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岁之​,
尽​!! 72
7713





THE
MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO,
ROM A N CE;
INTERSPERSED WITH SOME PIECES OF POETRY,
BY
ANN RADCLIFFE,
AUTHOR OF THE ROMANCE OF THE FOREST, ETC.
THE THIRD EDITION
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
Fate fits 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.
VOL. IV.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR G. G. AND J. ROBINSON,
PATERNOSTER-ROW,
1795


THE
MYSTERIES
OF
U DOLPH O.
C H A P. I.
“ Is all the council that we two have ſhared,
......... the hours that we have ſpent,
When we have chid the hafty-footed time
For parting us---Oh! and is all forgot?
.......................
And will you rent our ancient love afunder?”
MIDSUMMER Night's Dream.
In the evening, when Emily was at length
informed, that Count de Villefort requeſted
to ſee her, the gueſſed that Valancourt was
below, and, endeavouring to aſſume com-
poſure and to recollect all her ſpirits, ſhe
roſe and left the apartment ; but on reach-
ing the door of che library, where ſhe ima-
Vol. IV. B
gined
425509


il 2 ) -
gined him to be, her emotion returned with
ſuch energy, that, fearing to truſt herſelf in
the room, lhe returned into the hall, where
ſhe continued for a conſiderable time, unable
to command her agitated ſpirits.
When ſhe could recall them, the found in
the library Valancourt, feated 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, 'immedi-
ately 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,
emotion he ſuffered. : ..!
At length, in a tremulous voice, he faid,
“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 ine, and which the
hints


( 3 )
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 filenc.
“O what a meeting is this !” exclaimed
Valancourt, ſtarting from his feat, and pac-
ing the room with hurried ſteps, “ what a
meeting is this, after our long-long ſepara-
tion!” 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
- B2
, he


TU
CO
the looked up and perceived that the was
weeping, all his tenderneſs returned, and a
gleam of hope appeared to croſs his mind,
for he exclaimed, “O! you do picy 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, haftily drying them, “ Yes,"
{aid ſhe, “ I do pity you— 1 weep for you
—but, ought I to think of you with affec-
tion? You may remember that yeſter-even-
ing, 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 de-
ſerving 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


( 5 )
and tlien added, in a voice at once ſoleming
and dejected, -" No-I am not the ſame!,
-I am loft--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 ſtrug-
gled to overcome the pleadings of her heart,
and to act with the deciſive firmneſs, which
was neceſſary for her future peace, ſhe per-
ceived 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 con-
fidered, 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 thoſe of
reniorſe and grief, which he had neither the
power, or the will to exprefs, fac inſenſible
almoſt of the preſence of Emily, his features
ſtill concealed, and his breaſt agitated by
convulſive lighs.
. B 3 . “Spare
-


OW
(6)
“ Spare me the neceſſity,” ſaid Emily, re.
collecting her fortitude, “ ſpare me the neceſ.
ſity of mentioning thoſe circumſtances of
your conduct, which oblige me to break our
connection for ever. We muſt part, I now
fee 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 for ever!”
- “ We muſt part," repeated Emily, with
emphaſis," and that for ever! Your own
condect has made this neceſſary."
« This is the Count's determination,” ſaid
he haughtily, “ not yours, and I ſhall en-
quire 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 tefs agitated " it is my deter-
mination, 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
thould


( 7 )
ſhould part-part for ever !” ſaid Valan-
court: " How little did I ever expect to
hear you ſay to !"
“And how little did I expect, that is
would be neceſſary for me to ſay ſo!” rejoin-
ed Emily, while her voice ſoftened into ten.
derneſs, and her tears flowed again. -" Thac
you--you, Valancourt, would ever fall from
my eſteem |
He was filent a moment, as if overwhelm.
ed by the conſciouſneſs of no longer deſery-
ing this eſteem, as well as the certaincy of
having loſt it, and then, with impaſſioned
grief, lamented the criminality of his láte
conduct and the miſery to which it had re-
duced him, cill, 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 circum.
ſtances, of which Count de Villefort had
B4
informed


( 8 )
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 ex-
cited.
Valancourt, returning to the chair beſide
her, at length, faid, in a fubdued voice,
“ 'Tis true, I am fallen--fallen from my
own eſteem! but could you, Emily, ſo
foon, ſo ſuddenly reſign, if you had not be-
fore 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 eſtran.
ging me from you, to abandon me to miſery
to myſelf !”—Emily wept aloud.-“ No,
Emily--10-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
Own
nic


(9)
me in cruſting 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 Valan.
court-"is it poſſible you can doubt my
love? Yet it is reaſonable, that you ſhould
do ſo, ſince you fee, that I am leſs ready to
ſuffer the horror of parting with y
th it of involving you in my ruin. Yes,
Emily -- I am ruined-irreparably ruined
lam involved in debes, 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 adınire his fin.
cerity, ſaw, with unutterable anguith; new
reaſons for fear in the ſuddenneſs of his feel.
ings and the extent of the miſery, in which
they might involve him. After ſome mia.
nutes, ſhe ſeemed to contend againſt her:
grief, and so ſtruggle for fortitude to con-
clude the interview, I will not prolong theſe-
moments," ſaid ſhe, “ by a converſacion,
B 5
which


( 10 )
which can anſwer no good purpoſe. Va.,
lancourt, farewell !”
“ You are not going?” ſaid he wildly, in-
terrupting 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 ne.
ceſſary 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 ntuſt be deluded into this exaſpe.
ration againft them. The Count is the bar-
rier between us; but he ſhall not long re-
main ſo."
« You are, indeed, diſtracted,” faid
Emily, “ the Count is not your eneiny; on
the contrary, he is my friend, and that
might,


