure that picture,' said one of his comrades, 
approaching the trembling Blanche.  'Fair lady, by your leave that 
picture is mine; come, surrender it, or I shall seize it.'

Blanche, entreating their mercy, immediately gave up the miniature, 
while another of the ruffians fiercely interrogated her, concerning 
what she had overheard of their conversation, when, her confusion and 
terror too plainly telling what her tongue feared to confess, the 
ruffians looked expressively upon one another, and two of them 
withdrew to a remote part of the room, as if to consult further.

'These are diamonds, by St. Peter!' exclaimed the fellow, who had 
been examining the miniature, 'and here is a very pretty picture too, 
'faith; as handsome a young chevalier, as you would wish to see by a 
summer's sun.  Lady, this is your spouse, I warrant, for it is the 
spark, that was in your company just now.'

Blanche, sinking with terror, conjured him to have pity on her, and, 
delivering him her purse, promised to say nothing of what had passed, 
if he would suffer her to return to her friends.

He smiled ironically, and was going to reply, when his attention was 
called off by a distant noise; and, while he listened, he grasped the 
arm of Blanche more firmly, as if he feared she would escape from 
him, and she again shrieked for help.

The approaching sounds called the ruffians from the other part of the 
chamber.  'We are betrayed,' said they; 'but let us listen a moment, 
perhaps it is only our comrades come in from the mountains, and if 
so, our work is sure; listen!'

A distant discharge of shot confirmed this supposition for a moment, 
but, in the next, the former sounds drawing nearer, the clashing of 
swords, mingled with the voices of loud contention and with heavy 
groans, were distinguished in the avenue leading to the chamber.  
While the ruffians prepared their arms, they heard themselves called 
by some of their comrades afar off, and then a shrill horn was 
sounded without the fortress, a signal, it appeared, they too well 
understood; for three of them, leaving the Lady Blanche to the care 
of the fourth, instantly rushed from the chamber.

While Blanche, trembling, and nearly fainting, was supplicating for 
release, she heard amid the tumult, that approached, the voice of St. 
Foix, and she had scarcely renewed her shriek, when the door of the 
room was thrown open, and he appeared, much disfigured with blood, 
and pursued by several ruffians.  Blanche neither saw, or heard any 
more; her head swam, her sight failed, and she became senseless in 
the arms of the robber, who had detained her.

When she recovered, she perceived, by the gloomy light, that trembled 
round her, that she was in the same chamber, but neither the Count, 
St. Foix, or any other person appeared, and she continued, for some 
time, entirely still, and nearly in a state of stupefaction.  But, 
the dreadful images of the past returning, she endeavoured to raise 
herself, that she might seek her friends, when a sullen groan, at a 
little distance, reminded her of St. Foix, and of the condition, in 
which she had seen him enter this room; then, starting from the 
floor, by a sudden effort of horror, she advanced to the place whence 
the sound had proceeded, where a body was lying stretched upon the 
pavement, and where, by the glimmering light of a lamp, she 
discovered the pale and disfigured countenance of St. Foix.  Her 
horrors, at that moment, may be easily imagined.  He was speechless; 
his eyes were half closed, and, on the hand, which she grasped in the 
agony of despair, cold damps had settled.  While she vainly repeated 
his name, and called for assistance, steps approached, and a person 
entered the chamber, who, she soon perceived, was not the Count, her 
father; but, what was her astonishment, when, supplicating him to 
give his assistance to St. Foix, she discovered Ludovico!  He 
scarcely paused to recognise her, but immediately bound up the wounds 
of the Chevalier, and, perceiving, that he had fainted probably from 
loss of blood, ran for water; but he had been absent only a few 
moments, when Blanche heard other steps approaching, and, while she 
was almost frantic with apprehension of the ruffians, the light of a 
torch flashed upon the walls, and then Count De Villefort appeared, 
with an affrighted countenance, and breathless with impatience, 
calling upon his daughter.  At the sound of his voice, she rose, and 
ran to his arms, while he, letting fall the bloody sword he held, 
pressed her to his bosom in a transport of gratitude and joy, and 
then hastily enquired for St. Foix, who now gave some signs of life.  
Ludovico soon after returning with water and brandy, the former was 
applied to his lips, and the latter to his temples and hands, and 
Blanche, at length, saw him unclose his eyes, and then heard him 
enquire for her; but the joy she felt, on this occasion, was 
interrupted by new alarms, when Ludovico said it would be necessary 
to remove Mons. St. Foix immediately, and added, 'The banditti, that 
are out, my Lord, were expected home, an hour ago, and they will 
certainly find us, if we delay.  That shrill horn, they know, is 
never sounded by their comrades but on most desperate occasions, and 
it echoes among the mountains for many leagues round.  I have known 
them brought home by its sound even from the Pied de Melicant.  Is 
any body standing watch at the great gate, my Lord?'

'Nobody,' replied the Count; 'the rest of my people are now scattered 
about, I scarcely know where.  Go, Ludovico, collect them together, 
and look out yourself, and listen if you hear the feet of mules.'

Ludovico then hurried away, and the Count consulted as to the means 
of removing St. Foix, who could not have borne the motion of a mule, 
even if his strength would have supported him in the saddle.

While the Count was telling, that the banditti, whom they had found 
in the fort, were secured in the dungeon, Blanche observed that he 
was himself wounded, and that his left arm was entirely useless; but 
he smiled at her anxiety, assuring her the wound was trifling.

The Count's servants, except two who kept watch at the gate, now 
appeared, and, soon after, Ludovico.  'I think I hear mules coming 
along the glen, my Lord,' said he, 'but the roaring of the torrent 
below will not let me be certain; however, I have brought what will 
serve the Chevalier,' he added, shewing a bear's skin, fastened to a 
couple of long poles, which had been adapted for the purpose of 
bringing home such of the banditti as happened to be wounded in their 
encounters.  Ludovico spread it on the ground, and, placing the skins 
of several goats upon it, made a kind of bed, into which the 
Chevalier, who was however now much revived, was gently lifted; and, 
the poles being raised upon the shoulders of the guides, whose 
footing among these steeps could best be depended upon, he was borne 
along with an easy motion.  Some of the Count's servants were also 
wounded--but not materially, and, their wounds being bound up, they 
now followed to the great gate.  As they passed along the hall, a 
loud tumult was heard at some distance, and Blanche was terrified.  
'It is only those villains in the dungeon, my Lady,' said Ludovico.  
'They seem to be bursting it open,' said the Count.  'No, my Lord,' 
replied Ludovico, 'it has an iron door; we have nothing to fear from 
them; but let me go first, and look out from the rampart.'

They quickly followed him, and found their mules browsing before the 
gates, where the party listened anxiously, but heard no sound, except 
that of the torrent below and of the early breeze, sighing among the 
branches of the old oak, that grew in the court; and they were now 
glad to perceive the first tints of dawn over the mountain-tops.  
When they had mounted their mules, Ludovico, undertaking to be their 
guide, led them by an easier path, than that by which they had 
formerly ascended, into the glen.  'We must avoid that valley to the 
east, my Lord,' said he, 'or we may meet the banditti; they went out 
that way in the morning.'

The travellers, soon after, quitted this glen, and found themselves 
in a narrow valley that stretched towards the north-west.  The 
morning light upon the mountains now strengthened fast, and gradually 
discovered the green hillocks, that skirted the winding feet of the 
cliffs, tufted with cork tree, and ever-green oak.  The thunder-
clouds being dispersed, had left the sky perfectly serene, and 
Blanche was revived by the fresh breeze, and by the view of verdure, 
which the late rain had brightened.  Soon after, the sun arose, when 
the dripping rocks, with the shrubs that fringed their summits, and 
many a turfy slope below, sparkled in his rays.  A wreath of mist was 
seen, floating along the extremity of the valley, but the gale bore 
it before the travellers, and the sun-beams gradually drew it up 
towards the summit of the mountains.  They had proceeded about a 
league, when, St. Foix having complained of extreme faintness, they 
stopped to give him refreshment, and, that the men, who bore him, 
might rest.  Ludovico had brought from the fort some flasks of rich 
Spanish wine, which now proved a reviving cordial not only to St. 
Foix but to the whole party, though to him it gave only temporary 
relief, for it fed the fever, that burned in his veins, and he could 
neither disguise in his countenance the anguish he suffered, or 
suppress the wish, that he was arrived at the inn, where they had 
designed to pass the preceding night.

While they thus reposed themselves under the shade of the dark green 
pines, the Count desired Ludovico to explain shortly, by what means 
he had disappeared from the north apartment, how he came into the 
hands of the banditti, and how he had contributed so essentially to 
serve him and his family, for to him he justly attributed their 
present deliverance.  Ludovico was going to obey him, when suddenly 
they heard the echo of a pistol-shot, from the way they had passed, 
and they rose in alarm, hastily to pursue their route.



CHAPTER XIII


  Ah why did Fate his steps decoy
 In stormy paths to roam,
 Remote from all congenial joy!
     BEATTIE

Emily, mean while, was still suffering anxiety as to the fate of 
Valancourt; but Theresa, having, at length, found a person, whom she 
could entrust on her errand to the steward, informed her, that the 
messenger would return on the following day; and Emily promised to be 
at the cottage, Theresa being too lame to attend her.

In the evening, therefore, Emily set out alone for the cottage, with 
a melancholy foreboding, concerning Valancourt, while, perhaps, the 
gloom of the hour might contribute to depress her spirits.  It was a 
grey autumnal evening towards the close of the season; heavy mists 
partially obscured the mountains, and a chilling breeze, that sighed 
among the beech woods, strewed her path with some of their last 
yellow leaves.  These, circling in the blast and foretelling the 
death of the year, gave an image of desolation to her mind, and, in 
her fancy, seemed to announce the death of Valancourt.  Of this she 
had, indeed, more than once so strong a presentiment, that she was on 
the point of returning home, feeling herself unequal to an encounter 
with the certainty she anticipated, but, contending with her 
emotions, she so far commanded them, as to be able to proceed.

While she walked mournfully on, gazing on the long volumes of vapour, 
that poured upon the sky, and watching the swallows, tossed along the 
wind, now disappearing among tempestuous clouds, and then emerging, 
for a moment, in circles upon the calmer air, the afflictions and 
vicissitudes of her late life seemed pourtrayed in these fleeting 
images;--thus had she been tossed upon the stormy sea of misfortune 
for the last year, with but short intervals of peace, if peace that 
could be called, which was only the delay of evils.  And now, when 
she had escaped from so many dangers, was become independent of the 
will of those, who had oppressed her, and found herself mistress of a 
large fortune, now, when she might reasonably have expected 
happiness, she perceived that she was as distant from it as ever.  
She would have accused herself of weakness and ingratitude in thus 
suffering a sense of the various blessings she possessed to be 
overcome by that of a single misfortune, had this misfortune affected 
herself alone; but, when she had wept for Valancourt even as living, 
tears of compassion had mingled with those of regret, and while she 
lamented a human being degraded to vice, and consequently to misery, 
reason and humanity claimed these tears, and fortitude had not yet 
taught her to separate them from those of love; in the present 
moments, however, it was not the certainty of his guilt, but the 
apprehension of his death (of a death also, to which she herself, 
however innocently, appeared to have been in some degree 
instrumental) that oppressed her.  This fear increased, as the means 
of certainty concerning it approached; and, when she came within view 
of Theresa's cottage, she was so much disordered, and her resolution 
failed her so entirely, that, unable to proceed, she rested on a 
bank, beside her path; where, as she sat, the wind that groaned 
sullenly among the lofty branches above, seemed to her melancholy 
imagination to bear the sounds of distant lamentation, and, in the 
pauses of the gust, she still fancied she heard the feeble and far-
off notes of distress.  Attention convinced her, that this was no 
more than fancy; but the increasing gloom, which seemed the sudden 
close of day, soon warned her to depart, and, with faltering steps, 
she again moved toward the cottage.  Through the casement appeared 
the cheerful blaze of a wood fire, and Theresa, who had observed 
Emily approaching, was already at the door to receive her.

'It is a cold evening, madam,' said she, 'storms are coming on, and I 
thought you would like a fire.  Do take this chair by the hearth.'

Emily, thanking her for this consideration, sat down, and then, 
looking in her face, on which the wood fire threw a gleam, she was 
struck with its expression, and, unable to speak, sunk back in her 
chair with a countenance so full of woe, that Theresa instantly 
comprehended the occasion of it, but she remained silent.  'Ah!' said 
Emily, at length, 'it is unnecessary for me to ask the result of your 
enquiry, your silence, and that look, sufficiently explain it;--he is 
dead!'

'Alas! my dear young lady,' replied Theresa, while tears filled her 
eyes, 'this world is made up of trouble! the rich have their share as 
well as the poor!  But we must all endeavour to bear what Heaven 
pleases.'

'He is dead, then!'--interrupted Emily--'Valancourt is dead!'

'A-well-a-day! I fear he is,' replied Theresa.

'You fear!' said Emily, 'do you only fear?'

'Alas! yes, madam, I fear he is! neither the steward, or any of the 
Epourville family, have heard of him since he left Languedoc, and the 
Count is in great affliction about him, for he says he was always 
punctual in writing, but that now he has not received a line from 
him, since he left Languedoc; he appointed to be at home, three weeks 
ago, but he has neither come, or written, and they fear some accident 
has befallen him.  Alas! that ever I should live to cry for his 
death!  I am old, and might have died without being missed, but he'--
Emily was faint, and asked for some water, and Theresa, alarmed by 
the voice, in which she spoke, hastened to her assistance, and, while 
she held the water to Emily's lips, continued, 'My dear young 
mistress, do not take it so to heart; the Chevalier may be alive and 
well, for all this; let us hope the best!'

'O no! I cannot hope,' said Emily, 'I am acquainted with 
circumstances, that will not suffer me to hope.  I am somewhat better 
now, and can hear what you have to say.  Tell me, I entreat, the 
particulars of what you know.'

'Stay, till you are a little better, mademoiselle, you look sadly!'

'O no, Theresa, tell me all, while I have the power to hear it,' said 
Emily, 'tell me all, I conjure you!'

'Well, madam, I will then; but the steward did not say much, for 
Richard says he seemed shy of talking about Mons. Valancourt, and 
what he gathered was from Gabriel, one of the servants, who said he 
had heard it from my lord's gentleman.'

'What did he hear?' said Emily.

'Why, madam, Richard has but a bad memory, and could not remember 
half of it, and, if I had not asked him a great many questions, I 
should have heard little indeed.  But he says that Gabriel said, that 
he and all the other servants were in great trouble about M. 
Valancourt, for that he was such a kind young gentleman, they all 
loved him, as well as if he had been their own brother--and now, to 
think what was become of him!  For he used to be so courteous to them 
all, and, if any of them had been in fault, M. Valancourt was the 
first to persuade my lord to forgive them.  And then, if any poor 
family was in distress, M. Valancourt was the first, too, to relieve 
them, though some folks, not a great way off, could have afforded 
that much better than he.  And then, said Gabriel, he was so gentle 
to every body, and, for all he had such a noble look with him, he 
never would command, and call about him, as some of your quality 
people do, and we never minded him the less for that.  Nay, says 
Gabriel, for that matter, we minded him the more, and would all have 
run to obey him at a word, sooner than if some folks had told us what 
to do at full length; aye, and were more afraid of displeasing him, 
too, than of them, that used rough words to us.'

Emily, who no longer considered it to be dangerous to listen to 
praise, bestowed on Valancourt, did not attempt to interrupt Theresa, 
but sat, attentive to her words, though almost overwhelmed with 
grief.  'My Lord,' continued Theresa, 'frets about M. Valancourt 
sadly, and the more, because, they say, he had been rather harsh 
against him lately.  Gabriel says he had it from my Lord's valet, 
that M. Valancourt had COMPORTED himself wildly at Paris, and had 
spent a great deal of money, more a great deal than my Lord liked, 
for he loves money better than M. Valancourt, who had been led astray 
sadly.  Nay, for that matter, M. Valancourt had been put into prison 
at Paris, and my Lord, says Gabriel, refused to take him out, and 
said he deserved to suffer; and, when old Gregoire, the butler, heard 
of this, he actually bought a walking-stick to take with him to 
Paris, to visit his young master; but the next thing we hear is, that 
M. Valancourt is coming home.  O, it was a joyful day when he came; 
but he was sadly altered, and my Lord looked very cool upon him, and 
he was very sad, indeed.  And, soon after, he went away again into 
Languedoc, and, since that time, we have never seen him.'

Theresa paused, and Emily, sighing deeply, remained with her eyes 
fixed upon the floor, without speaking.  After a long pause, she 
enquired what further Theresa had heard.  'Yet why should I ask?' she 
added; 'what you have already told is too much.  O Valancourt! thou 
art gone--forever gone! and I--I have murdered thee!'  These words, 
and the countenance of despair which accompanied them, alarmed 
Theresa, who began to fear, that the shock of the intelligence Emily 
had just received, had affected her senses.  'My dear young lady, be 
composed,' said she, 'and do not say such frightful words.  You 
murder M. Valancourt,--dear heart!'  Emily replied only by a heavy 
sigh.

'Dear lady, it breaks my heart to see you look so,' said Theresa, 'do 
not sit with your eyes upon the ground, and all so pale and 
melancholy; it frightens me to see you.'  Emily was still silent, and 
did not appear to hear any thing that was said to her.  'Besides, 
mademoiselle,' continued Theresa, 'M. Valancourt may be alive and 
merry yet, for what we know.'

At the mention of his name, Emily raised her eyes, and fixed them, in 
a wild gaze, upon Theresa, as if she was endeavouring to understand 
what had been said.  'Aye, my dear lady,' said Theresa, mistaking the 
meaning of this considerate air, 'M. Valancourt may be alive and 
merry yet.'

On the repetition of these words, Emily comprehended their import, 
but, instead of producing the effect intended, they seemed only to 
heighten her distress.  She rose hastily from her chair, paced the 
little room, with quick steps, and, often sighing deeply, clasped her 
hands, and shuddered.

Meanwhile, Theresa, with simple, but honest affection, endeavoured to 
comfort her; put more wood on the fire, stirred it up into a brighter 
blaze, swept the hearth, set the chair, which Emily had left, in a 
warmer situation, and then drew forth from a cupboard a flask of 
wine.  'It is a stormy night, madam,' said she, 'and blows cold--do 
come nearer the fire, and take a glass of this wine; it will comfort 
you, as it has done me, often and often, for it is not such wine as 
one gets every day; it is rich Languedoc, and the last of six flasks 
that M. Valancourt sent me, the night before he left Gascony for 
Paris.  They have served me, ever since, as cordials, and I never 
drink it, but I think of him, and what kind words he said to me when 
he gave them.  Theresa, says he, you are not young now, and should 
have a glass of good wine, now and then.  I will send you a few 
flasks, and, when you taste them, you will sometimes remember me your 
friend.  Yes--those were his very words--me your friend!'  Emily 
still paced the room, without seeming to hear what Theresa said, who 
continued speaking.  'And I have remembered him, often enough, poor 
young gentleman!--for he gave me this roof for a shelter, and that, 
which has supported me.  Ah! he is in heaven, with my blessed master, 
if ever saint was!'

Theresa's voice faltered; she wept, and set down the flask, unable to 
pour out the wine.  Her grief seemed to recall Emily from her own, 
who went towards her, but then stopped, and, having gazed on her, for 
a moment, turned suddenly away, as if overwhelmed by the reflection, 
that it was Valancourt, whom Theresa lamented.

While she yet paced the room, the still, soft note of an oboe, or 
flute, was heard mingling with the blast, the sweetness of which 
affected Emily's spirits; she paused a moment in attention; the 
tender tones, as they swelled along the wind, till they were lost 
again in the ruder gust, came with a plaintiveness, that touched her 
heart, and she melted into tears.

'Aye,' said Theresa, drying her eyes, 'there is Richard, our 
neighbour's son, playing on the oboe; it is sad enough, to hear such 
sweet music now.'  Emily continued to weep, without replying.  'He 
often plays of an evening,' added Theresa, 'and, sometimes, the young 
folks dance to the sound of his oboe.  But, dear young lady! do not 
cry so; and pray take a glass of this wine,' continued she, pouring 
some into a glass, and handing it to Emily, who reluctantly took it.

'Taste it for M. Valancourt's sake,' said Theresa, as Emily lifted 
the glass to her lips, 'for he gave it me, you know, madam.'  Emily's 
hand trembled, and she spilt the wine as she withdrew it from her 
lips.  'For whose sake!--who gave the wine?' said she in a faltering 
voice.  'M. Valancourt, dear lady.  I knew you would be pleased with 
it.  It is the last flask I have left.'

Emily set the wine upon the table, and burst into tears, while 
Theresa, disappointed and alarmed, tried to comfort her; but she only 
waved her hand, entreated she might be left alone, and wept the more.

A knock at the cottage door prevented Theresa from immediately 
obeying her mistress, and she was going to open it, when Emily, 
checking her, requested she would not admit any person; but, 
afterwards, recollecting, that she had ordered her servant to attend 
her home, she said it was only Philippe, and endeavoured to restrain 
her tears, while Theresa opened the door.

A voice, that spoke without, drew Emily's attention.  She listened, 
turned her eyes to the door, when a person now appeared, and 
immediately a bright gleam, that flashed from the fire, discovered--
Valancourt!

Emily, on perceiving him, started from her chair, trembled, and, 
sinking into it again, became insensible to all around her.

A scream from Theresa now told, that she knew Valancourt, whom her 
imperfect sight, and the duskiness of the place had prevented her 
from immediately recollecting; but his attention was immediately 
called from her to the person, whom he saw, falling from a chair near 
the fire; and, hastening to her assistance,--he perceived, that he 
was supporting Emily!  The various emotions, that seized him upon 
thus unexpectedly meeting with her, from whom he had believed he had 
parted for ever, and on beholding her pale and lifeless in his arms--
may, perhaps, be imagined, though they could neither be then 
expressed, or now described, any more than Emily's sensations, when, 
at length, she unclosed her eyes, and, looking up, again saw 
Valancourt.  The intense anxiety, with which he regarded her, was 
instantly changed to an expression of mingled joy and tenderness, as 
his eye met hers, and he perceived, that she was reviving.  But he 
could only exclaim, 'Emily!' as he silently watched her recovery, 
while she averted her eye, and feebly attempted to withdraw her hand; 
but, in these the first moments, which succeeded to the pangs his 
supposed death had occasioned her, she forgot every fault, which had 
formerly claimed indignation, and beholding Valancourt such as he had 
appeared, when he won her early affection, she experienced emotions 
of only tenderness and joy.  This, alas! was but the sunshine of a 
few short moments; recollections rose, like clouds, upon her mind, 
and, darkening the illusive image, that possessed it, she again 
beheld Valancourt, degraded--Valancourt unworthy of the esteem and 
tenderness she had once bestowed upon him; her spirits faltered, and, 
withdrawing her hand, she turned from him to conceal her grief, while 
he, yet more embarrassed and agitated, remained silent.

A sense of what she owed to herself restrained her tears, and taught 
her soon to overcome, in some degree, the emotions of mingled joy and 
sorrow, that contended at her heart, as she rose, and, having thanked 
him for the assistance he had given her, bade Theresa good evening.  
As she was leaving the cottage, Valancourt, who seemed suddenly 
awakened as from a dream, entreated, in a voice, that pleaded 
powerfully for compassion, a few moments attention.  Emily's heart, 
perhaps, pleaded as powerfully, but she had resolution enough to 
resist both, together with the clamorous entreaties of Theresa, that 
she would not venture home alone in the dark, and had already opened 
the cottage door, when the pelting storm compelled her to obey their 
requests.

Silent and embarrassed, she returned to the fire, while Valancourt, 
with increasing agitation, paced the room, as if he wished, yet 
feared, to speak, and Theresa expressed without restraint her joy and 
wonder upon seeing him.

'Dear heart! sir,' said she, 'I never was so surprised and overjoyed 
in my life.  We were in great tribulation before you came, for we 
thought you was dead, and were talking, and lamenting about you, just 
when you knocked at the door.  My young mistress there was crying, 
fit to break her heart--'

Emily looked with much displeasure at Theresa, but, before she could 
speak, Valancourt, unable to repress the emotion, which Theresa's 
imprudent discovery occasioned, exclaimed, 'O my Emily! am I then 
still dear to you!  Did you, indeed, honour me with a thought--a 
tear?  O heavens! you weep--you weep now!'

'Theresa, sir,' said Emily, with a reserved air, and trying to 
conquer her tears, 'has reason to remember you with gratitude, and 
she was concerned, because she had not lately heard of you.  Allow me 
to thank you for the kindness you have shewn her, and to say, that, 
since I am now upon the spot, she must not be further indebted to 
you.''

'Emily,' said Valancourt, no longer master of his emotions, 'is it 
thus you meet him, whom once you meant to honour with your hand--thus 
you meet him, who has loved you--suffered for you?--Yet what do I 
say?  Pardon me, pardon me, mademoiselle St. Aubert, I know not what 
I utter.  I have no longer any claim upon your remembrance--I have 
forfeited every pretension to your esteem, your love.  Yes! let me 
not forget, that I once possessed your affections, though to know 
that I have lost them, is my severest affliction.  Affliction--do I 
call it!--that is a term of mildness.'

'Dear heart!' said Theresa, preventing Emily from replying, 'talk of 
once having her affections!  Why, my dear young lady loves you now, 
better than she does any body in the whole world, though she pretends 
to deny it.'

'This is insupportable!' said Emily; 'Theresa, you know not what you 
say.  Sir, if you respect my tranquillity, you will spare me from the 
continuance of this distress.'

'I do respect your tranquillity too much, voluntarily to interrupt 
it,' replied Valancourt, in whose bosom pride now contended with 
tenderness; 'and will not be a voluntary intruder.  I would have 
entreated a few moments attention--yet I know not for what purpose.  
You have ceased to esteem me, and to recount to you my sufferings 
will degrade me more, without exciting even your pity.  Yet I have 
been, O Emily!  I am indeed very wretched!' added Valancourt, in a 
voice, that softened from solemnity into grief.

'What! is my dear young master going out in all this rain!' said 
Theresa.  'No, he shall not stir a step.  Dear! dear! to see how 
gentlefolks can afford to throw away their happiness!  Now, if you 
were poor people, there would be none of this.  To talk of 
unworthiness, and not caring about one another, when I know there are 
not such a kind-hearted lady and gentleman in the whole province, nor 
any that love one another half so well, if the truth was spoken!'

Emily, in extreme vexation, now rose from her chair, 'I must be 
gone,' said she, 'the storm is over.'

'Stay, Emily, stay, mademoiselle St. Aubert!' said Valancourt, 
summoning all his resolution, 'I will no longer distress you by my 
presence.  Forgive me, that I did not sooner obey you, and, if you 
can, sometimes, pity one, who, in losing you--has lost all hope of 
peace!  May you be happy, Emily, however wretched I remain, happy as 
my fondest wish would have you!'

His voice faltered with the last words, and his countenance changed, 
while, with a look of ineffable tenderness and grief, he gazed upon 
her for an instant, and then quitted the cottage.

'Dear heart! dear heart!' cried Theresa, following him to the door, 
'why, Monsieur Valancourt! how it rains! what a night is this to turn 
him out in!  Why it will give him his death; and it was but now you 
was crying, mademoiselle, because he was dead.  Well! young ladies do 
change their mind in a minute, as one may say!'

Emily made no reply, for she heard not what was said, while, lost in 
sorrow and thought, she remained in her chair by the fire, with her 
eyes fixed, and the image of Valancourt still before them.

'M. Valancourt is sadly altered! madam,' said Theresa; 'he looks so 
thin to what he used to do, and so melancholy, and then he wears his 
arm in a sling.'

Emily raised her eyes at these words, for she had not observed this 
last circumstance, and she now did not doubt, that Valancourt had 
received the shot of her gardener at Tholouse; with this conviction 
her pity for him returning, she blamed herself for having occasioned 
him to leave the cottage, during the storm.

Soon after her servants arrived with the carriage, and Emily, having 
censured Theresa for her thoughtless conversation to Valancourt, and 
strictly charging her never to repeat any hints of the same kind to 
him, withdrew to her home, thoughtful and disconsolate.

Meanwhile, Valancourt had returned to a little inn of the village, 
whither he had arrived only a few moments before his visit to 
Theresa's cottage, on the way from Tholouse to the chateau of the 
Count de Duvarney, where he had not been since he bade adieu to Emily 
at Chateau-le-Blanc, in the neighbourhood of which he had lingered 
for a considerable time, unable to summon resolution enough to quit a 
place, that contained the object most dear to his heart.  There were 
times, indeed, when grief and despair urged him to appear again 
before Emily, and, regardless of his ruined circumstances, to renew 
his suit.  Pride, however, and the tenderness of his affection, which 
could not long endure the thought of involving her in his 
misfortunes, at length, so far triumphed over passion, that he 
relinquished this desperate design, and quitted Chateau-le-Blanc.  
But still his fancy wandered among the scenes, which had witnessed 
his early love, and, on his way to Gascony, he stopped at Tholouse, 
where he remained when Emily arrived, concealing, yet indulging his 
melancholy in the gardens, where he had formerly passed with her so 
many happy hours; often recurring, with vain regret, to the evening 
before her departure for Italy, when she had so unexpectedly met him 
on the terrace, and endeavouring to recall to his memory every word 
and look, which had then charmed him, the arguments he had employed 
to dissuade her from the journey, and the tenderness of their last 
farewel.  In such melancholy recollections he had been indulging, 
when Emily unexpectedly arrived to him on this very terrace, the 
evening after her arrival at Tholouse.  His emotions, on thus seeing 
her, can scarcely be imagined; but he so far overcame the first 
promptings of love, that he forbore to discover himself, and abruptly 
quitted the gardens.  Still, however, the vision he had seen haunted 
his mind; he became more wretched than before, and the only solace of 
his sorrow was to return in the silence of the night; to follow the 
paths which he believed her steps had pressed, during the day; and, 
to watch round the habitation where she reposed.  It was in one of 
these mournful wanderings, that he had received by the fire of the 
gardener, who mistook him for a robber, a wound in his arm, which had 
detained him at Tholouse till very lately, under the hands of a 
surgeon.  There, regardless of himself and careless of his friends, 
whose late unkindness had urged him to believe, that they were 
indifferent as to his fate, he remained, without informing them of 
his situation; and now, being sufficiently recovered to bear 
travelling, he had taken La Vallee in his way to Estuviere, the 
Count's residence, partly for the purpose of hearing of Emily, and of 
being again near her, and partly for that of enquiring into the 
situation of poor old Theresa, who, he had reason to suppose, had 
been deprived of her stipend, small as it was, and which enquiry had 
brought him to her cottage, when Emily happened to be there.

This unexpected interview, which had at once shewn him the tenderness 
of her love and the strength of her resolution, renewed all the 
acuteness of the despair, that had attended their former separation, 
and which no effort of reason could teach him, in these moments, to 
subdue.  Her image, her look, the tones of her voice, all dwelt on 
his fancy, as powerfully as they had late appeared to his senses, and 
banished from his heart every emotion, except those of love and 
despair.

Before the evening concluded, he returned to Theresa's cottage, that 
he might hear her talk of Emily, and be in the place, where she had 
so lately been.  The joy, felt and expressed by that faithful 
servant, was quickly changed to sorrow, when she observed, at one 
moment, his wild and phrensied look, and, at another, the dark 
melancholy, that overhung him.