(11)
might, in ſome degree, induce you to con-
ſider him as yours.”_" Your friend !" ſaid
Valancourt, haftily, “ how long has he
been your friend, that he can ſo eaſily make
you forget your lover? Was it he, who re-
commended 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 che frantic looks of Valan-
court, ſaid, in à tone ſcarcely audible, “ For
heaven's fake 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 anguilh, 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 fat with his arms -
B6
reſted
--
-
-
-
- --
-


( 12 )
reſted on the table and his face concealed
by his hands; while Emily ſtood, ſilent and
trembling, wretched for herſelf and dread.
ing to leave him in this ſtate of mind.
"O exceſs of miſery !” he ſuddenly ex-
claimed, “that I can never lament my ſuf-
ferings, without accuſing myſelf, nor re.
member 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 inake
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 ſeem-
ed to melt his heart, and the phrenſy of de-
fpair yielded to tears. After a long pauſe,
curning towards her and taking her hand, he
faid, 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


( 13 )
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 choſe days,” ſaid Emily, “ unleſs you
can teach me to be inſenſible to 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 un.
changed ;- but I fear, indeed, I fee, 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
s,


. 14 )
torture myſelf with the remembrance-why
do I linger. here.? Am I not ruired
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—molt
fondly love you! I am going, Emily, I am
going to leave you—to leave you, for ever!"
As he ſpoke the laſt words, his voice trema
bled, and he chres 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 cria
minal conduct and almoſt of his follies was,
obliterated from her mind, and ſhe was ſen.
ſible only of picy 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
3


( 15 )
Emily's heart was ſomewhar: relieved by
the requeſt, and ſhe endeavoured to be-
lieve, that ſhe ought not to refuſe it. Yet
The 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, how-
ever, 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 reſpice, 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, how-
ever, impoſſible to tranquillize her mind,
from which ſhe could not expel the remem.
brance of the late ſcene with Valancourt, or
the


( 16 )
the conſciouſneſs, that ſhe was to ſee hint
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 cir-
cumſtances, 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 diſud-
vantage, her eſteem began to return. It fre-
quently appeared to her impoffible, that he
could have been guilty of the depravities:
reported of him, which, if not inconſiſtent
with his warmth and impetuoſity, were en-
tirely fo with his candour and ſenſibility.
Whatever was the criminality, which had
given riſe to the reports, ſhe could not now.
believe them to be whoily true, nor that his
heart was finally cloſed againſt the charnis.
of virtue. The deep coníciouſneſs, which
he felt as well as expreſſed of his errors,
feemed to juſtify the opinion; and, as ſhe un-
derſtood not the inſtability of youthful diſ.
pofitions,
2
-


( 17 )
poſitions, 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 perſua-
fions of her own heart and the pleadings of
- Valancourt, had ſhe not been guided by the
ſuperior prudence of the Count. He repre.
ſented to her, in a clear light, the danger of
her preſent ſituation, that of liſtening to
promiſes of amendment, made under the in-
fuence of ſtrong paſſion, and the Night hope,
which could attach to a connection, whoſe
chance of happineſs relted upon the retrie-
val 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 conqueft.
Her mind was now ſo entirely occupied
by nearer intereſts, that ſhe forgot the old
houſekeeper and the promiſed hiſtory, which
fo lately had excited her curioſity, but which
Dorothée


( 18 )
Dorothée 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 diſmak
night; the more ſhe ſuffered her memory
to dwell on the late ſcene 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 deceafed 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 for-
fook her, and when, remembering the con.
fidence of former times, ſhe thought it in
poffible, that fhe could renounce Valan.
court. His reformation then appeared cer-
tain; 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 ſex
paration.
0X10
Thus


( 19 )
Thus paſſed the night in ineffectual ſtrug-
gles between affection and reaſon, and the
roſe, in the morning, with a mind, weakened
and irreſolute, and a frame, trembling with
illneſs.
;
CHAP.


( 20 )
CH A P. II.
“Come, weep with me ;--paſt hope, paſt cure, pait
help!"
ROMEO AND JULIET.
V ALANCOURT, meanwhile, fuffered the
tortures of remorſe and deſpair. The ſight
of Emily had renewed all the ardour, with
which he firſt loved her, and which had ſuf-
fered a temporary abatement from abſence
and the pafling ſcenes of buſy life. When, on
the receipt of her letter, he ſet out for Lan.
guedoc, he then knew, that his own folly
had involved him in ruin, and it was no pare
uf 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 in-
duce her to break their connection for ever.
While the profpect of this feparation over-
whelmed his mind, before ftung with ſelf-
reproach, he awaited their ſecond inter-
view,


- ( 21 )
view, in a ſtate little ſhort of diſtraction,
yet was ſtill inclined to hope, that his plead.
ings 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 fought an opportunity of again conver-
ſing with her of Valancourt; for he per.
ceived the extreme diſtreſs of her mind,
and feared, more than ever, that her forti-
tude would deſert her. Emily having dif-
miſſed the meſſenger, the Count returned to
the ſubject of their late converſacion, urging
his fear of Valancourt's entreaties, and again
pointing out to her the lengthened miſery,
that muſt enſue, if ſhe ſhould refuſe to en-
counter ſome preſent uneaſineſs. His re-
peated arguments could, indeed, alone have
protected her from the affection ſhe ſtill felt
for Valancourt, and ſhe reſolved to be go.
verned by them.
The hour of interview, at length, arrived.
Emily went to it, at leaſt, with compoſure
of manner; but Valancourt was ſo inuch
agitated,


( 22 )
1
agitated, that he could not ſpeak, for feveral
minutes, and his firſt words were alternately
thoſe of lamentation, entreaty and ſelf-re-
proach. 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 connec-
tion, 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 reſolu-
tion by the pleadings of a ſelfiſh paſſion. I
reſign you, Emily, and will endeavour to
find confolation 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 at-
tenipted to conceal the tears, which came to
her eyes. She would have ſaid, “ You
ſpeak now, as you were wont to do," but
ſhe