After he had listened, and for a considerable time, to all she had to 
relate, concerning Emily, he gave Theresa nearly all the money he had 
about him, though she repeatedly refused it, declaring, that her 
mistress had amply supplied her wants; and then, drawing a ring of 
value from his finger, he delivered it her with a solemn charge to 
present it to Emily, of whom he entreated, as a last favour, that she 
would preserve it for his sake, and sometimes, when she looked upon 
it, remember the unhappy giver.

Theresa wept, as she received the ring, but it was more from 
sympathy, than from any presentiment of evil; and before she could 
reply, Valancourt abruptly left the cottage.  She followed him to the 
door, calling upon his name and entreating him to return; but she 
received no answer, and saw him no more.



CHAPTER XIV


  Call up him, that left half told
 The story of Cambuscan bold.
     MILTON

On the following morning, as Emily sat in the parlour adjoining the 
library, reflecting on the scene of the preceding night, Annette 
rushed wildly into the room, and, without speaking, sunk breathless 
into a chair.  It was some time before she could answer the anxious 
enquiries of Emily, as to the occasion of her emotion, but, at 
length, she exclaimed, 'I have seen his ghost, madam, I have seen his 
ghost!'

'Who do you mean?' said Emily, with extreme impatience.

'It came in from the hall, madam,' continued Annette, 'as I was 
crossing to the parlour.'

'Who are you speaking of?' repeated Emily, 'Who came in from the 
hall?

'It was dressed just as I have seen him, often and often,' added 
Annette.  'Ah! who could have thought--'

Emily's patience was now exhausted, and she was reprimanding her for 
such idle fancies, when a servant entered the room, and informed her, 
that a stranger without begged leave to speak with her.

It immediately occurred to Emily, that this stranger was Valancourt, 
and she told the servant to inform him, that she was engaged, and 
could not see any person.

The servant, having delivered his message, returned with one from the 
stranger, urging the first request, and saying, that he had something 
of consequence to communicate; while Annette, who had hitherto sat 
silent and amazed, now started up, and crying, 'It is Ludovico!--it 
is Ludovico!' ran out of the room.  Emily bade the servant follow 
her, and, if it really was Ludovico, to shew him into the parlour.

In a few minutes, Ludovico appeared, accompanied by Annette, who, as 
joy rendered her forgetful of all rules of decorum towards her 
mistress, would not suffer any person to be heard, for some time, but 
herself.  Emily expressed surprise and satisfaction, on seeing 
Ludovico in safety, and the first emotions increased, when he 
delivered letters from Count De Villefort and the Lady Blanche, 
informing her of their late adventure, and of their present situation 
at an inn among the Pyrenees, where they had been detained by the 
illness of Mons. St. Foix, and the indisposition of Blanche, who 
added, that the Baron St. Foix was just arrived to attend his son to 
his chateau, where he would remain till the perfect recovery of his 
wounds, and then return to Languedoc, but that her father and herself 
purposed to be at La Vallee, on the following day.  She added, that 
Emily's presence would be expected at the approaching nuptials, and 
begged she would be prepared to proceed, in a few days to Chateau-le-
Blanc.  For an account of Ludovico's adventure, she referred her to 
himself; and Emily, though much interested, concerning the means, by 
which he had disappeared from the north apartments, had the 
forbearance to suspend the gratification of her curiosity, till he 
had taken some refreshment, and had conversed with Annette, whose 
joy, on seeing him in safety, could not have been more extravagant, 
had he arisen from the grave.

Meanwhile, Emily perused again the letters of her friends, whose 
expressions of esteem and kindness were very necessary consolations 
to her heart, awakened as it was by the late interview to emotions of 
keener sorrow and regret.

The invitation to Chateau-le-Blanc was pressed with so much kindness 
by the Count and his daughter, who strengthened it by a message from 
the Countess, and the occasion of it was so important to her friend, 
that Emily could not refuse to accept it, nor, though she wished to 
remain in the quiet shades of her native home, could she avoid 
perceiving the impropriety of remaining there alone, since Valancourt 
was again in the neighbourhood.  Sometimes, too, she thought, that 
change of scenery and the society of her friends might contribute, 
more than retirement, to restore her to tranquillity.

When Ludovico again appeared, she desired him to give a detail of his 
adventure in the north apartments, and to tell by what means he 
became a companion of the banditti, with whom the Count had found 
him.

He immediately obeyed, while Annette, who had not yet had leisure to 
ask him many questions, on the subject, prepared to listen, with a 
countenance of extreme curiosity, venturing to remind her lady of her 
incredulity, concerning spirits, in the castle of Udolpho, and of her 
own sagacity in believing in them; while Emily, blushing at the 
consciousness of her late credulity, observed, that, if Ludovico's 
adventure could justify Annette's superstition, he had probably not 
been here to relate it.

Ludovico smiled at Annette, and bowed to Emily, and then began as 
follows:

'You may remember, madam, that, on the night, when I sat up in the 
north chamber, my lord, the Count, and Mons. Henri accompanied me 
thither, and that, while they remained there, nothing happened to 
excite any alarm.  When they were gone I made a fire in the bed-room, 
and, not being inclined to sleep, I sat down on the hearth with a 
book I had brought with me to divert my mind.  I confess I did 
sometimes look round the chamber, with something like apprehension--'

'O very like it, I dare say,' interrupted Annette, 'and I dare say 
too, if the truth was known, you shook from head to foot.'

'Not quite so bad as that,' replied Ludovico, smiling, 'but several 
times, as the wind whistled round the castle, and shook the old 
casements, I did fancy I heard odd noises, and, once or twice, I got 
up and looked about me; but nothing was to be seen, except the grim 
figures in the tapestry, which seemed to frown upon me, as I looked 
at them.  I had sat thus for above an hour,' continued Ludovico, 
'when again I thought I heard a noise, and glanced my eyes round the 
room, to discover what it came from, but, not perceiving any thing, I 
began to read again, and, when I had finished the story I was upon, I 
felt drowsy, and dropped asleep.  But presently I was awakened by the 
noise I had heard before, and it seemed to come from that part of the 
chamber, where the bed stood; and then, whether it was the story I 
had been reading that affected my spirits, or the strange reports, 
that had been spread of these apartments, I don't know, but, when I 
looked towards the bed again, I fancied I saw a man's face within the 
dusky curtains.'

At the mention of this, Emily trembled, and looked anxiously, 
remembering the spectacle she had herself witnessed there with 
Dorothee.

'I confess, madam, my heart did fail me, at that instant,' continued 
Ludovico, 'but a return of the noise drew my attention from the bed, 
and I then distinctly heard a sound, like that of a key, turning in a 
lock, but what surprised me more was, that I saw no door where the 
sound seemed to come from.  In the next moment, however, the arras 
near the bed was slowly lifted, and a person appeared behind it, 
entering from a small door in the wall.  He stood for a moment as if 
half retreating, with his head bending under the arras which 
concealed the upper part of his face except his eyes scowling beneath 
the tapestry as he held it; and then, while he raised it higher, I 
saw the face of another man behind, looking over his shoulder.  I 
know not how it was, but, though my sword was upon the table before 
me, I had not the power just then to seize it, but sat quite still, 
watching them, with my eyes half shut as if I was asleep.  I suppose 
they thought me so, and were debating what they should do, for I 
heard them whisper, and they stood in the same posture for the value 
of a minute, and then, I thought I perceived other faces in the 
duskiness beyond the door, and heard louder whispers.'

'This door surprises me,' said Emily, 'because I understood, that the 
Count had caused the arras to be lifted, and the walls examined, 
suspecting, that they might have concealed a passage through which 
you had departed.'

'It does not appear so extraordinary to me, madam,' replied Ludovico, 
'that this door should escape notice, because it was formed in a 
narrow compartment, which appeared to be part of the outward wall, 
and, if the Count had not passed over it, he might have thought it 
was useless to search for a door where it seemed as if no passage 
could communicate with one; but the truth was, that the passage was 
formed within the wall itself.--But, to return to the men, whom I saw 
obscurely beyond the door, and who did not suffer me to remain long 
in suspense, concerning their design.  They all rushed into the room, 
and surrounded me, though not before I had snatched up my sword to 
defend myself.  But what could one man do against four?  They soon 
disarmed me, and, having fastened my arms, and gagged my mouth, 
forced me through the private door, leaving my sword upon the table, 
to assist, as they said, those who should come in the morning to look 
for me, in fighting against the ghosts.  They then led me through 
many narrow passages, cut, as I fancied, in the walls, for I had 
never seen them before, and down several flights of steps, till we 
came to the vaults underneath the castle; and then opening a stone 
door, which I should have taken for the wall itself, we went through 
a long passage, and down other steps cut in the solid rock, when 
another door delivered us into a cave.  After turning and twining 
about, for some time, we reached the mouth of it, and I found myself 
on the sea-beach at the foot of the cliffs, with the chateau above.  
A boat was in waiting, into which the ruffians got, forcing me along 
with them, and we soon reached a small vessel, that was at anchor, 
where other men appeared, when setting me aboard, two of the fellows 
who had seized me, followed, and the other two rowed back to the 
shore, while we set sail.  I soon found out what all this meant, and 
what was the business of these men at the chateau.  We landed in 
Rousillon, and, after lingering several days about the shore, some of 
their comrades came down from the mountains, and carried me with them 
to the fort, where I remained till my Lord so unexpectedly arrived, 
for they had taken good care to prevent my running away, having 
blindfolded me, during the journey, and, if they had not done this, I 
think I never could have found my road to any town, through the wild 
country we traversed.  After I reached the fort I was watched like a 
prisoner, and never suffered to go out, without two or three 
companions, and I became so weary of life, that I often wished to get 
rid of it.'

'Well, but they let you talk,' said Annette, 'they did not gagg you 
after they got you away from the chateau, so I don't see what reason 
there was to be so very weary of living; to say nothing about the 
chance you had of seeing me again.'

Ludovico smiled, and Emily also, who enquired what was the motive of 
these men for carrying him off.

'I soon found out, madam,' resumed Ludovico, 'that they were pirates, 
who had, during many years, secreted their spoil in the vaults of the 
castle, which, being so near the sea, suited their purpose well.  To 
prevent detection they had tried to have it believed, that the 
chateau was haunted, and, having discovered the private way to the 
north apartments, which had been shut up ever since the death of the 
lady marchioness, they easily succeeded.  The housekeeper and her 
husband, who were the only persons, that had inhabited the castle, 
for some years, were so terrified by the strange noises they heard in 
the nights, that they would live there no longer; a report soon went 
abroad, that it was haunted, and the whole country believed this the 
more readily, I suppose, because it had been said, that the lady 
marchioness had died in a strange way, and because my lord never 
would return to the place afterwards.'

'But why,' said Emily, 'were not these pirates contented with the 
cave--why did they think it necessary to deposit their spoil in the 
castle?'

'The cave, madam,' replied Ludovico, 'was open to any body, and their 
treasures would not long have remained undiscovered there, but in the 
vaults they were secure so long as the report prevailed of their 
being haunted.  Thus then, it appears, that they brought at midnight, 
the spoil they took on the seas, and kept it till they had 
opportunities of disposing of it to advantage.  The pirates were 
connected with Spanish smugglers and banditti, who live among the 
wilds of the Pyrenees, and carry on various kinds of traffic, such as 
nobody would think of; and with this desperate horde of banditti I 
remained, till my lord arrived.  I shall never forget what I felt, 
when I first discovered him--I almost gave him up for lost! but I 
knew, that, if I shewed myself, the banditti would discover who he 
was, and probably murder us all, to prevent their secret in the 
chateau being detected.  I, therefore, kept out of my lord's sight, 
but had a strict watch upon the ruffians, and determined, if they 
offered him or his family violence, to discover myself, and fight for 
our lives.  Soon after, I overheard some of them laying a most 
diabolical plan for the murder and plunder of the whole party, when I 
contrived to speak to some of my lord's attendants, telling them what 
was going forward, and we consulted what was best to be done; 
meanwhile my lord, alarmed at the absence of the Lady Blanche, 
demanded her, and the ruffians having given some unsatisfactory 
answer, my lord and Mons. St. Foix became furious, so then we thought 
it a good time to discover the plot, and rushing into the chamber, I 
called out, "Treachery! my lord count, defend yourself!"  His 
lordship and the chevalier drew their swords directly, and a hard 
battle we had, but we conquered at last, as, madam, you are already 
informed of by my Lord Count.'

'This is an extraordinary adventure,' said Emily, 'and much praise is 
due, Ludovico, to your prudence and intrepidity.  There are some 
circumstances, however, concerning the north apartments, which still 
perplex me; but, perhaps, you may be able to explain them.  Did you 
ever hear the banditti relate any thing extraordinary of these 
rooms?'

'No, madam,' replied Ludovico, 'I never heard them speak about the 
rooms, except to laugh at the credulity of the old housekeeper, who 
once was very near catching one of the pirates; it was since the 
Count arrived at the chateau, he said, and he laughed heartily as he 
related the trick he had played off.'

A blush overspread Emily's cheek, and she impatiently desired 
Ludovico to explain himself.

'Why, my lady,' said he, 'as this fellow was, one night in the bed-
room, he heard somebody approaching through the next apartment, and 
not having time to lift up the arras, and unfasten the door, he hid 
himself in the bed just by.  There he lay for some time in as great a 
fright, I suppose--'

'As you was in,' interrupted Annette, 'when you sat up so boldly to 
watch by yourself.'

'Aye,' said Ludovico, 'in as great a fright as he ever made any body 
else suffer; and presently the housekeeper and some other person came 
up to the bed, when he, thinking they were going to examine it, 
bethought him, that his only chance of escaping detection, was by 
terrifying them; so he lifted up the counterpane, but that did not 
do, till he raised his face above it, and then they both set off, he 
said, as if they had seen the devil, and he got out of the rooms 
undiscovered.'

Emily could not forbear smiling at this explanation of the deception, 
which had given her so much superstitious terror, and was surprised, 
that she could have suffered herself to be thus alarmed, till she 
considered, that, when the mind has once begun to yield to the 
weakness of superstition, trifles impress it with the force of 
conviction.  Still, however, she remembered with awe the mysterious 
music, which had been heard, at midnight, near Chateau-le-Blanc, and 
she asked Ludovico if he could give any explanation of it; but he 
could not.

'I only know, madam,' he added, 'that it did not belong to the 
pirates, for I have heard them laugh about it, and say, they believed 
the devil was in league with them there.'

'Yes, I will answer for it he was,' said Annette, her countenance 
brightening, 'I was sure all along, that he or his spirits had 
something to do with the north apartments, and now you see, madam, I 
am right at last.'

'It cannot be denied, that his spirits were very busy in that part of 
the chateau,' replied Emily, smiling.  'But I am surprised, Ludovico, 
that these pirates should persevere in their schemes, after the 
arrival of the Count; what could they expect but certain detection?'

'I have reason to believe, madam,' replied Ludovico, 'that it was 
their intention to persevere no longer than was necessary for the 
removal of the stores, which were deposited in the vaults; and it 
appeared, that they had been employed in doing so from within a short 
period after the Count's arrival; but, as they had only a few hours 
in the night for this business, and were carrying on other schemes at 
the same time, the vaults were not above half emptied, when they took 
me away.  They gloried exceedingly in this opportunity of confirming 
the superstitious reports, that had been spread of the north 
chambers, were careful to leave every thing there as they had found 
it, the better to promote the deception, and frequently, in their 
jocose moods, would laugh at the consternation, which they believed 
the inhabitants of the castle had suffered upon my disappearing, and 
it was to prevent the possibility of my betraying their secret, that 
they had removed me to such a distance.  From that period they 
considered the chateau as nearly their own; but I found from the 
discourse of their comrades, that, though they were cautious, at 
first, in shewing their power there, they had once very nearly 
betrayed themselves.  Going, one night, as was their custom, to the 
north chambers to repeat the noises, that had occasioned such alarm 
among the servants, they heard, as they were about to unfasten the 
secret door, voices in the bed-room.  My lord has since told me, that 
himself and M. Henri were then in the apartment, and they heard very 
extraordinary sounds of lamentation, which it seems were made by 
these fellows, with their usual design of spreading terror; and my 
lord has owned, he then felt somewhat more, than surprise; but, as it 
was necessary to the peace of his family, that no notice should be 
taken, he was silent on the subject, and enjoined silence to his 
son.'

Emily, recollecting the change, that had appeared in the spirits of 
the Count, after the night, when he had watched in the north room, 
now perceived the cause of it; and, having made some further 
enquiries upon this strange affair, she dismissed Ludovico, and went 
to give orders for the accommodation of her friends, on the following 
day.

In the evening, Theresa, lame as she was, came to deliver the ring, 
with which Valancourt had entrusted her, and, when she presented it, 
Emily was much affected, for she remembered to have seen him wear it 
often in happier days.  She was, however, much displeased, that 
Theresa had received it, and positively refused to accept it herself, 
though to have done so would have afforded her a melancholy pleasure.  
Theresa entreated, expostulated, and then described the distress of 
Valancourt, when he had given the ring, and repeated the message, 
with which he had commissioned her to deliver it; and Emily could not 
conceal the extreme sorrow this recital occasioned her, but wept, and 
remained lost in thought.

'Alas! my dear young lady!' said Theresa, 'why should all this be?  I 
have known you from your infancy, and it may well be supposed I love 
you, as if you was my own, and wish as much to see you happy.  M. 
Valancourt, to be sure, I have not known so long, but then I have 
reason to love him, as though he was my own son.  I know how well you 
love one another, or why all this weeping and wailing?'  Emily waved 
her hand for Theresa to be silent, who, disregarding the signal, 
continued, 'And how much you are alike in your tempers and ways, and, 
that, if you were married, you would be the happiest couple in the 
whole province--then what is there to prevent your marrying?  Dear 
dear! to see how some people fling away their happiness, and then cry 
and lament about it, just as if it was not their own doing, and as if 
there was more pleasure in wailing and weeping, than in being at 
peace.  Learning, to be sure, is a fine thing, but, if it teaches 
folks no better than that, why I had rather be without it; if it 
would teach them to be happier, I would say something to it, then it 
would be learning and wisdom too.'

Age and long services had given Theresa a privilege to talk, but 
Emily now endeavoured to check her loquacity, and, though she felt 
the justness of some of her remarks, did not choose to explain the 
circumstances, that had determined her conduct towards Valancourt.  
She, therefore, only told Theresa, that it would much displease her 
to hear the subject renewed; that she had reasons for her conduct, 
which she did not think it proper to mention, and that the ring must 
be returned, with an assurance, that she could not accept it with 
propriety; and, at the same time, she forbade Theresa to repeat any 
future message from Valancourt, as she valued her esteem and 
kindness.  Theresa was afflicted, and made another attempt, though 
feeble, to interest her for Valancourt, but the unusual displeasure, 
expressed in Emily's countenance, soon obliged her to desist, and she 
departed in wonder and lamentation.

To relieve her mind, in some degree, from the painful recollections, 
that intruded upon it, Emily busied herself in preparations for the 
journey into Languedoc, and, while Annette, who assisted her, spoke 
with joy and affection of the safe return of Ludovico, she was 
considering how she might best promote their happiness, and 
determined, if it appeared, that his affection was as unchanged as 
that of the simple and honest Annette, to give her a marriage 
portion, and settle them on some part of her estate.  These 
considerations led her to the remembrance of her father's paternal 
domain, which his affairs had formerly compelled him to dispose of to 
M. Quesnel, and which she frequently wished to regain, because St. 
Aubert had lamented, that the chief lands of his ancestors had passed 
into another family, and because they had been his birth-place and 
the haunt of his early years.  To the estate at Tholouse she had no 
peculiar attachment, and it was her wish to dispose of this, that she 
might purchase her paternal domains, if M. Quesnel could be prevailed 
on to part with them, which, as he talked much of living in Italy, 
did not appear very improbable.



CHAPTER XV


  Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,
 The bees' collected treasures sweet,
 Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet
 The still, small voice of gratitude.
     GRAY

On the following day, the arrival of her friend revived the drooping 
Emily, and La Vallee became once more the scene of social kindness 
and of elegant hospitality.  Illness and the terror she had suffered 
had stolen from Blanche much of her sprightliness, but all her 
affectionate simplicity remained, and, though she appeared less 
blooming, she was not less engaging than before.  The unfortunate 
adventure on the Pyrenees had made the Count very anxious to reach 
home, and, after little more than a week's stay at La Vallee, Emily 
prepared to set out with her friends for Languedoc, assigning the 
care of her house, during her absence, to Theresa.  On the evening, 
preceding her departure, this old servant brought again the ring of 
Valancourt, and, with tears, entreated her mistress to receive it, 
for that she had neither seen, or heard of M. Valancourt, since the 
night when he delivered it to her.  As she said this, her countenance 
expressed more alarm, than she dared to utter; but Emily, checking 
her own propensity to fear, considered, that he had probably returned 
to the residence of his brother, and, again refusing to accept the 
ring, bade Theresa preserve it, till she saw him, which, with extreme 
reluctance, she promised to do.

On the following day, Count De Villefort, with Emily and the Lady 
Blanche, left La Vallee, and, on the ensuing evening, arrived at the 
Chateau-le-Blanc, where the Countess, Henri, and M. Du Pont, whom 
Emily was surprised to find there, received them with much joy and 
congratulation.  She was concerned to observe, that the Count still 
encouraged the hopes of his friend, whose countenance declared, that 
his affection had suffered no abatement from absence; and was much 
distressed, when, on the second evening after her arrival, the Count, 
having withdrawn her from the Lady Blanche, with whom she was 
walking, renewed the subject of M. Du Pont's hopes.  The mildness, 
with which she listened to his intercessions at first, deceiving him, 
as to her sentiments, he began to believe, that, her affection for 
Valancourt being overcome, she was, at length, disposed to think 
favourably of M. Du Pont; and, when she afterwards convinced him of 
his mistake, he ventured, in the earnestness of his wish to promote 
what he considered to be the happiness of two persons, whom he so 
much esteemed, gently to remonstrate with her, on thus suffering an 
ill-placed affection to poison the happiness of her most valuable 
years.

Observing her silence and the deep dejection of her countenance, he 
concluded with saying, 'I will not say more now, but I will still 
believe, my dear Mademoiselle St. Aubert, that you will not always 
reject a person, so truly estimable as my friend Du Pont.'

He spared her the pain of replying, by leaving her; and she strolled 
on, somewhat displeased with the Count for having persevered to plead 
for a suit, which she had repeatedly rejected, and lost amidst the 
melancholy recollections, which this topic had revived, till she had 
insensibly reached the borders of the woods, that screened the 
monastery of St. Clair, when, perceiving how far she had wandered, 
she determined to extend her walk a little farther, and to enquire 
about the abbess and some of her friends among the nuns.

Though the evening was now drawing to a close, she accepted the 
invitation of the friar, who opened the gate, and, anxious to meet 
some of her old acquaintances, proceeded towards the convent parlour.  
As she crossed the lawn, that sloped from the front of the monastery 
towards the sea, she was struck with the picture of repose, exhibited 
by some monks, sitting in the cloisters, which extended under the 
brow of the woods, that crowned this eminence; where, as they 
meditated, at this twilight hour, holy subjects, they sometimes 
suffered their attention to be relieved by the scene before them, nor 
thought it profane to look at nature, now that it had exchanged the 
brilliant colours of day for the sober hue of evening.  Before the 
cloisters, however, spread an ancient chesnut, whose ample branches 
were designed to screen the full magnificence of a scene, that might 
tempt the wish to worldly pleasures; but still, beneath the dark and 
spreading foliage, gleamed a wide extent of ocean, and many a passing 
sail; while, to the right and left, thick woods were seen stretching 
along the winding shores.  So much as this had been admitted, 
perhaps, to give to the secluded votary an image of the dangers and 
vicissitudes of life, and to console him, now that he had renounced 
its pleasures, by the certainty of having escaped its evils.  As 
Emily walked pensively along, considering how much suffering she 
might have escaped, had she become a votaress of the order, and 
remained in this retirement from the time of her father's death, the 
vesper-bell struck up, and the monks retired slowly toward the 
chapel, while she, pursuing her way, entered the great hall, where an 
unusual silence seemed to reign.  The parlour too, which opened from 
it, she found vacant, but, as the evening bell was sounding, she 
believed the nuns had withdrawn into the chapel, and sat down to 
rest, for a moment, before she returned to the chateau, where, 
however, the increasing gloom made her now anxious to be.

Not many minutes had elapsed, before a nun, entering in haste, 
enquired for the abbess, and was retiring, without recollecting 
Emily, when she made herself known, and then learned, that a mass was 
going to be performed for the soul of sister Agnes, who had been 
declining, for some time, and who was now believed to be dying.

Of her sufferings the sister gave a melancholy account, and of the 
horrors, into which she had frequently started, but which had now 
yielded to a dejection so gloomy, that neither the prayers, in which 
she was joined by the sisterhood, or the assurances of her confessor, 
had power to recall her from it, or to cheer her mind even with a 
momentary gleam of comfort.

To this relation Emily listened with extreme concern, and, 
recollecting the frenzied manners and the expressions of horror, 
which she had herself witnessed of Agnes, together with the history, 
that sister Frances had communicated, her compassion was heightened 
to a very painful degree.  As the evening was already far advanced, 
Emily did not now desire to see her, or to join in the mass, and, 
after leaving many kind remembrances with the nun, for her old 
friends, she quitted the monastery, and returned over the cliffs 
towards the chateau, meditating upon what she had just heard, till, 
at length she forced her mind upon less interesting subjects.

The wind was high, and as she drew near the chateau, she often paused 
to listen to its awful sound, as it swept over the billows, that beat 
below, or groaned along the surrounding woods; and, while she rested 
on a cliff at a short distance from the chateau, and looked upon the 
wide waters, seen dimly beneath the last shade of twilight, she 
thought of the following address:

 TO THE WINDS

 Viewless, through heaven's vast vault your course ye steer,
 Unknown from whence ye come, or whither go!
 Mysterious pow'rs! I hear ye murmur low,
 Till swells your loud gust on my startled ear,
 And, awful! seems to say--some God is near!
 I love to list your midnight voices float
 In the dread storm, that o'er the ocean rolls,
 And, while their charm the angry wave controuls,
 Mix with its sullen roar, and sink remote.
 Then, rising in the pause, a sweeter note,
 The dirge of spirits, who your deeds bewail,
 A sweeter note oft swells while sleeps the gale!
 But soon, ye sightless pow'rs! your rest is o'er,
 Solemn and slow, ye rise upon the air,
 Speak in the shrouds, and bid the sea-boy fear,
 And the faint-warbled dirge--is heard no more!
  Oh! then I deprecate your awful reign!
 The loud lament yet bear not on your breath!
 Bear not the crash of bark far on the main,
 Bear not the cry of men, who cry in vain,
 The crew's dread chorus sinking into death!
 Oh! give not these, ye pow'rs!  I ask alone,
 As rapt I climb these dark romantic steeps,
 The elemental war, the billow's moan;
 I ask the still, sweet tear, that listening Fancy weeps!



CHAPTER XVI


  Unnatural deeds
 Do breed unnatural troubles:  infected minds
 To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
 More needs she the divine, than the physician.
     MACBETH

On the following evening, the view of the convent towers, rising 
among the shadowy woods, reminded Emily of the nun, whose condition 
had so much affected her; and, anxious to know how she was, as well 
as to see some of her former friends, she and the Lady Blanche 
extended their walk to the monastery.  At the gate stood a carriage, 
which, from the heat of the horses, appeared to have just arrived; 
but a more than common stillness pervaded the court and the 
cloisters, through which Emily and Blanche passed in their way to the 
great hall, where a nun, who was crossing to the stair-case, replied 
to the enquiries of the former, that sister Agnes was still living, 
and sensible, but that it was thought she could not survive the 
night.  In the parlour, they found several of the boarders, who 
rejoiced to see Emily, and told her many little circumstances that 
had happened in the convent since her departure, and which were 
interesting to her only because they related to persons, whom she had 
regarded with affection.  While they thus conversed the abbess 
entered the room, and expressed much satisfaction at seeing Emily, 
but her manner was unusually solemn, and her countenance dejected.  
'Our house,' said she, after the first salutations were over, 'is 
truly a house of mourning--a daughter is now paying the debt of 
nature.--You have heard, perhaps, that our daughter Agnes is dying?'

Emily expressed her sincere concern.

'Her death presents to us a great and awful lesson,' continued the 
abbess; 'let us read it, and profit by it; let it teach us to prepare 
ourselves for the change, that awaits us all!  You are young, and 
have it yet in your power to secure "the peace that passeth all 
understanding"--the peace of conscience.  Preserve it in your youth, 
that it may comfort you in age; for vain, alas! and imperfect are the 
good deeds of our latter years, if those of our early life have been 
evil!'

Emily would have said, that good deeds, she hoped, were never vain; 
but she considered that it was the abbess who spoke, and she remained 
silent.

'The latter days of Agnes,' resumed the abbess, 'have been exemplary; 
would they might atone for the errors of her former ones!  Her 
sufferings now, alas! are great; let us believe, that they will make 
her peace hereafter!  I have left her with her confessor, and a 
gentleman, whom she has long been anxious to see, and who is just 
arrived from Paris.  They, I hope, will be able to administer the 
repose, which her mind has hitherto wanted.'

Emily fervently joined in the wish.

'During her illness, she has sometimes named you,' resumed the 
abbess; 'perhaps, it would comfort her to see you; when her present 
visitors have left her, we will go to her chamber, if the scene will 
not be too melancholy for your spirits.  But, indeed, to such scenes, 
however painful, we ought to accustom ourselves, for they are 
salutary to the soul, and prepare us for what we are ourselves to 
suffer.'

Emily became grave and thoughtful; for this conversation brought to 
her recollection the dying moments of her beloved father, and she 
wished once more to weep over the spot, where his remains were 
buried.  During the silence, which followed the abbess' speech, many 
minute circumstances attending his last hours occurred to her--his 
emotion on perceiving himself to be in the neighbourhood of Chateau-
le-Blanc--his request to be interred in a particular spot in the 
church of this monastery--and the solemn charge he had delivered to 
her to destroy certain papers, without examining them.--She 
recollected also the mysterious and horrible words in those 
manuscripts, upon which her eye had involuntarily glanced; and, 
though they now, and, indeed, whenever she remembered them, revived 
an excess of painful curiosity, concerning their full import, and the 
motives for her father's command, it was ever her chief consolation, 
that she had strictly obeyed him in this particular.

Little more was said by the abbess, who appeared too much affected by 
the subject she had lately left, to be willing to converse, and her 
companions had been for some time silent from the same cause, when 
this general reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a stranger, 
Monsieur Bonnac, who had just quitted the chamber of sister Agnes.  
He appeared much disturbed, but Emily fancied, that his countenance 
had more the expression of horror, than of grief.  Having drawn the 
abbess to a distant part of the room, he conversed with her for some 
time, during which she seemed to listen with earnest attention, and 
he to speak with caution, and a more than common degree of interest.  
When he had concluded, he bowed silently to the rest of the company, 
and quitted the room.  The abbess, soon after, proposed going to the 
chamber of sister Agnes, to which Emily consented, though not without 
some reluctance, and Lady Blanche remained with the boarders below.