( 23 ) .
The checked herſelf._" Forgive me, Emi-
ly,” ſaid he, “ all the ſufferings I have oc-
caſioned you, and, ſometimes, when you
think of the wretched Valancourt, remem-
ber, 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 re-
call her fortitude and to terminate an inter-
view, which only ſeemed to increaſe the dif-
treſs 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 forrow,” ſaid he, “ ſhall in future
be my protection. O! never again will
example, or temptation have power to re-
duce 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 no-
thing


( 24 )
thing can contribute to‘it more, than to be.
lieve, that you have recovered your own ef-
teem.” Valancourt took her hand;—his eyes
were covered with tears, and the farewell he
would have ſpoken was loſt in ſighs. Afrer 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 moinents?” ſaid Emily,
in a voice ſcarcely audible, " they are too
painful to us both.” “ This is too--100
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, du.
ring which Emily wept in ſilence, and Va.
lancourt ſeemed ſtruggling with his grief,
ſhe again roſe to take leave of him. Then,
endeavouring to recover his compoſure, “ I
am again amicting you,” ſaid he, “ but let
the anguiſh 1 ſuffer plead for me." He
then


( 25 )
then added, in a ſolemn voice, which fre-
quently 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 la.
mented. I muſt not intrude longer upon
your patience, or I ſhall relapſe into de-
ſpair."
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,
finking fainter and fainter, as he croſſed
the hall. She was, at length, rouſed by the
Vol. IV. ; C
voice


.::
( 27 )
CHAP. III.
« This is no mortal buſineſs, nor no ſound
That the earth owes !" ....
SHAKESPEARE,
W E now return to the mention of
Montoni, whoſe rage and diſappointment
were foon loft in nearer intereſts, than any,
which the unhappy Emily had awakened.
His depredations having exceeded their uſual
limits, and reached an extent, at which nei-
ther the timidity of the then commercial ſe-
nate of Venice, nor their hope of his occa-
fional aſſiſtance would permit them to con-
nive, the ſame effort, it was reſolved, fhould
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 reſent-
C 2
ment,


. ( 28 )
ment, for ſome injury, received from Mon-
toni, 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 ad-
vantages, 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 hand-
ful of banditti. The object of the expedi-
tion, he thought, might be accompliſhed
much more fafely and ſpeedily by mingling
contrivance with force. It was poſſible to
meet Montoni and his party, without their
walls, and to altack them then; or, by ap.
proaching
S


: 29 ) -
proaching the fortreſs, with the ſecrecy, cona
ſiſtent 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 con-
mand of the troops, demanded for his pur-
poſe. His firſt efforts were accordingly thoſe
of contrivance alone. In the neighbour.
hood of Udolpho, he waited cill he had ſecu.
red 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 ſea
nate. He learned alſo the number of Monto-
ni's troops, and that it had been much in.
creaſed, ſince his late ſucceſſes. The con-
cluſion of his plan was ſoon effected. Hav.
ing returned with his party, who received
the watch-word and other aſliſtance from
their friends within, Montoni and his offi-
cers were ſurpriſed by one diviſion, who had
C3
been
1.
...
---?-


( 31 )
Her mind was now occupied with ſuf-
ferings, which no effort of reaſon had yet been
able to controul. Count de Villefort, who
fincerely attempted whatever benevolence
could ſuggeſt for ſoftening them, ſometimes
allowed her the folitude ſhe wiſhed for,
ſometimes led her into friendly parties, and
conſtantly protected her, as much as poſſi-
ble, from the ſhrewd enquiries and critical
converſation of the Counteſs. He often in-
vited 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, foon 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 The could ſuf-
C4.
ficiently


( 32 )
ficiently abſtract her mind from Valancourt
to liſten to the ſtory, promiſed by old Do-
rothée, concerning which her curioſity had
once been ſo deeply intereſted; but Doro-
thée, at length, reminded her of it, and
Emily deſired, that ſhe would come, that
night, to her chamber.
Still her thoughts were employed by con-
ſiderations, which weakened her curioſity,
and Dorothée'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
feated her in a chair, and deſired, that the
would compoſe her ſpirits, before the entered
upon the ſubject, that had brought her
thither. " Alas,” ſaid Dorothée, 6 it is
thinking of that, I believe, which has diſ-
turbed me ſo. In my way hither too, I
paſſed the chamber, where my dear lady died,
and every thing was ſo itill and gloomy
about


( 33 )
about me, that I almoſt fancied I ſaw her
as the appeared upon her death-bed.”
Emily now drew her chair near to Doro-
thée, 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 aſſem.
bled 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; fo 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 en.
tertainments 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 as the beſt of
C3
them.


( 34 )
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, Dorothée,” ſaid
Emily, “ you was telling me of her.”
“ yes, my lady Marchioneſs, I thought
ſhe did not ſeem happy at heart, and once,
foon 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 mat-
ter ; but, the next time I ſaw her crying, I
did, and ſhe ſeemed diſpleaſed ;-fo I ſaid
no more. I found out, fome 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


( 35 )
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 he has been ſo forrowful,
look fo, 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 com-
plained, 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 yain, ſhe would go to her own room, and
cry fo! 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 che-
valiers, that viſited at the chateau, there
was one, that I always thought ſeemed juſt
ſuited for my lady; he was ſo courteous, yet
C6
fo


( 36 )
ſo ſpirited, and there was ſuch a grace, as it
were, in all he did, or ſaid. I always ob-
ſerved, 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 cer.
tain."
" What was the chevalier's name, Doro.
thée ?” 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 fince 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


( 37 )
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! Dorothée,” 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, Dorothée, what ſounds were
thoſe ?” ſaid Emily.
Dorothée 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 !”.
faid Emily, at length.
“I have often heard it, and at this ſame
hour,” ſaid Dorothée, folemnly," and, if ſpi-
rits


( 38 ) :
rits ever bring muſic--that is ſurely the mu-
fic 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
ftruck with ſuperſtitious awe, it is certain
ſhe was ſo much affected, that ſhe had nearly
fainted.
“ I think I once told you, madam,” ſaid
Dorothée, " that I firſt heard this muſic
ſoon after my lady's death! I well remem-
ber the night!”—
“ Hark! it comes again!” ſaid Emily,
“ let us open the window, and liſten.”
They did fo; but, foon, the ſounds
floated gradually away into diſtance, and all
was again ſtill; they ſeemed to have funk
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


( 39 )
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 obſcu-
rity beneath, and then upon the cloudleſs
arch above, enlightened only by the ſtars,
Dorothée, in a low voice, reſumed her nar.
rative.
" 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 miſ-
treſs, and of the ſad ſcene I had lately wit-
nelied. The chateau was quite ftill, and
I was in a 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 liſt-
ened often, wiſhing to hear a ſound in the
chateau, for you know, ma’amſelle, when
one can hear people moving, one does not
5
fo


( 40 )
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 fing 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 fat in her oriel,
of an evening, playing upon her lute ſuch
ſad ſongs, and ſinging fo. 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 win-
dow open, when it was ſummer time, till
it was quite dark, and when I have gone
in,


( 41 )
in, to ſhut it, ſhe has hardly ſeemed to know
what hour it was. But, as I ſaid, madam,"
continued Dorothée, “ when firlt 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. Some-
times, many months have gone by, but
ſtill it has returned.”
“ It is extraordinary,” obſerved Emily,
« that no perſon has yet diſcovered the mu.
ſician.”
.“ Aye, ma'amſelle, if it had been any
thing earthly it would have been diſcover-
ed long ago, but who could have courage
to follow a fpirit, and if they had, what
good could it do?--for fpirits, 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 Mar.
chioneſs,” ſaid Emily, “ and acquaint me
with the manner of her death.”
" I will, ma'am,” ſaid Dorothée, “but
fhall we leave the window ?”
66 This


( 42 )
“ This cool air refreſhes me," replied
Emily, “ and I love to hear it creep along
the woods, and to look upon this dulky
landſcape. You was ſpeaking of my lord,
the Marquis, when the muſic interrupted
us." .
“ Yes, madam, my lord, the Marquis, be-
came 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 bed ſide, I was ſhocked
to ſee her countenance it was ſo changed !
She looked piteouſly up at me, and de-
ſired 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 for-
get his look as I went.”
When I returned, I ventured to remind
my lord about fending for a doctor, for I
ſuppoſed he had forgot to do ſo, in his
grief;


( 43 )
grief; but my lady ſaid it was then too
late; but my lord, ſo far from thinking ſo,
ſeemed to think lightly 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 doc.
tor, 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 in-
tervals of eaſe, and in one of theſe ſhe fent
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 fure he did ſeemn
to be overwhelmed with the thought of his
treatment of her, and this affected her ſo
much, that ſhe fainted away.
6 We


( 44 )
“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'am-
felle, and ſhe went off as peacefully as a
child, for all the violence of her diſorder
was paſſed.”
Dorothée 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 Do-
rothée, “ alas ! he came too late ; he ap-
peared greatly ſhocked to ſee her, for foon
after her death a frightful blackneſs ſpread
all over her face. When he had ſent the
attendants out of the room, he aſked me ſe-
veral odd queſtions about the Marchioneſs,
particularly concerning the manner, in
which ſhe had been ſeized, and he often
· Thook


( 45 )
fhook 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, luſpected what I did, and ſtrange
reports were whiſpered about the neigh-
bourhood, but nobody dared to make any
ftir 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 lee the towers
here, ma’amſelle), all my lord's vafſals fol-
lowed 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 melan-
choly as he was afterwards, and ſometimes
moon was
he


( 46 )
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, foon 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 re-
turn to the chateau, chough 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 anx-
ious to know more than the dared to aſk.
“ Yes, madam,” replied Dorothée, “ 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'amfelle," re-
plied


( 47 )
plied Dorothée. “I was very glad, when I
heard my lord the Count was coming, for
this had been a fad 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 hiſ-
tory, and all my thoughts, and you have
promiſed, you know, never to give the leaſt
hint about it.”_" I have,” ſaid Emily,
6 and I will be faithful to my promiſe,
Dorothée ;—what you have told has inter-
eſted 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.”
Dorothée, 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


( 48 )
more like you than the miniature.” When
Emily expreſſed a ſtrong deſire to ſee this,
Dorothée replied, that ſhe did not wiſh to
open thoſe rooms; but Emily reminded
her, that the Count had talked the other
day of ordering them to be opened ; of
which Dorothée 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 nar-
rative of the ſcenes, which had paſſed in
thoſe apartments, to deſire to viſit them at
this hour; but ſhe requeſted that Dorothée
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 Do-
rothée had ſaid remained, with the bed
and furniture, juſt as when the corpſe was
removed


( 49 )
removed for interment. The folemn emo.
tions, 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 depref-
fion; but, perhaps, ſhe yielded too much
to her melancholy inclination, and impru-
dently 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. .
· Dorothée promiſed to return, on the fol-
lowing night, with the keys of the cham-
bers, and then wiſhed Emily good repoſe,
and departed. Emily, however, continued
at the window, muſing upon the melan-
choly fate of the Marchioneſs and liſtening,
in awful expectation, for a return of the
muſic. But the ſtillneſs of the night re-
mained long unbroken, except by the mur-
muring ſounds of the woods, as they waved
Vol. IV.
D
in