At the door of the chamber they met the confessor, whom, as he lifted 
up his head on their approach, Emily observed to be the same that had 
attended her dying father; but he passed on, without noticing her, 
and they entered the apartment, where, on a mattress, was laid sister 
Agnes, with one nun watching in the chair beside her.  Her 
countenance was so much changed, that Emily would scarcely have 
recollected her, had she not been prepared to do so:  it was ghastly, 
and overspread with gloomy horror; her dim and hollow eyes were fixed 
on a crucifix, which she held upon her bosom; and she was so much 
engaged in thought, as not to perceive the abbess and Emily, till 
they stood at the bed-side.  Then, turning her heavy eyes, she fixed 
them, in wild horror, upon Emily, and, screaming, exclaimed, 'Ah! 
that vision comes upon me in my dying hours!'

Emily started back in terror, and looked for explanation to the 
abbess, who made her a signal not to be alarmed, and calmly said to 
Agnes, 'Daughter, I have brought Mademoiselle St. Aubert to visit 
you:  I thought you would be glad to see her.'

Agnes made no reply; but, still gazing wildly upon Emily, exclaimed, 
'It is her very self!  Oh! there is all that fascination in her look, 
which proved my destruction!  What would you have--what is it you 
came to demand--Retribution?--It will soon be yours--it is yours 
already.  How many years have passed, since last I saw you!  My crime 
is but as yesterday.--Yet I am grown old beneath it; while you are 
still young and blooming--blooming as when you forced me to commit 
that most abhorred deed!  O! could I once forget it!--yet what would 
that avail?--the deed is done!'

Emily, extremely shocked, would now have left the room; but the 
abbess, taking her hand, tried to support her spirits, and begged she 
would stay a few moments, when Agnes would probably be calm, whom now 
she tried to sooth.  But the latter seemed to disregard her, while 
she still fixed her eyes on Emily, and added, 'What are years of 
prayers and repentance? they cannot wash out the foulness of murder!-
-Yes, murder!  Where is he--where is he?--Look there--look there!--
see where he stalks along the room!  Why do you come to torment me 
now?' continued Agnes, while her straining eyes were bent on air, 
'why was not I punished before?--O! do not frown so sternly!  Hah! 
there again! 'til she herself!  Why do you look so piteously upon me-
-and smile, too? smile on me!  What groan was that?'

Agnes sunk down, apparently lifeless, and Emily, unable to support 
herself, leaned against the bed, while the abbess and the attendant 
nun were applying the usual remedies to Agnes.  'Peace,' said the 
abbess, when Emily was going to speak, 'the delirium is going off, 
she will soon revive.  When was she thus before, daughter?'

'Not of many weeks, madam,' replied the nun, 'but her spirits have 
been much agitated by the arrival of the gentleman she wished so much 
to see.'

'Yes,' observed the abbess, 'that has undoubtedly occasioned this 
paroxysm of frenzy.  When she is better, we will leave her to 
repose.'

Emily very readily consented, but, though she could now give little 
assistance, she was unwilling to quit the chamber, while any might be 
necessary.

When Agnes recovered her senses, she again fixed her eyes on Emily, 
but their wild expression was gone, and a gloomy melancholy had 
succeeded.  It was some moments before she recovered sufficient 
spirits to speak; she then said feebly--'The likeness is wonderful!--
surely it must be something more than fancy.  Tell me, I conjure 
you,' she added, addressing Emily, 'though your name is St. Aubert, 
are you not the daughter of the Marchioness?'

'What Marchioness?' said Emily, in extreme surprise; for she had 
imagined, from the calmness of Agnes's manner, that her intellects 
were restored.  The abbess gave her a significant glance, but she 
repeated the question.

'What Marchioness?' exclaimed Agnes, 'I know but of one--the 
Marchioness de Villeroi.'

Emily, remembering the emotion of her late father, upon the 
unexpected mention of this lady, and his request to be laid near to 
the tomb of the Villerois, now felt greatly interested, and she 
entreated Agnes to explain the reason of her question.  The abbess 
would now have withdrawn Emily from the room, who being, however, 
detained by a strong interest, repeated her entreaties.

'Bring me that casket, sister,' said Agnes; 'I will shew her to you; 
yet you need only look in that mirror, and you will behold her; you 
surely are her daughter:  such striking resemblance is never found 
but among near relations.'

The nun brought the casket, and Agnes, having directed her how to 
unlock it, she took thence a miniature, in which Emily perceived the 
exact resemblance of the picture, which she had found among her late 
father's papers.  Agnes held out her hand to receive it; gazed upon 
it earnestly for some moments in silence; and then, with a 
countenance of deep despair, threw up her eyes to Heaven, and prayed 
inwardly.  When she had finished, she returned the miniature to 
Emily.  'Keep it,' said she, 'I bequeath it to you, for I must 
believe it is your right.  I have frequently observed the resemblance 
between you; but never, till this day, did it strike upon my 
conscience so powerfully!  Stay, sister, do not remove the casket--
there is another picture I would shew.'

Emily trembled with expectation, and the abbess again would have 
withdrawn her.  'Agnes is still disordered,' said she, 'you observe 
how she wanders.  In these moods she says any thing, and does not 
scruple, as you have witnessed, to accuse herself of the most 
horrible crimes.'

Emily, however, thought she perceived something more than madness in 
the inconsistencies of Agnes, whose mention of the Marchioness, and 
production of her picture, had interested her so much, that she 
determined to obtain further information, if possible, respecting the 
subject of it.

The nun returned with the casket, and, Agnes pointing out to her a 
secret drawer, she took from it another miniature.  'Here,' said 
Agnes, as she offered it to Emily, 'learn a lesson for your vanity, 
at least; look well at this picture, and see if you can discover any 
resemblance between what I was, and what I am.'

Emily impatiently received the miniature, which her eyes had scarcely 
glanced upon, before her trembling hands had nearly suffered it to 
fall--it was the resemblance of the portrait of Signora Laurentini, 
which she had formerly seen in the castle of Udolpho--the lady, who 
had disappeared in so mysterious a manner, and whom Montoni had been 
suspected of having caused to be murdered.

In silent astonishment, Emily continued to gaze alternately upon the 
picture and the dying nun, endeavouring to trace a resemblance 
between them, which no longer existed.

'Why do you look so sternly on me?' said Agnes, mistaking the nature 
of Emily's emotion.

'I have seen this face before,' said Emily, at length; 'was it really 
your resemblance?'

'You may well ask that question,' replied the nun,--'but it was once 
esteemed a striking likeness of me.  Look at me well, and see what 
guilt has made me.  I then was innocent; the evil passions of my 
nature slept.  Sister!' added she solemnly, and stretching forth her 
cold, damp hand to Emily, who shuddered at its touch--'Sister! beware 
of the first indulgence of the passions; beware of the first!  Their 
course, if not checked then, is rapid--their force is uncontroulable-
-they lead us we know not whither--they lead us perhaps to the 
commission of crimes, for which whole years of prayer and penitence 
cannot atone!--Such may be the force of even a single passion, that 
it overcomes every other, and sears up every other approach to the 
heart.  Possessing us like a fiend, it leads us on to the acts of a 
fiend, making us insensible to pity and to conscience.  And, when its 
purpose is accomplished, like a fiend, it leaves us to the torture of 
those feelings, which its power had suspended--not annihilated,--to 
the tortures of compassion, remorse, and conscience.  Then, we awaken 
as from a dream, and perceive a new world around us--we gaze in 
astonishment, and horror--but the deed is committed; not all the 
powers of heaven and earth united can undo it--and the spectres of 
conscience will not fly!  What are riches--grandeur--health itself, 
to the luxury of a pure conscience, the health of the soul;--and what 
the sufferings of poverty, disappointment, despair--to the anguish of 
an afflicted one!  O! how long is it since I knew that luxury!  I 
believed, that I had suffered the most agonizing pangs of human 
nature, in love, jealousy, and despair--but these pangs were ease, 
compared with the stings of conscience, which I have since endured.  
I tasted too what was called the sweet of revenge--but it was 
transient, it expired even with the object, that provoked it.  
Remember, sister, that the passions are the seeds of vices as well as 
of virtues, from which either may spring, accordingly as they are 
nurtured.  Unhappy they who have never been taught the art to govern 
them!'

'Alas! unhappy!' said the abbess, 'and ill-informed of our holy 
religion!'  Emily listened to Agnes, in silent awe, while she still 
examined the miniature, and became confirmed in her opinion of its 
strong resemblance to the portrait at Udolpho.  'This face is 
familiar to me,' said she, wishing to lead the nun to an explanation, 
yet fearing to discover too abruptly her knowledge of Udolpho.

'You are mistaken,' replied Agnes, 'you certainly never saw that 
picture before.'

'No,' replied Emily, 'but I have seen one extremely like it.'  
'Impossible,' said Agnes, who may now be called the Lady Laurentini.

'It was in the castle of Udolpho,' continued Emily, looking 
stedfastly at her.

'Of Udolpho!' exclaimed Laurentini, 'of Udolpho in Italy!'  'The 
same,' replied Emily.

'You know me then,' said Laurentini, 'and you are the daughter of the 
Marchioness.'  Emily was somewhat surprised at this abrupt assertion.  
'I am the daughter of the late Mons. St. Aubert,' said she; 'and the 
lady you name is an utter stranger to me.'

'At least you believe so,' rejoined Laurentini.

Emily asked what reasons there could be to believe otherwise.

'The family likeness, that you bear her,' said the nun.  'The 
Marchioness, it is known, was attached to a gentleman of Gascony, at 
the time when she accepted the hand of the Marquis, by the command of 
her father.  Ill-fated, unhappy woman!'

Emily, remembering the extreme emotion which St. Aubert had betrayed 
on the mention of the Marchioness, would now have suffered something 
more than surprise, had her confidence in his integrity been less; as 
it was, she could not, for a moment, believe what the words of 
Laurentini insinuated; yet she still felt strongly interested, 
concerning them, and begged, that she would explain them further.

'Do not urge me on that subject,' said the nun, 'it is to me a 
terrible one!  Would that I could blot it from my memory!'  She 
sighed deeply, and, after the pause of a moment, asked Emily, by what 
means she had discovered her name?

'By your portrait in the castle of Udolpho, to which this miniature 
bears a striking resemblance,' replied Emily.

'You have been at Udolpho then!' said the nun, with great emotion.  
'Alas! what scenes does the mention of it revive in my fancy--scenes 
of happiness--of suffering--and of horror!'

At this moment, the terrible spectacle, which Emily had witnessed in 
a chamber of that castle, occurred to her, and she shuddered, while 
she looked upon the nun--and recollected her late words--that 'years 
of prayer and penitence could not wash out the foulness of murder.'  
She was now compelled to attribute these to another cause, than that 
of delirium.  With a degree of horror, that almost deprived her of 
sense, she now believed she looked upon a murderer; all the 
recollected behaviour of Laurentini seemed to confirm the 
supposition, yet Emily was still lost in a labyrinth of perplexities, 
and, not knowing how to ask the questions, which might lead to truth, 
she could only hint them in broken sentences.

'Your sudden departure from Udolpho'--said she.

Laurentini groaned.

'The reports that followed it,' continued Emily--'The west chamber--
the mournful veil--the object it conceals!--when murders are 
committed--'

The nun shrieked.  'What! there again!' said she, endeavouring to 
raise herself, while her starting eyes seemed to follow some object 
round the room--'Come from the grave!  What!  Blood--blood too!--
There was no blood--thou canst not say it!--Nay, do not smile,--do 
not smile so piteously!'

Laurentini fell into convulsions, as she uttered the last words; and 
Emily, unable any longer to endure the horror of the scene, hurried 
from the room, and sent some nuns to the assistance of the abbess.

The Lady Blanche, and the boarders, who were in the parlour, now 
assembled round Emily, and, alarmed by her manner and affrighted 
countenance, asked a hundred questions, which she avoided answering 
further, than by saying, that she believed sister Agnes was dying.  
They received this as a sufficient explanation of her terror, and had 
then leisure to offer restoratives, which, at length, somewhat 
revived Emily, whose mind was, however, so much shocked with the 
terrible surmises, and perplexed with doubts by some words from the 
nun, that she was unable to converse, and would have left the convent 
immediately, had she not wished to know whether Laurentini would 
survive the late attack.  After waiting some time, she was informed, 
that, the convulsions having ceased, Laurentini seemed to be 
reviving, and Emily and Blanche were departing, when the abbess 
appeared, who, drawing the former aside, said she had something of 
consequence to say to her, but, as it was late, she would not detain 
her then, and requested to see her on the following day.

Emily promised to visit her, and, having taken leave, returned with 
the Lady Blanche towards the chateau, on the way to which the deep 
gloom of the woods made Blanche lament, that the evening was so far 
advanced; for the surrounding stillness and obscurity rendered her 
sensible of fear, though there was a servant to protect her; while 
Emily was too much engaged by the horrors of the scene she had just 
witnessed, to be affected by the solemnity of the shades, otherwise 
than as they served to promote her gloomy reverie, from which, 
however, she was at length recalled by the Lady Blanche, who pointed 
out, at some distance, in the dusky path they were winding, two 
persons slowly advancing.  It was impossible to avoid them without 
striking into a still more secluded part of the wood, whither the 
strangers might easily follow; but all apprehension vanished, when 
Emily distinguished the voice of Mons. Du Pont, and perceived, that 
his companion was the gentleman, whom she had seen at the monastery, 
and who was now conversing with so much earnestness as not 
immediately to perceive their approach.  When Du Pont joined the 
ladies, the stranger took leave, and they proceeded to the chateau, 
where the Count, when he heard of Mons. Bonnac, claimed him for an 
acquaintance, and, on learning the melancholy occasion of his visit 
to Languedoc, and that he was lodged at a small inn in the village, 
begged the favour of Mons. Du Pont to invite him to the chateau.

The latter was happy to do so, and the scruples of reserve, which 
made M. Bonnac hesitate to accept the invitation, being at length 
overcome, they went to the chateau, where the kindness of the Count 
and the sprightliness of his son were exerted to dissipate the gloom, 
that overhung the spirits of the stranger.  M. Bonnac was an officer 
in the French service, and appeared to be about fifty; his figure was 
tall and commanding, his manners had received the last polish, and 
there was something in his countenance uncommonly interesting; for 
over features, which, in youth, must have been remarkably handsome, 
was spread a melancholy, that seemed the effect of long misfortune, 
rather than of constitution, or temper.

The conversation he held, during supper, was evidently an effort of 
politeness, and there were intervals in which, unable to struggle 
against the feelings, that depressed him, he relapsed into silence 
and abstraction, from which, however, the Count, sometimes, withdrew 
him in a manner so delicate and benevolent, that Emily, while she 
observed him, almost fancied she beheld her late father.

The party separated, at an early hour, and then, in the solitude of 
her apartment, the scenes, which Emily had lately witnessed, returned 
to her fancy, with dreadful energy.  That in the dying nun she should 
have discovered Signora Laurentini, who, instead of having been 
murdered by Montoni, was, as it now seemed, herself guilty of some 
dreadful crime, excited both horror and surprise in a high degree; 
nor did the hints, which she had dropped, respecting the marriage of 
the Marchioness de Villeroi, and the enquiries she had made 
concerning Emily's birth, occasion her a less degree of interest, 
though it was of a different nature.

The history, which sister Frances had formerly related, and had said 
to be that of Agnes, it now appeared, was erroneous; but for what 
purpose it had been fabricated, unless the more effectually to 
conceal the true story, Emily could not even guess.  Above all, her 
interest was excited as to the relation, which the story of the late 
Marchioness de Villeroi bore to that of her father; for, that some 
kind of relation existed between them, the grief of St. Aubert, upon 
hearing her named, his request to be buried near her, and her 
picture, which had been found among his papers, certainly proved.  
Sometimes it occurred to Emily, that he might have been the lover, to 
whom it was said the Marchioness was attached, when she was compelled 
to marry the Marquis de Villeroi; but that he had afterwards 
cherished a passion for her, she could not suffer herself to believe, 
for a moment.  The papers, which he had so solemnly enjoined her to 
destroy, she now fancied had related to this connection, and she 
wished more earnestly than before to know the reasons, that made him 
consider the injunction necessary, which, had her faith in his 
principles been less, would have led to believe, that there was a 
mystery in her birth dishonourable to her parents, which those 
manuscripts might have revealed.