( 50 )
in the breeze, and then by the diſtant bell
off the convent, ſtriking one. She now
withdrew from the window, and, as the fat
at her bed-fide, indulging melancholy reve.
ries, which the lonelineſs of the hour aſlifted,
the ſtillneſs was ſuddenly interrupted, not
by muſic, but by very uncommon ſounds,
that ſeemed to come either from the room
adjeining her own, or from one below.
The terrible cataſtrophe, that had been re.
lated to her, together with the myſterious
circumſtances, ſaid to have ſince occurred
in the chateau, had ſo much ſhocked her
fpirits, that ſhe now ſunk, for a moment,
, under the weakneſs of ſuperſtition. The
founds, however, did not return, and the
retired, to forger in ſleep the diſaſtrous
ftory ſhe had heard. .
a
CHAP.


CHA P. IV.
« Now it is the time of night,
That, the graves all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his ſprite,
In the church-way path to glide.”
SHAKESPEARE.
UN the next night, about the ſame hour
as before, Dorothée came to Emily's cham-
ber, 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, form-
ing 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 Dorothée was anxious to avoid,
ſince it might excite enquiry and raiſe re-
ports, ſuch as would diſpleaſe the Count.
She, therefore, requeſted that Emily would
wait half an hour, before they ventured
D2
forth,


( 52 )
forth, that they might be certain all the
ſervants were gone to bed. It was nearly
one, before the chateau was perfectly ſtill,
or Dorothée thought it prudent to leave
the chamber. In this interval, her fpirits .
ſeemed to be greatly affected by the remens-
brance 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 fo.
lemnity, and leſs of fear. From the ſilence,
into which reflection and expectation had
thrown them, they, at length, rouſed them-
ſelves, and left the chamber. Dorothée,
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 ftair-cafe,
and, after paſſing over a wide extent of the
chateau, to afcend another, which led to the
ſuite of rooms they were in queſt of. They
ſtepped cautiouſly along the open corridor,
that


( 53 )
ran
that ran round the great hall, and inco
which the chanibers of the Count, Countels,
and the Lady Blanche, opened, and, from
thence, deſcending the chief ſtair-caſe, they
crofled the hall itſelf. Proceeding through
the fervants-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 Dorothée here pauſed, and looked
around: “Let us liften,” faid 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'amfelle," ſaid
Dorothée, “but I haye 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
D 3
top


( 54 )
top of the ſtair.caſe, Dorothée applied the
key to the lock. " Ah," ſaid ſhe, as the
endeavoured to turn it, “ ſo inany years
have paſſed ſince this was opened, that I fear
it will not move." Emily was more ſucceſs-
ful, and they preſently entered a ſpacious
and ancient chamber.
" Alas !” exclaimed Dorothée, as the en-
tered, “ the laſt time I paſſed through this
door--I followed my poor lady's corpſe !"
Emily, ſtruck with the circuinſtance,
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 reft here awhile, madam,” ſaid
Dorothée 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


( 55 )
and begged Dorothée would fit down, and
try to compoſe her ſpirits.
** How the fight of this place brings
all that paſſed formerly to iny mind!” ſaid
Dorothée ; " it ſeems as if it was but yeſter-
day ſince all that fad affair happened!”
Hark! what noiſe is that?" ſaid
Emily.
Dorothée, half ſtarting from her chair,
looked round the apartment, and they liſ-
tened—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 accord.
ing to her own taſte. All this grand furni.
cure, but you can now hardly fee 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 fur-
niture came from Paris, and was made after
the faſhion of ſome in the Louvre there, ex
cept thoſe large glaſſes, and they came from
fome outlandiſh place, and that rich tapeſ.
try.
"
D 4


☆ 56 )
try. How the colours are. faded already !
ſince I'faw it laſt!”
.“ I underſtood, that was twenty years
ago," obſerved Emily.
• Thereabout, madam,” ſaid Dorothée,
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
Provençal tongue, wrought underneath each
ſcene, that it exhibited ſtories from ſome of
the moſt celebrated ancient romances. .
Dorothée's ſpirits being now more com ..
poſed, 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 fo ſpacious,
that the lamp ſhe held up did not ſhew :
its extent; while Dorothée, when ſhe en-
tered, had dropped into a chair, where;.
ſighing deeply, ſhe ſcarcely truſted herſelf
with the view of a ſcene ſo affecting to her.
It


( 57 )
.
It was fome 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 de-
fcending 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 Dorothée, who had now
reached it, exclaimed,“ Holy Virgin! me:
thinks I fee my lady ſtretched upon that pall
as when laft I ſaw her!" .
Emily, ſhocked by this exclamation,
D. 5
looked


( 58 )
looked involuntarily again within the cur-
tains, but the blackneſs of the pall only ap-
peared; while Dorothée 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 ny lady's hand, and heard
her laſt words, and ſaw all her ſufferings-
here ſhe died in my arins !! .
“ Do not indulge theſe painful recollec.
tions,” 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 Dorothée
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’amfelle,” ſaid
Dorothée, pointing to a portrait of a lady,
" there is her very felf! juſt as ſhe looked
when ſhe came firſt to the chateau. You:
. ' fee,


(59 )
ſee, madam, ſhe was all blooming like you,
then-and ſo foon to be cut off!"
. While Dorothée ſpoke, Emily was at-
tentively 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 penfive melancholy in the portrait,
which ſo ſtrongly characteriſed the minia-
ture,
« Pray, ma’amfelle, ſtand beſide the pic-
ture, that I may look at you together,"
ſaid Dorothée, who, when the requeſt was
complied with, exclaimed again at the reſem.
blance. Emily alſo, as ſhe gazed upon it,
thought that ſhe had ſomewhere ſeen a per-
ſon 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 ſe-
veral articles of her dreſs were ſcattered
upon the chairs, as if they had juſt been
thrown off. On the floor, were a pair of
' D 6
black


( 60 )
black fattin Nippers, and, on the dreſſing.
table, a pair of gloves and a long black
veil, which, as Emily took it up to exa-
mine, ſhe perceived was dropping to pieces
· with age.
« Ah!” ſaid Dorothée, 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 Dorothée, " 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
the 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.”
Dorothée wept again, and then, taking i
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, Dorothée en-
treated


( 61 )
treated that ſhe would keep it on for one
moment. “ I thought,” added the,“ how
like you would look to my dear miſtreſs in
that veil; -may your life, ma'amfelle, be
a happier one than hers !"
Emily, having diſengaged herſelf from
the veil, laid it again on the dreffing cable,
and furveyed the cloſet, where every object;
on which her eye fixed, ſeemed to ſpeak of
the Marchionefs. 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 Do-
rothée had mentioned concerning her cuf
tom 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 care-
leſsly placed there by the hand, that had ſo
often awakened it.
- «. This is a fad forlorn place !” ſaid Do-
rothée, " 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
i
didi


( 62 )
did when my lady was removed for intere
ment."
to
While Dorothée ſpoke, Emily was ſtill
looking on the lute, which was a Spaniſh.
one, and remarkably large; and then, with
a heftating hand, ſhe took it up, and paſſed
her fingers over the chords. They were
out of tune, but uttered a deep and full
found. Dorothée 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 the 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
fitting 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 checks, while ſhe ſung a veſper
hymn, fo foft, and ſo ſolemn! and her voice
trem.
S


( 63 i
er
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’amfelle," added Dorothée, “ this
is a heart-breaking place !"
Having returned into the chamber, the
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-ſur-
rounding ſcene, or it is probable this cir-
cumſtance, whether real or imaginary, would
not have affected her in the degree it did;
but ſhe endeavoured to conceal her emo-
tion from Dorothée, who, however, obſerv.
ing


( 64 )
ing her countenance change, enquired if ſhie
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 apa-
peared, this terror increaſed,-and, too faint-
to ſupport herſelf, ſhe ſat down on the ſide
of the bred.
Dorothée, believing that ſhe was only af-
fected 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 cur-
tain falls upon the bed. How well I re-
member.


( 65 )
iin.
member her look at the time-death was in
it!-I can almoſt fancy I ſee her now.
There ſhe lay, ma’amſelle-hér face was
upon the pillow there ! This black coun-
terpane 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 couns
tenance of which Dorothée 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 fan-
cied the faw it move. Without ſpeaking,
fhe caught Dorothée's arm, who, furpriſed
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, faw the pall ſlowly lifted, and fall
again. 1
Emily attempted to go, but Dorothée
'n 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
,


( 66 )
doors open : ſee how the air waves the lamp,
100.-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 appa:
rition of a human countenance rofe above it.
Screaming with terror, they both filed,
and got out of the chamber as faft 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, Dorothée threw open a chamber-
door, where ſome of the female ſervants
Nept, 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 Dorothée, when ſhe
could ſpeak, endeavoured to laugh at her
own


( 67 )
OV
own fright, and was joined by Emily, no
remonſtrances could prevail with the ſer.
vants, who had quickly taken the alarm, to
paſs even the remainder of the night in a
room ſo near to theſe terrific chambers.
Dorothée having accompanied Emily to
her own apartment, they then began to talk
over, with ſome degree of coolneſs, the
ſtrange circumſtance, that had juſt occur.
red; and Emily would almoſt have doubt-
ed her own perceptions, had not thoſe of
Dorothée atteſted their truth. Having
now mentioned what ſhe had obſerved in
the outer chamber, ſhe aſked the houſe-
keeper, whether ſhe was certain no door had
been left unfaſtened, by which a perſon
might ſecretly have entered the apartments ?
Dorothée replied, that ſhe had conſtant,
ly kept the keys of the ſeveral doors in
her own poffeffion; 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,


( 68 )
was, therefore, impoſlible, ſhe added, that
any perſon could have got admittance into
the apartments; and, if they could it was
very improbable they ſhould have choſen to
ſleep in a place ſo cold and forlorn.
Emily obſerved, that their viſit to theſe
chambers had, perhaps, been watched, and
that fome perfon, for a frolic, had followed
them into the rooms, with a deſign to fright-
en them, and, while they were in the oriel,
had taken the opportunity of concealing
himfelf in the bed.
Dorothée allowed, that this was poſible,
till ſhe recollected, that, on entering the
apartments, ſhe has 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 per-
fon, except themſelves, from the chambers ;
and ſhe now perſiſted in affirming, that the
ghaftly countenance ſhe had ſeen was no.
thing human, but ſome dreadful appari-
tion.'.
Emily


( 69 )
.
Emily was very folemnly aff cted. Of
whatever nature might be the appearance
ſhe had witneſſed, whether human or ſu-
pernatural, the fate of the deceaſed Mar-
chioneſs was a truth not to be doubted;
and this unaccountable circumſtance, oc-
curring in the very ſcene of her ſufferings,
affected Emily's imagination with a ſuper-
ſtitious awe, to which, after having detected
the fallacies at Udolpho, ſhe might not
have yielded, had ſhe been ignorane of the
unhappy ſtory, related by the houſekeeper.
Her ſhe now folemnly 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
filence,” . ..
Dorothée readily acquiefced; but the
now recollected that ſhe had left all the
doors of the north fuite of rooms open, and,
not