Reflections, similar to these, engaged her mind, during the greater 
part of the night, and when, at length, she fell into a slumber, it 
was only to behold a vision of the dying nun, and to awaken in 
horrors, like those she had witnessed.

On the following morning, she was too much indisposed to attend her 
appointment with the abbess, and, before the day concluded, she 
heard, that sister Agnes was no more.  Mons. Bonnac received this 
intelligence, with concern; but Emily observed, that he did not 
appear so much affected now, as on the preceding evening, immediately 
after quitting the apartment of the nun, whose death was probably 
less terrible to him, than the confession he had been then called 
upon to witness.  However this might be, he was perhaps consoled, in 
some degree, by a knowledge of the legacy bequeathed him, since his 
family was large, and the extravagance of some part of it had lately 
been the means of involving him in great distress, and even in the 
horrors of a prison; and it was the grief he had suffered from the 
wild career of a favourite son, with the pecuniary anxieties and 
misfortunes consequent upon it, that had given to his countenance the 
air of dejection, which had so much interested Emily.

To his friend Mons. Du Pont he recited some particulars of his late 
sufferings, when it appeared, that he had been confined for several 
months in one of the prisons of Paris, with little hope of release, 
and without the comfort of seeing his wife, who had been absent in 
the country, endeavouring, though in vain, to procure assistance from 
his friends.  When, at length, she had obtained an order for 
admittance, she was so much shocked at the change, which long 
confinement and sorrow had made in his appearance, that she was 
seized with fits, which, by their long continuance, threatened her 
life.

'Our situation affected those, who happened to witness it,' continued 
Mons. Bonnac, 'and one generous friend, who was in confinement at the 
same time, afterwards employed the first moments of his liberty in 
efforts to obtain mine.  He succeeded; the heavy debt, that oppressed 
me, was discharged; and, when I would have expressed my sense of the 
obligation I had received, my benefactor was fled from my search.  I 
have reason to believe he was the victim of his own generosity, and 
that he returned to the state of confinement, from which he had 
released me; but every enquiry after him was unsuccessful.  Amiable 
and unfortunate Valancourt!'

'Valancourt!' exclaimed Mons. Du Pont.  'Of what family?'

'The Valancourts, Counts Duvarney,' replied Mons. Bonnac.

The emotion of Mons. Du Pont, when he discovered the generous 
benefactor of his friend to be the rival of his love, can only be 
imagined; but, having overcome his first surprise, he dissipated the 
apprehensions of Mons. Bonnac by acquainting him, that Valancourt was 
at liberty, and had lately been in Languedoc; after which his 
affection for Emily prompted him to make some enquiries, respecting 
the conduct of his rival, during his stay at Paris, of which M. 
Bonnac appeared to be well informed.  The answers he received were 
such as convinced him, that Valancourt had been much misrepresented, 
and, painful as was the sacrifice, he formed the just design of 
relinquishing his pursuit of Emily to a lover, who, it now appeared, 
was not unworthy of the regard, with which she honoured him.

The conversation of Mons. Bonnac discovered, that Valancourt, some 
time after his arrival at Paris, had been drawn into the snares, 
which determined vice had spread for him, and that his hours had been 
chiefly divided between the parties of the captivating Marchioness 
and those gaming assemblies, to which the envy, or the avarice, of 
his brother officers had spared no art to seduce him.  In these 
parties he had lost large sums, in efforts to recover small ones, and 
to such losses the Count De Villefort and Mons. Henri had been 
frequent witnesses.  His resources were, at length, exhausted; and 
the Count, his brother, exasperated by his conduct, refused to 
continue the supplies necessary to his present mode of life, when 
Valancourt, in consequence of accumulated debts, was thrown into 
confinement, where his brother suffered him to remain, in the hope, 
that punishment might effect a reform of conduct, which had not yet 
been confirmed by long habit.

In the solitude of his prison, Valancourt had leisure for reflection, 
and cause for repentance; here, too, the image of Emily, which, 
amidst the dissipation of the city had been obscured, but never 
obliterated from his heart, revived with all the charms of innocence 
and beauty, to reproach him for having sacrificed his happiness and 
debased his talents by pursuits, which his nobler faculties would 
formerly have taught him to consider were as tasteless as they were 
degrading.  But, though his passions had been seduced, his heart was 
not depraved, nor had habit riveted the chains, that hung heavily on 
his conscience; and, as he retained that energy of will, which was 
necessary to burst them, he, at length, emancipated himself from the 
bondage of vice, but not till after much effort and severe suffering.

Being released by his brother from the prison, where he had witnessed 
the affecting meeting between Mons. Bonnac and his wife, with whom he 
had been for some time acquainted, the first use of his liberty 
formed a striking instance of his humanity and his rashness; for with 
nearly all the money, just received from his brother, he went to a 
gaming-house, and gave it as a last stake for the chance of restoring 
his friend to freedom, and to his afflicted family.  The event was 
fortunate, and, while he had awaited the issue of this momentous 
stake, he made a solemn vow never again to yield to the destructive 
and fascinating vice of gaming.

Having restored the venerable Mons. Bonnac to his rejoicing family, 
he hurried from Paris to Estuviere; and, in the delight of having 
made the wretched happy, forgot, for a while, his own misfortunes.  
Soon, however, he remembered, that he had thrown away the fortune, 
without which he could never hope to marry Emily; and life, unless 
passed with her, now scarcely appeared supportable; for her goodness, 
refinement, and simplicity of heart, rendered her beauty more 
enchanting, if possible, to his fancy, than it had ever yet appeared.  
Experience had taught him to understand the full value of the 
qualities, which he had before admired, but which the contrasted 
characters he had seen in the world made him now adore; and these 
reflections, increasing the pangs of remorse and regret, occasioned 
the deep dejection, that had accompanied him even into the presence 
of Emily, of whom he considered himself no longer worthy.  To the 
ignominy of having received pecuniary obligations from the 
Marchioness Chamfort, or any other lady of intrigue, as the Count De 
Villefort had been informed, or of having been engaged in the 
depredating schemes of gamesters, Valancourt had never submitted; and 
these were some of such scandals as often mingle with truth, against 
the unfortunate.  Count De Villefort had received them from authority 
which he had no reason to doubt, and which the imprudent conduct he 
had himself witnessed in Valancourt, had certainly induced him the 
more readily to believe.  Being such as Emily could not name to the 
Chevalier, he had no opportunity of refuting them; and, when he 
confessed himself to be unworthy of her esteem, he little suspected, 
that he was confirming to her the most dreadful calumnies.  Thus the 
mistake had been mutual, and had remained so, when Mons. Bonnac 
explained the conduct of his generous, but imprudent young friend to 
Du Pont, who, with severe justice, determined not only to undeceive 
the Count on this subject, but to resign all hope of Emily.  Such a 
sacrifice as his love rendered this, was deserving of a noble reward, 
and Mons. Bonnac, if it had been possible for him to forget the 
benevolent Valancourt, would have wished that Emily might accept the 
just Du Pont.

When the Count was informed of the error he had committed, he was 
extremely shocked at the consequence of his credulity, and the 
account which Mons. Bonnac gave of his friend's situation, while at 
Paris, convinced him, that Valancourt had been entrapped by the 
schemes of a set of dissipated young men, with whom his profession 
had partly obliged him to associate, rather than by an inclination to 
vice; and, charmed by the humanity, and noble, though rash 
generosity, which his conduct towards Mons. Bonnac exhibited, he 
forgave him the transient errors, that had stained his youth, and 
restored him to the high degree of esteem, with which he had regarded 
him, during their early acquaintance.  But, as the least reparation 
he could now make Valancourt was to afford him an opportunity of 
explaining to Emily his former conduct, he immediately wrote, to 
request his forgiveness of the unintentional injury he had done him, 
and to invite him to Chateau-le-Blanc.  Motives of delicacy with-held 
the Count from informing Emily of this letter, and of kindness from 
acquainting her with the discovery respecting Valancourt, till his 
arrival should save her from the possibility of anxiety, as to its 
event; and this precaution spared her even severer inquietude, than 
the Count had foreseen, since he was ignorant of the symptoms of 
despair, which Valancourt's late conduct had betrayed.



CHAPTER XVII


  But in these cases,
 We still have judgment here; that we but teach
 Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return
 To plague the inventor:  thus even-handed justice
 Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice
 To our own lips.
     MACBETH

Some circumstances of an extraordinary nature now withdrew Emily from 
her own sorrows, and excited emotions, which partook of both surprise 
and horror.

A few days followed that, on which Signora Laurentini died, her will 
was opened at the monastery, in the presence of the superiors and 
Mons. Bonnac, when it was found, that one third of her personal 
property was bequeathed to the nearest surviving relative of the late 
Marchioness de Villeroi, and that Emily was the person.

With the secret of Emily's family the abbess had long been 
acquainted, and it was in observance of the earnest request of St. 
Aubert, who was known to the friar, that attended him on his death-
bed, that his daughter had remained in ignorance of her relationship 
to the Marchioness.  But some hints, which had fallen from Signora 
Laurentini, during her last interview with Emily, and a confession of 
a very extraordinary nature, given in her dying hours, had made the 
abbess think it necessary to converse with her young friend, on the 
topic she had not before ventured to introduce; and it was for this 
purpose, that she had requested to see her on the morning that 
followed her interview with the nun.  Emily's indisposition had then 
prevented the intended conversation; but now, after the will had been 
examined, she received a summons, which she immediately obeyed, and 
became informed of circumstances, that powerfully affected her.  As 
the narrative of the abbess was, however, deficient in many 
particulars, of which the reader may wish to be informed, and the 
history of the nun is materially connected with the fate of the 
Marchioness de Villeroi, we shall omit the conversation, that passed 
in the parlour of the convent, and mingle with our relation a brief 
history of

 LAURENTINI DI UDOLPHO,

Who was the only child of her parents, and heiress of the ancient 
house of Udolpho, in the territory of Venice.  It was the first 
misfortune of her life, and that which led to all her succeeding 
misery, that the friends, who ought to have restrained her strong 
passions, and mildly instructed her in the art of governing them, 
nurtured them by early indulgence.  But they cherished their own 
failings in her; for their conduct was not the result of rational 
kindness, and, when they either indulged, or opposed the passions of 
their child, they gratified their own.  Thus they indulged her with 
weakness, and reprehended her with violence; her spirit was 
exasperated by their vehemence, instead of being corrected by their 
wisdom; and their oppositions became contest for victory, in which 
the due tenderness of the parents, and the affectionate duties of the 
child, were equally forgotten; but, as returning fondness disarmed 
the parents' resentment soonest, Laurentini was suffered to believe 
that she had conquered, and her passions became stronger by every 
effort, that had been employed to subdue them.

The death of her father and mother in the same year left her to her 
own discretion, under the dangerous circumstances attendant on youth 
and beauty.  She was fond of company, delighted with admiration, yet 
disdainful of the opinion of the world, when it happened to 
contradict her inclinations; had a gay and brilliant wit, and was 
mistress of all the arts of fascination.  Her conduct was such as 
might have been expected, from the weakness of her principles and the 
strength of her passions.

Among her numerous admirers was the late Marquis de Villeroi, who, on 
his tour through Italy, saw Laurentini at Venice, where she usually 
resided, and became her passionate adorer.  Equally captivated by the 
figure and accomplishments of the Marquis, who was at that period one 
of the most distinguished noblemen of the French court, she had the 
art so effectually to conceal from him the dangerous traits of her 
character and the blemishes of her late conduct, that he solicited 
her hand in marriage.

Before the nuptials were concluded, she retired to the castle of 
Udolpho, whither the Marquis followed, and, where her conduct, 
relaxing from the propriety, which she had lately assumed, discovered 
to him the precipice, on which he stood.  A minuter enquiry than he 
had before thought it necessary to make, convinced him, that he had 
been deceived in her character, and she, whom he had designed for his 
wife, afterwards became his mistress.

Having passed some weeks at Udolpho, he was called abruptly to 
France, whither he returned with extreme reluctance, for his heart 
was still fascinated by the arts of Laurentini, with whom, however, 
he had on various pretences delayed his marriage; but, to reconcile 
her to this separation, he now gave repeated promises of returning to 
conclude the nuptials, as soon as the affair, which thus suddenly 
called him to France, should permit.

Soothed, in some degree, by these assurances, she suffered him to 
depart; and, soon after, her relative, Montoni, arriving at Udolpho, 
renewed the addresses, which she had before refused, and which she 
now again rejected.  Meanwhile, her thoughts were constantly with the 
Marquis de Villeroi, for whom she suffered all the delirium of 
Italian love, cherished by the solitude, to which she confined 
herself; for she had now lost all taste for the pleasures of society 
and the gaiety of amusement.  Her only indulgences were to sigh and 
weep over a miniature of the Marquis; to visit the scenes, that had 
witnessed their happiness, to pour forth her heart to him in writing, 
and to count the weeks, the days, which must intervene before the 
period that he had mentioned as probable for his return.  But this 
period passed without bringing him; and week after week followed in 
heavy and almost intolerable expectation.  During this interval, 
Laurentini's fancy, occupied incessantly by one idea, became 
disordered; and, her whole heart being devoted to one object, life 
became hateful to her, when she believed that object lost.

Several months passed, during which she heard nothing from the 
Marquis de Villeroi, and her days were marked, at intervals, with the 
phrensy of passion and the sullenness of despair.  She secluded 
herself from all visitors, and, sometimes, remained in her apartment, 
for weeks together, refusing to speak to every person, except her 
favourite female attendant, writing scraps of letters, reading, again 
and again, those she had received from the Marquis, weeping over his 
picture, and speaking to it, for many hours, upbraiding, reproaching 
and caressing it alternately.

At length, a report reached her, that the Marquis had married in 
France, and, after suffering all the extremes of love, jealousy and 
indignation, she formed the desperate resolution of going secretly to 
that country, and, if the report proved true, of attempting a deep 
revenge.  To her favourite woman only she confided the plan of her 
journey, and she engaged her to partake of it.  Having collected her 
jewels, which, descending to her from many branches of her family, 
were of immense value, and all her cash, to a very large amount, they 
were packed in a trunk, which was privately conveyed to a 
neighbouring town, whither Laurentini, with this only servant, 
followed, and thence proceeded secretly to Leghorn, where they 
embarked for France.

When, on her arrival in Languedoc, she found, that the Marquis de 
Villeroi had been married, for some months, her despair almost 
deprived her of reason, and she alternately projected and abandoned 
the horrible design of murdering the Marquis, his wife and herself.  
At length she contrived to throw herself in his way, with an 
intention of reproaching him, for his conduct, and of stabbing 
herself in his presence; but, when she again saw him, who so long had 
been the constant object of her thoughts and affections, resentment 
yielded to love; her resolution failed; she trembled with the 
conflict of emotions, that assailed her heart, and fainted away.

The Marquis was not proof against her beauty and sensibility; all the 
energy, with which he had first loved, returned, for his passion had 
been resisted by prudence, rather than overcome by indifference; and, 
since the honour of his family would not permit him to marry her, he 
had endeavoured to subdue his love, and had so far succeeded, as to 
select the then Marchioness for his wife, whom he loved at first with 
a tempered and rational affection.  But the mild virtues of that 
amiable lady did not recompense him for her indifference, which 
appeared, notwithstanding her efforts to conceal it; and he had, for 
some time, suspected that her affections were engaged by another 
person, when Laurentini arrived in Languedoc.  This artful Italian 
soon perceived, that she had regained her influence over him, and, 
soothed by the discovery, she determined to live, and to employ all 
her enchantments to win his consent to the diabolical deed, which she 
believed was necessary to the security of her happiness.  She 
conducted her scheme with deep dissimulation and patient 
perseverance, and, having completely estranged the affections of the 
Marquis from his wife, whose gentle goodness and unimpassioned 
manners had ceased to please, when contrasted with the captivations 
of the Italian, she proceeded to awaken in his mind the jealousy of 
pride, for it was no longer that of love, and even pointed out to him 
the person, to whom she affirmed the Marchioness had sacrificed her 
honour; but Laurentini had first extorted from him a solemn promise 
to forbear avenging himself upon his rival.  This was an important 
part of her plan, for she knew, that, if his desire of vengeance was 
restrained towards one party, it would burn more fiercely towards the 
other, and he might then, perhaps, be prevailed on to assist in the 
horrible act, which would release him from the only barrier, that 
with-held him from making her his wife.

The innocent Marchioness, meanwhile, observed, with extreme grief, 
the alteration in her husband's manners.  He became reserved and 
thoughtful in her presence; his conduct was austere, and sometimes 
even rude; and he left her, for many hours together, to weep for his 
unkindness, and to form plans for the recovery of his affection.  His 
conduct afflicted her the more, because, in obedience to the command 
of her father, she had accepted his hand, though her affections were 
engaged to another, whose amiable disposition, she had reason to 
believe, would have ensured her happiness.  This circumstance 
Laurentini had discovered, soon after her arrival in France, and had 
made ample use of it in assisting her designs upon the Marquis, to 
whom she adduced such seeming proof of his wife's infidelity, that, 
in the frantic rage of wounded honour, he consented to destroy his 
wife.  A slow poison was administered, and she fell a victim to the 
jealousy and subtlety of Laurentini and to the guilty weakness of her 
husband.

But the moment of Laurentini's triumph, the moment, to which she had 
looked forward for the completion of all her wishes, proved only the 
commencement of a suffering, that never left her to her dying hour.

The passion of revenge, which had in part stimulated her to the 
commission of this atrocious deed, died, even at the moment when it 
was gratified, and left her to the horrors of unavailing pity and 
remorse, which would probably have empoisoned all the years she had 
promised herself with the Marquis de Villeroi, had her expectations 
of an alliance with him been realized.  But he, too, had found the 
moment of his revenge to be that of remorse, as to himself, and 
detestation, as to the partner of his crime; the feeling, which he 
had mistaken for conviction, was no more; and he stood astonished, 
and aghast, that no proof remained of his wife's infidelity, now that 
she had suffered the punishment of guilt.  Even when he was informed, 
that she was dying, he had felt suddenly and unaccountably reassured 
of her innocence, nor was the solemn assurance she made him in her 
last hour, capable of affording him a stronger conviction of her 
blameless conduct.

In the first horrors of remorse and despair, he felt inclined to 
deliver up himself and the woman, who had plunged him into this abyss 
of guilt, into the hands of justice; but, when the paroxysm of his 
suffering was over, his intention changed.  Laurentini, however, he 
saw only once afterwards, and that was, to curse her as the 
instigator of his crime, and to say, that he spared her life only on 
condition, that she passed the rest of her days in prayer and 
penance.  Overwhelmed with disappointment, on receiving contempt and 
abhorrence from the man, for whose sake she had not scrupled to stain 
her conscience with human blood, and, touched with horror of the 
unavailing crime she had committed, she renounced the world, and 
retired to the monastery of St. Claire, a dreadful victim to 
unresisted passion.

The Marquis, immediately after the death of his wife, quitted 
Chateau-le-Blanc, to which he never returned, and endeavoured to lose 
the sense of his crime amidst the tumult of war, or the dissipations 
of a capital; but his efforts were vain; a deep dejection hung over 
him ever after, for which his most intimate friend could not account, 
and he, at length, died, with a degree of horror nearly equal to 
that, which Laurentini had suffered.  The physician, who had observed 
the singular appearance of the unfortunate Marchioness, after death, 
had been bribed to silence; and, as the surmises of a few of the 
servants had proceeded no further than a whisper, the affair had 
never been investigated.  Whether this whisper ever reached the 
father of the Marchioness, and, if it did, whether the difficulty of 
obtaining proof deterred him from prosecuting the Marquis de 
Villeroi, is uncertain; but her death was deeply lamented by some 
part of her family, and particularly by her brother, M. St. Aubert; 
for that was the degree of relationship, which had existed between 
Emily's father and the Marchioness; and there is no doubt, that he 
suspected the manner of her death.  Many letters passed between the 
Marquis and him, soon after the decease of his beloved sister, the 
subject of which was not known, but there is reason to believe, that 
they related to the cause of her death; and these were the papers, 
together with some letters of the Marchioness, who had confided to 
her brother the occasion of her unhappiness, which St. Aubert had so 
solemnly enjoined his daughter to destroy:  and anxiety for her peace 
had probably made him forbid her to enquire into the melancholy 
story, to which they alluded.  Such, indeed, had been his affliction, 
on the premature death of this his favourite sister, whose unhappy 
marriage had from the first excited his tenderest pity, that he never 
could hear her named, or mention her himself after her death, except 
to Madame St. Aubert.  From Emily, whose sensibility he feared to 
awaken, he had so carefully concealed her history and name, that she 
was ignorant, till now, that she ever had such a relative as the 
Marchioness de Villeroi; and from this motive he had enjoined silence 
to his only surviving sister, Madame Cheron, who had scrupulously 
observed his request.

It was over some of the last pathetic letters of the Marchioness, 
that St. Aubert was weeping, when he was observed by Emily, on the 
eve of her departure from La Vallee, and it was her picture, which he 
had so tenderly caressed.  Her disastrous death may account for the 
emotion he had betrayed, on hearing her named by La Voisin, and for 
his request to be interred near the monument of the Villerois, where 
her remains were deposited, but not those of her husband, who was 
buried, where he died, in the north of France.

The confessor, who attended St. Aubert in his last moments, 
recollected him to be the brother of the late Marchioness, when St. 
Aubert, from tenderness to Emily, had conjured him to conceal the 
circumstance, and to request that the abbess, to whose care he 
particularly recommended her, would do the same; a request, which had 
been exactly observed.

Laurentini, on her arrival in France, had carefully concealed her 
name and family, and, the better to disguise her real history, had, 
on entering the convent, caused the story to be circulated, which had 
imposed on sister Frances, and it is probable, that the abbess, who 
did not preside in the convent, at the time of her noviciation, was 
also entirely ignorant of the truth.  The deep remorse, that seized 
on the mind of Laurentini, together with the sufferings of 
disappointed passion, for she still loved the Marquis, again 
unsettled her intellects, and, after the first paroxysms of despair 
were passed, a heavy and silent melancholy had settled upon her 
spirits, which suffered few interruptions from fits of phrensy, till 
the time of her death.  During many years, it had been her only 
amusement to walk in the woods near the monastery, in the solitary 
hours of night, and to play upon a favourite instrument, to which she 
sometimes joined the delightful melody of her voice, in the most 
solemn and melancholy airs of her native country, modulated by all 
the energetic feeling, that dwelt in her heart.  The physician, who 
had attended her, recommended it to the superior to indulge her in 
this whim, as the only means of soothing her distempered fancy; and 
she was suffered to walk in the lonely hours of night, attended by 
the servant, who had accompanied her from Italy; but, as the 
indulgence transgressed against the rules of the convent, it was kept 
as secret as possible; and thus the mysterious music of Laurentini 
had combined with other circumstances, to produce a report, that not 
only the chateau, but its neighbourhood, was haunted.

Soon after her entrance into this holy community, and before she had 
shewn any symptoms of insanity there, she made a will, in which, 
after bequeathing a considerable legacy to the convent, she divided 
the remainder of her personal property, which her jewels made very 
valuable, between the wife of Mons. Bonnac, who was an Italian lady 
and her relation, and the nearest surviving relative of the late 
Marchioness de Villeroi.  As Emily St. Aubert was not only the 
nearest, but the sole relative, this legacy descended to her, and 
thus explained to her the whole mystery of her father's conduct.

The resemblance between Emily and her unfortunate aunt had frequently 
been observed by Laurentini, and had occasioned the singular 
behaviour, which had formerly alarmed her; but it was in the nun's 
dying hour, when her conscience gave her perpetually the idea of the 
Marchioness, that she became more sensible, than ever, of this 
likeness, and, in her phrensy, deemed it no resemblance of the person 
she had injured, but the original herself.  The bold assertion, that 
had followed, on the recovery of her senses, that Emily was the 
daughter of the Marchioness de Villeroi, arose from a suspicion that 
she was so; for, knowing that her rival, when she married the 
Marquis, was attached to another lover, she had scarcely scrupled to 
believe, that her honour had been sacrificed, like her own, to an 
unresisted passion.

Of a crime, however, to which Emily had suspected, from her phrensied 
confession of murder, that she had been instrumental in the castle of 
Udolpho, Laurentini was innocent; and she had herself been deceived, 
concerning the spectacle, that formerly occasioned her so much 
terror, and had since compelled her, for a while, to attribute the 
horrors of the nun to a consciousness of a murder, committed in that 
castle.

It may be remembered, that, in a chamber of Udolpho, hung a black 
veil, whose singular situation had excited Emily's curiosity, and 
which afterwards disclosed an object, that had overwhelmed her with 
horror; for, on lifting it, there appeared, instead of the picture 
she had expected, within a recess of the wall, a human figure of 
ghastly paleness, stretched at its length, and dressed in the 
habiliments of the grave.  What added to the horror of the spectacle, 
was, that the face appeared partly decayed and disfigured by worms, 
which were visible on the features and hands.  On such an object, it 
will be readily believed, that no person could endure to look twice.  
Emily, it may be recollected, had, after the first glance, let the 
veil drop, and her terror had prevented her from ever after provoking 
a renewal of such suffering, as she had then experienced.  Had she 
dared to look again, her delusion and her fears would have vanished 
together, and she would have perceived, that the figure before her 
was not human, but formed of wax.  The history of it is somewhat 
extraordinary, though not without example in the records of that 
fierce severity, which monkish superstition has sometimes inflicted 
on mankind.  A member of the house of Udolpho, having committed some 
offence against the prerogative of the church, had been condemned to 
the penance of contemplating, during certain hours of the day, a 
waxen image, made to resemble a human body in the state, to which it 
is reduced after death.  This penance, serving as a memento of the 
condition at which he must himself arrive, had been designed to 
reprove the pride of the Marquis of Udolpho, which had formerly so 
much exasperated that of the Romish church; and he had not only 
superstitiously observed this penance himself, which, he had 
believed, was to obtain a pardon for all his sins, but had made it a 
condition in his will, that his descendants should preserve the 
image, on pain of forfeiting to the church a certain part of his 
domain, that they also might profit by the humiliating moral it 
conveyed.  The figure, therefore, had been suffered to retain its 
station in the wall of the chamber, but his descendants excused 
themselves from observing the penance, to which he had been enjoined.

This image was so horribly natural, that it is not surprising Emily 
should have mistaken it for the object it resembled, nor, since she 
had heard such an extraordinary account, concerning the disappearing 
of the late lady of the castle, and had such experience of the 
character of Montoni, that she should have believed this to be the 
murdered body of the lady Laurentini, and that he had been the 
contriver of her death.

The situation, in which she had discovered it, occasioned her, at 
first, much surprise and perplexity; but the vigilance, with which 
the doors of the chamber, where it was deposited, were afterwards 
secured, had compelled her to believe, that Montoni, not daring to 
confide the secret of her death to any person, had suffered her 
remains to decay in this obscure chamber.  The ceremony of the veil, 
however, and the circumstance of the doors having been left open, 
even for a moment, had occasioned her much wonder and some doubts; 
but these were not sufficient to overcome her suspicion of Montoni; 
and it was the dread of his terrible vengeance, that had sealed her 
lips in silence, concerning what she had seen in the west chamber.

Emily, in discovering the Marchioness de Villeroi to have been the 
sister of Mons. St. Aubert, was variously affected; but, amidst the 
sorrow, which she suffered for her untimely death, she was released 
from an anxious and painful conjecture, occasioned by the rash 
assertion of Signora Laurentini, concerning her birth and the honour 
of her parents.  Her faith in St. Aubert's principles would scarcely 
allow her to suspect that he had acted dishonourably; and she felt 
such reluctance to believe herself the daughter of any other, than 
her, whom she had always considered and loved as a mother, that she 
would hardly admit such a circumstance to be possible; yet the 
likeness, which it had frequently been affirmed she bore to the late 
Marchioness, the former behaviour of Dorothee the old housekeeper, 
the assertion of Laurentini, and the mysterious attachment, which St. 
Aubert had discovered, awakened doubts, as to his connection with the 
Marchioness, which her reason could neither vanquish, or confirm.  
From these, however, she was now relieved, and all the circumstances 
of her father's conduct were fully explained:  but her heart was 
oppressed by the melancholy catastrophe of her amiable relative, and 
by the awful lesson, which the history of the nun exhibited, the 
indulgence of whose passions had been the means of leading her 
gradually to the commission of a crime, from the prophecy of which in 
her early years she would have recoiled in horror, and exclaimed--
that it could not be!--a crime, which whole years of repentance and 
of the severest penance had not been able to obliterate from her 
conscience.



CHAPTER XVIII


  Then, fresh tears
 Stood on her cheek, as doth the honey-dew
 Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd
     SHAKESPEARE

After the late discoveries, Emily was distinguished at the chateau by 
the Count and his family, as a relative of the house of Villeroi, and 
received, if possible, more friendly attention, than had yet been 
shewn her.

Count De Villefort's surprise at the delay of an answer to his 
letter, which had been directed to Valancourt, at Estuviere, was 
mingled with satisfaction for the prudence, which had saved Emily 
from a share of the anxiety he now suffered, though, when he saw her 
still drooping under the effect of his former error, all his 
resolution was necessary to restrain him from relating the truth, 
that would afford her a momentary relief.  The approaching nuptials 
of the Lady Blanche now divided his attention with this subject of 
his anxiety, for the inhabitants of the chateau were already busied 
in preparations for that event, and the arrival of Mons. St. Foix was 
daily expected.  In the gaiety, which surrounded her, Emily vainly 
tried to participate, her spirits being depressed by the late 
discoveries, and by the anxiety concerning the fate of Valancourt, 
that had been occasioned by the description of his manner, when he 
had delivered the ring.  She seemed to perceive in it the gloomy 
wildness of despair; and, when she considered to what that despair 
might have urged him, her heart sunk with terror and grief.  The 
state of suspense, as to his safety, to which she believed herself 
condemned, till she should return to La Vallee, appeared 
insupportable, and, in such moments, she could not even struggle to 
assume the composure, that had left her mind, but would often 
abruptly quit the company she was with, and endeavour to sooth her 
spirits in the deep solitudes of the woods, that overbrowed the 
shore.  Here, the faint roar of foaming waves, that beat below, and 
the sullen murmur of the wind among the branches around, were 
circumstances in unison with the temper of her mind; and she would 
sit on a cliff, or on the broken steps of her favourite watch-tower, 
observing the changing colours of the evening clouds, and the gloom 
of twilight draw over the sea, till the white tops of billows, riding 
towards the shore, could scarcely be discerned amidst the darkened 
waters.  The lines, engraved by Valancourt on this tower, she 
frequently repeated with melancholy enthusiasm, and then would 
endeavour to check the recollections and the grief they occasioned, 
and to turn her thoughts to indifferent subjects.