( 71 )
CD
alarm to liſten, when Emily preſently dif-
tinguiſhed the voice of Annette, whom ſhe
found croſſing the hall, with another female
fervant, 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,
ant, in compaſſion to her diſtreſs, the con-
ſented that ſhe ſhould remain in her room
during the night. .
room
CHAP


( 72 )
CH A P. V.
« Ilail, mildly-pleaſing Solitude !
Companion of the wiſe and good!
.............. .....
*Thine 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 beft hour of muſing thine."
THOMSON.
EMILY's injunctions to Annette to be fic
lent on the ſubject of her terror were inef.
fectual, and the occurrence of the preced-
ing night ſpread ſuch alarm among the ſer-
vants, who now all affirmed, that they had
frequently heard unaccountable noiſes in
the chateau, that a report foon reached the
Count of the north ſide of the caſtle be-
ing haunted. He treated this, at firſt, with
ridicule, but, perceiving, that it was pro-
ductive of ſerious evil, in the confuſion it
occafioned among his houſehold, he forbade
any perſon to repeat it, on pain of puniſh-
meat. 6
The


( 73 )
The arrival of a party of his friends foon
withdrew his thoughts entirely from this
ſubject, and his ſervants had now little lei.
ſure to brood over it, except, indeed, in the
evenings after ſupper, when they all aſlem-
bled 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 diſtin-
guilhed figure. When ſhe told not only of
all the wonders ſhe had witneſſed, but of all
that ſhe had imagined, in the caſtle of Udol-
pho, with the ſtory of the ſtrange diſap-
pearance of Signora Laurentini, ſhe made
( no trifling impreſſion on the mind of her
attentive auditors. Her fufpicions, con-
cerning Montoni, ſhe would alſo have freely
diſcloſed, had not Ludovico, who was now
in the ſervice of the Count, prudently check-
ed her loquacity, whenever it pointed to
that ſubject.; .
Among the viſitors at the chateau was
¿ Vol. IV. E
i
eyer
the


( 74 )
the Baron de Saint Foix, an old friend of
the Count, and his ſon, the Chevalier St.
Foix, a fenſible and amiable young man,
who, having in the preceding year ſeen the
Lady Blanche, at Paris, had become her
declared admirer. The friendfhip, 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
fuit, 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 con-
cluded


( 75 )
į
cluded with a concert, at which the Count
and Counteſs, who were ſcientific perform-
ers, 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 aſ-
fifted. Several of the Count's ſervants per-
formed 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 ſpi.
rits 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
E. 2
the


( 76 )
the Mediterranean, with its winding ſhores
and paſſing fails, 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. ftill 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, foothed by the
ſcenery and by the faint murmur, that role
from the waves, would fit, till darkneſs
obliged her to return to the chateau. Fre-
quently,


( 77 )
>
quently, 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 ima.
gined, what was ſo true, that this tower
had been almoſt as frequently his refort, as
her own, ſince his eſtrangement from the
neighbouring chateau.
One evening, ſne lingered here to a late
hour.' She had fat on the ſteps of the build-
ing, watching, in tranquil melancholy, the
gradual effect of evening over the extenſive
proſpect, till the gray waters of the Medi-
terranean and the maſſy woods were alınoſt
the only features of the ſcene, that remain-
ed viſible; when, as the gazed alternately
on theſe, and on the mild blue of the hea-
vens, where the firſt pale flar of evening
appeared, the 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 liſter-nymphs, who dance around his car.
E 3
Then,
S
s


( 78 )
Then, as I follow through the azure void,
His partial ſplendour from my ſtraining eye .
Sinks in the depths 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-fumınits 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 fend,
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 ſoſt, that woo the penfive 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 foothing ocean's wave, when ſtorms are near,
Or ſwelling in the breeze from diſtant hill!
I wake


( 79 )
mon
.
I wake the fairy elves, who ſhun the light;
When, from their bloſſom'd beds, they ſily peep,
And ſpy my pale ſtar, leading on the night,
Torth to their games and revelry they leap;
Send all the priſon'd ſweets abroad in air,
That with them ſlumber'd in the low'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 filver 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
fea. She watched its gradual progreſs, the
extending line of radiance it threw upon
the waters, the ſparkling oars, the fail faint-
ly ſilvered, and the wood-tops and the bat-
tlements of the watch tower, at whoſe foot
ſhe was ſitting, juft 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 forinerly heard at midnight, and the
E 4 ' emotion


( 0 )
СОпше
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 conti. ·
nued 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
the faw, 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 fer-
vants, who were lent to ſearch for her; and
when ſhe entered the ſupper-room, where
he
V


( 81 )
he fat with Henri and Blanche, he gently
reproached her with a look, which the
bluſhed to have deferved.
This little occurrence deeply impreſſed
her mind, and, when ſhe withdrew to her
own room, it recalled ſo forcibly the cir-
cumſtances ſhe had witneſſed, a few nights
before, that ſhe had ſcarcely courage to re-
main alone. She watched to a late hou?',
when, no ſound having renewed her fears.,
The, at length, funk to repoſe. But this
was of ſhort continuance, for ſhe was dif-
turbed by a loud and unuſual noiſe, that
ſeemed to come from the gallery, into which
her chamber opened. Groans were dif-
tinctly heard, and, immediately after, a
dead weight fell againſt her door, with a
violence, that threatened to burſt it open.
She called loudly to know who was there,
but received no anfwer, though, at inter-
vals, ſhe ſtill thought ſhe heard ſomething
like a low moaning. Fear deprived her of
the power to move. Scon after, ſhe heard
E 5
----
foot-