One evening, having wandered with her lute to this her favourite 
spot, she entered the ruined tower, and ascended a winding staircase, 
that led to a small chamber, which was less decayed than the rest of 
the building, and whence she had often gazed, with admiration, on the 
wide prospect of sea and land, that extended below.  The sun was now 
setting on that tract of the Pyrenees, which divided Languedoc from 
Rousillon, and, placing herself opposite to a small grated window, 
which, like the wood-tops beneath, and the waves lower still, gleamed 
with the red glow of the west, she touched the chords of her lute in 
solemn symphony, and then accompanied it with her voice, in one of 
the simple and affecting airs, to which, in happier days, Valancourt 
had often listened in rapture, and which she now adapted to the 
following lines.

 TO MELANCHOLY

 Spirit of love and sorrow--hail!
 Thy solemn voice from far I hear,
 Mingling with ev'ning's dying gale:
 Hail, with this sadly-pleasing tear!

 O! at this still, this lonely hour,
 Thine own sweet hour of closing day,
 Awake thy lute, whose charmful pow'r
 Shall call up Fancy to obey:

 To paint the wild romantic dream,
 That meets the poet's musing eye,
 As, on the bank of shadowy stream,
 He breathes to her the fervid sigh.

 O lonely spirit! let thy song
 Lead me through all thy sacred haunt;
 The minister's moon-light aisles along,
 Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt.

 I hear their dirges faintly swell!
 Then, sink at once in silence drear,
 While, from the pillar'd cloister's cell,
 Dimly their gliding forms appear!

 Lead where the pine-woods wave on high,
 Whose pathless sod is darkly seen,
 As the cold moon, with trembling eye,
 Darts her long beams the leaves between.

 Lead to the mountain's dusky head,
 Where, far below, in shade profound,
 Wide forests, plains and hamlets spread,
 And sad the chimes of vesper sound,

 Or guide me, where the dashing oar
 Just breaks the stillness of the vale,
 As slow it tracks the winding shore,
 To meet the ocean's distant sail:

 To pebbly banks, that Neptune laves,
 With measur'd surges, loud and deep,
 Where the dark cliff bends o'er the waves,
 And wild the winds of autumn sweep.

 There pause at midnight's spectred hour,
 And list the long-resounding gale;
 And catch the fleeting moon-light's pow'r,
 O'er foaming seas and distant sail.

The soft tranquillity of the scene below, where the evening breeze 
scarcely curled the water, or swelled the passing sail, that caught 
the last gleam of the sun, and where, now and then, a dipping oar was 
all that disturbed the trembling radiance, conspired with the tender 
melody of her lute to lull her mind into a state of gentle sadness, 
and she sung the mournful songs of past times, till the remembrances 
they awakened were too powerful for her heart, her tears fell upon 
the lute, over which she drooped, and her voice trembled, and was 
unable to proceed.

Though the sun had now sunk behind the mountains, and even his 
reflected light was fading from their highest points, Emily did not 
leave the watch-tower, but continued to indulge her melancholy 
reverie, till a footstep, at a little distance, startled her, and, on 
looking through the grate, she observed a person walking below, whom, 
however, soon perceiving to be Mons. Bonnac, she returned to the 
quiet thoughtfulness his step had interrupted.  After some time, she 
again struck her lute, and sung her favourite air; but again a step 
disturbed her, and, as she paused to listen, she heard it ascending 
the stair-case of the tower.  The gloom of the hour, perhaps, made 
her sensible to some degree of fear, which she might not otherwise 
have felt; for, only a few minutes before, she had seen Mons. Bonnac 
pass.  The steps were quick and bounding, and, in the next moment, 
the door of the chamber opened, and a person entered, whose features 
were veiled in the obscurity of twilight; but his voice could not be 
concealed, for it was the voice of Valancourt!  At the sound, never 
heard by Emily, without emotion, she started, in terror, astonishment 
and doubtful pleasure, and had scarcely beheld him at her feet, when 
she sunk into a seat, overcome by the various emotions, that 
contended at her heart, and almost insensible to that voice, whose 
earnest and trembling calls seemed as if endeavouring to save her.  
Valancourt, as he hung over Emily, deplored his own rash impatience, 
in having thus surprised her:  for when he had arrived at the 
chateau, too anxious to await the return of the Count, who, he 
understood, was in the grounds, he went himself to seek him, when, as 
he passed the tower, he was struck by the sound of Emily's voice, and 
immediately ascended.

It was a considerable time before she revived, but, when her 
recollection returned, she repulsed his attentions, with an air of 
reserve, and enquired, with as much displeasure as it was possible 
she could feel in these first moments of his appearance, the occasion 
of his visit.

'Ah Emily!' said Valancourt, 'that air, those words--alas!  I have, 
then, little to hope--when you ceased to esteem me, you ceased also 
to love me!'

'Most true, sir,' replied Emily, endeavouring to command her 
trembling voice; 'and if you had valued my esteem, you would not have 
given me this new occasion for uneasiness.'

Valancourt's countenance changed suddenly from the anxieties of doubt 
to an expression of surprise and dismay:  he was silent a moment, and 
then said, 'I had been taught to hope for a very different reception!  
Is it, then, true, Emily, that I have lost your regard forever? am I 
to believe, that, though your esteem for me may return--your 
affection never can?  Can the Count have meditated the cruelty, which 
now tortures me with a second death?'

The voice, in which he spoke this, alarmed Emily as much as his words 
surprised her, and, with trembling impatience, she begged that he 
would explain them.

'Can any explanation be necessary?' said Valancourt, 'do you not know 
how cruelly my conduct has been misrepresented? that the actions of 
which you once believed me guilty (and, O Emily! how could you so 
degrade me in your opinion, even for a moment!) those actions--I hold 
in as much contempt and abhorrence as yourself?  Are you, indeed, 
ignorant, that Count de Villefort has detected the slanders, that 
have robbed me of all I hold dear on earth, and has invited me hither 
to justify to you my former conduct?  It is surely impossible you can 
be uninformed of these circumstances, and I am again torturing myself 
with a false hope!'

The silence of Emily confirmed this supposition; for the deep 
twilight would not allow Valancourt to distinguish the astonishment 
and doubting joy, that fixed her features.  For a moment, she 
continued unable to speak; then a profound sigh seemed to give some 
relief to her spirits, and she said,

'Valancourt! I was, till this moment, ignorant of all the 
circumstances you have mentioned; the emotion I now suffer may assure 
you of the truth of this, and, that, though I had ceased to esteem, I 
had not taught myself entirely to forget you.'

'This moment,' said Valancourt, in a low voice, and leaning for 
support against the window--'this moment brings with it a conviction 
that overpowers me!--I am dear to you then--still dear to you, my 
Emily!'

'Is it necessary that I should tell you so?' she replied, 'is it 
necessary, that I should say--these are the first moments of joy I 
have known, since your departure, and that they repay me for all 
those of pain I have suffered in the interval?'

Valancourt sighed deeply, and was unable to reply; but, as he pressed 
her hand to his lips, the tears, that fell over it, spoke a language, 
which could not be mistaken, and to which words were inadequate.

Emily, somewhat tranquillized, proposed returning to the chateau, and 
then, for the first time, recollected that the Count had invited 
Valancourt thither to explain his conduct, and that no explanation 
had yet been given.  But, while she acknowledged this, her heart 
would not allow her to dwell, for a moment, on the possibility of his 
unworthiness; his look, his voice, his manner, all spoke the noble 
sincerity, which had formerly distinguished him; and she again 
permitted herself to indulge the emotions of a joy, more surprising 
and powerful, than she had ever before experienced.

Neither Emily, or Valancourt, were conscious how they reached the 
chateau, whither they might have been transferred by the spell of a 
fairy, for any thing they could remember; and it was not, till they 
had reached the great hall, that either of them recollected there 
were other persons in the world besides themselves.  The Count then 
came forth with surprise, and with the joyfulness of pure 
benevolence, to welcome Valancourt, and to entreat his forgiveness of 
the injustice he had done him; soon after which, Mons. Bonnac joined 
this happy group, in which he and Valancourt were mutually rejoiced 
to meet.

When the first congratulations were over, and the general joy became 
somewhat more tranquil, the Count withdrew with Valancourt to the 
library, where a long conversation passed between them, in which the 
latter so clearly justified himself of the criminal parts of the 
conduct, imputed to him, and so candidly confessed and so feelingly 
lamented the follies, which he had committed, that the Count was 
confirmed in his belief of all he had hoped; and, while he perceived 
so many noble virtues in Valancourt, and that experience had taught 
him to detest the follies, which before he had only not admired, he 
did not scruple to believe, that he would pass through life with the 
dignity of a wise and good man, or to entrust to his care the future 
happiness of Emily St. Aubert, for whom he felt the solicitude of a 
parent.  Of this he soon informed her, in a short conversation, when 
Valancourt had left him.  While Emily listened to a relation of the 
services, that Valancourt had rendered Mons. Bonnac, her eyes 
overflowed with tears of pleasure, and the further conversation of 
Count De Villefort perfectly dissipated every doubt, as to the past 
and future conduct of him, to whom she now restored, without fear, 
the esteem and affection, with which she had formerly received him.

When they returned to the supper-room, the Countess and Lady Blanche 
met Valancourt with sincere congratulations; and Blanche, indeed, was 
so much rejoiced to see Emily returned to happiness, as to forget, 
for a while, that Mons. St. Foix was not yet arrived at the chateau, 
though he had been expected for some hours; but her generous sympathy 
was, soon after, rewarded by his appearance.  He was now perfectly 
recovered from the wounds, received, during his perilous adventure 
among the Pyrenees, the mention of which served to heighten to the 
parties, who had been involved in it, the sense of their present 
happiness.  New congratulations passed between them, and round the 
supper-table appeared a group of faces, smiling with felicity, but 
with a felicity, which had in each a different character.  The smile 
of Blanche was frank and gay, that of Emily tender and pensive; 
Valancourt's was rapturous, tender and gay alternately; Mons. St. 
Foix's was joyous, and that of the Count, as he looked on the 
surrounding party, expressed the tempered complacency of benevolence; 
while the features of the Countess, Henri, and Mons. Bonnac, 
discovered fainter traces of animation.  Poor Mons. Du Pont did not, 
by his presence, throw a shade of regret over the company; for, when 
he had discovered, that Valancourt was not unworthy of the esteem of 
Emily, he determined seriously to endeavour at the conquest of his 
own hopeless affection, and had immediately withdrawn from Chateau-
le-Blanc--a conduct, which Emily now understood, and rewarded with 
her admiration and pity.

The Count and his guests continued together till a late hour, 
yielding to the delights of social gaiety, and to the sweets of 
friendship.  When Annette heard of the arrival of Valancourt, 
Ludovico had some difficulty to prevent her going into the supper-
room, to express her joy, for she declared, that she had never been 
so rejoiced at any ACCIDENT as this, since she had found Ludovico 
himself.



CHAPTER XIX


  Now my task is smoothly done,
 I can fly, or I can run
 Quickly to the green earth's end,
 Where the bow'd welkin low doth bend,
 And, from thence, can soar as soon
 To the corners of the moon.
     MILTON

The marriages of the Lady Blanche and Emily St. Aubert were 
celebrated, on the same day, and with the ancient baronial 
magnificence, at Chateau-le-Blanc.  The feasts were held in the great 
hall of the castle, which, on this occasion, was hung with superb new 
tapestry, representing the exploits of Charlemagne and his twelve 
peers; here, were seen the Saracens, with their horrible visors, 
advancing to battle; and there, were displayed the wild solemnities 
of incantation, and the necromantic feats, exhibited by the magician 
JARL before the Emperor.  The sumptuous banners of the family of 
Villeroi, which had long slept in dust, were once more unfurled, to 
wave over the gothic points of painted casements; and music echoed, 
in many a lingering close, through every winding gallery and 
colonnade of that vast edifice.

As Annette looked down from the corridor upon the hall, whose arches 
and windows were illuminated with brilliant festoons of lamps, and 
gazed on the splendid dresses of the dancers, the costly liveries of 
the attendants, the canopies of purple velvet and gold, and listened 
to the gay strains that floated along the vaulted roof, she almost 
fancied herself in an enchanted palace, and declared, that she had 
not met with any place, which charmed her so much, since she read the 
fairy tales; nay, that the fairies themselves, at their nightly 
revels in this old hall, could display nothing finer; while old 
Dorothee, as she surveyed the scene, sighed, and said, the castle 
looked as it was wont to do in the time of her youth.

After gracing the festivities of Chateau-le-Blanc, for some days, 
Valancourt and Emily took leave of their kind friends, and returned 
to La Vallee, where the faithful Theresa received them with unfeigned 
joy, and the pleasant shades welcomed them with a thousand tender and 
affecting remembrances; and, while they wandered together over the 
scenes, so long inhabited by the late Mons. and Madame St. Aubert, 
and Emily pointed out, with pensive affection, their favourite 
haunts, her present happiness was heightened, by considering, that it 
would have been worthy of their approbation, could they have 
witnessed it.

Valancourt led her to the plane-tree on the terrace, where he had 
first ventured to declare his love, and where now the remembrance of 
the anxiety he had then suffered, and the retrospect of all the 
dangers and misfortunes they had each encountered, since last they 
sat together beneath its broad branches, exalted the sense of their 
present felicity, which, on this spot, sacred to the memory of St. 
Aubert, they solemnly vowed to deserve, as far as possible, by 
endeavouring to imitate his benevolence,--by remembering, that 
superior attainments of every sort bring with them duties of superior 
exertion,--and by affording to their fellow-beings, together with 
that portion of ordinary comforts, which prosperity always owes to 
misfortune, the example of lives passed in happy thankfulness to GOD, 
and, therefore, in careful tenderness to his creatures.

Soon after their return to La Vallee, the brother of Valancourt came 
to congratulate him on his marriage, and to pay his respects to 
Emily, with whom he was so much pleased, as well as with the prospect 
of rational happiness, which these nuptials offered to Valancourt, 
that he immediately resigned to him a part of the rich domain, the 
whole of which, as he had no family, would of course descend to his 
brother, on his decease.

The estates, at Tholouse, were disposed of, and Emily purchased of 
Mons. Quesnel the ancient domain of her late father, where, having 
given Annette a marriage portion, she settled her as the housekeeper, 
and Ludovico as the steward; but, since both Valancourt and herself 
preferred the pleasant and long-loved shades of La Vallee to the 
magnificence of Epourville, they continued to reside there, passing, 
however, a few months in the year at the birth-place of St. Aubert, 
in tender respect to his memory.

The legacy, which had been bequeathed to Emily by Signora Laurentini, 
she begged Valancourt would allow her to resign to Mons. Bonnac; and 
Valancourt, when she made the request, felt all the value of the 
compliment it conveyed.  The castle of Udolpho, also, descended to 
the wife of Mons. Bonnac, who was the nearest surviving relation of 
the house of that name, and thus affluence restored his long-
oppressed spirits to peace, and his family to comfort.

O! how joyful it is to tell of happiness, such as that of Valancourt 
and Emily; to relate, that, after suffering under the oppression of 
the vicious and the disdain of the weak, they were, at length, 
restored to each other--to the beloved landscapes of their native 
country,--to the securest felicity of this life, that of aspiring to 
moral and labouring for intellectual improvement--to the pleasures of 
enlightened society, and to the exercise of the benevolence, which 
had always animated their hearts; while the bowers of La Vallee 
became, once more, the retreat of goodness, wisdom and domestic 
blessedness!

O! useful may it be to have shewn, that, though the vicious can 
sometimes pour affliction upon the good, their power is transient and 
their punishment certain; and that innocence, though oppressed by 
injustice, shall, supported by patience, finally triumph over 
misfortune!

And, if the weak hand, that has recorded this tale, has, by its 
scenes, beguiled the mourner of one hour of sorrow, or, by its moral, 
taught him to sustain it--the effort, however humble, has not been 
vain, nor is the writer unrewarded.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Mysteries of Udolpho, by Ann Radcliffe