( 82 )
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 fome circumſtance with-
out, 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 af
fifted to reſtore ber. 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;
the held the lamp low, ſhe ſaid, that ſhe -
· Inight pick her way, ſeveral of the ſtairs
being infirm and even decayed, and it was
upon railing her eyes, that the law this ap-
pearance. It ſtood for a moment in the
corner of the landing-place, which ſhe was
approaching, and then, gliding up the
ſtairs,


( 83 )
ſtairs, vaniſhed at the door of the apart-
ment, that had been lately opened. She
heard afterwards a hollow ſound.
“ Then the devil has got a key to that
apartment,” ſaid Dorothée, “ for it could
be nobody but he ;. I locked the door my.
ſelf!"
The girl, ſpringing down the ſtairs and
paſſing up the great ftair-cafe, had run,
with a faint ſcream, till ſhe reached the gal-
lery, where ſhe fell, groaning, at Emily's
door.
Gently chiding her for the alarm ſhe had
occaſioned, Emily tried to make her aſhain-
ed of her fears; but the girl perſiſted in fay-
ing, that fhe had ſeen an apparition, till ſhe
went to her own room, whither ſhe was ac-
companied by all the ſervants preſent, ex-
cept Dorothée, who, at Emily's requeſt, re-
mained with her during the night. Emily
was perplexed, and Dorothée was terrified,
and mentioned many occurrences of former
times, which had long lince confirmed her
fuperftitions; among theſe, according to
E 6
her


( 84 )
her belief, ſhe had once witneſſed an ap-
pearance, like that juſt deſcribed, and on
the very ſame ſpot, and it was the remen:
brance of it, that had made her pauſe, when
ſhe was going to aſcend the ſtairs with Emi-
ly, and which had increaſed her reluctance
to open the north apartments. Whatever
might be Emily's opinions, ſhe did not dif-
cloſe them, but liſtened attentively to all
that Dorothée communicated, which occa.
fioned her much thought and perplexity.
- From this night the terror of the fer-
vants increaſed to ſuch an exceſs, that fee
veral of them determined to leave the cha-
teau, and requeſted their diſcharge of the
Count, who, if he had any faith in the ſub-
ject of their alarm, thought proper to dif-
ſemble it, and, anxious to avoid the incon-
venience that threatened him, employed ri-
dicule and then argument to convince them
they had nothing to apprehend from ſuper-
natural agency. But fear had rendered
their minds inacceſſible to reaſon; and it
was now, that Ludovico proved at once
his


( 85 )
his courage and his gratitude for the kind-
neſs 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 fpirits, 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 An-
nette, 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 per-
ſevere in your reſolution, I will accept your
offer, and your intrepidity ſhall not go un-
rewarded.”
“ I deſire no reward, your Excellenza,".
replied Ludovico, “but your approbation.
5. Your Excellenza has been ſufficiently good
c. to me already; but I wiſh to have arms,
that


.: ( 86 )
nel
that I may be equal to my enemy, if he
fhould appear."
“ Your ſword cannot defend you againft
a ghoſt," replied the Count, throwing a
glance of irony upon the other fervants,
“ neither can bars, or bolts ; for a ſpirit, you.
know, can glide through a key-hole, as eaſily
as through a door." . '
" Give me a ſword, my lord Count,".
faid Ludovico, « and I will lay all the
fpirits, that'fhall attack me, in the red
fea.”
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, con-
fine all the malice of the ſpectre to your-
ſelf."
Curioſity now ſtruggled with fear in the
minds of ſeveral of his fellow ſervants, and,
at length, they refolved to await the event
of Ludovico's raſhneſs.
re
Emily


( 87 )
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 necef-
fity, however, of concealing the ſecret,
with which Dorothée had entruſted her, and
which muſt have been mentioned, with the
late occurrence, in excuſe for her having
fo privately viſited the north apartments,
kept her entirely filent on the ſubject of her
apprehenfion; and the tried only to ſooth
Annette, who held, that Ludovico was cer-
tainly to be deſtroyed; and who was much
leſs affected by Emily's confolatory efforts,
than by the manner of old Dorothée, who
often, as ſhe exclaimed Ludovico, ſighed,
and threw up her eyes to heaven.
IS
CHAP


( 88 )
CH A P. VI.
“ Ye gods of quiet, and of ſleep profound!
Whoſe ſoft dominion o'er this caſtle ſways,
And all the widely-filent places round,
Forgive me, if my trembling pen diſplays
What never yet was ſung in mortal lays."
. THOMSON.
ren
I HE Count gave orders for the north
apartments to be opened and prepared for ·
the reception of Ludovico ; but Dorothée,
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


( 89 )
" It has ſeen ſervice in mortal quarrels,"
ſaid the Count, jocoſely, “ you will uſe it
honourably, no doubt, in a ſpiritual one.
To-morrow 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 accom-
pany him and Ludovico to the door of the
north apartments, and Dorothée, being ſum-
moned for the keys, delivered them to Lu--
dovico, 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 thein to flock round him,
while he applied the key to the door,
during which they watched him with as
inuch


( 90 )
much eager curioſity as if he had been per-
forming ſome magical rite.
Ludovico, unaccuſtomed to the lock,
could not turn it, and Dorothée, who had
lingered far behind, was called forward,
under whoſe hand the door opened fowly,
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
ftairs, and the Count, Henri and Ludovico
were left alone to purſue the enquiry, who
inſtantly ruſhed into the apartment, Ludo-
vico with a drawn ſword, which he had juſt
time to draw from the ſcabbard, the Counc
with the lamp in his hand, and Henri carry-
ing a baſket, conraining proviſion for the
courageous adventurer.
Having looked haftily 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 in a more tempered ſtep. The
Count had now leiſure to fmile at the dif-
compoſure,


(91)
compoſure, into which he had been ſurprif-
ed, and to aſk Indovico in which room he
deſigned to paſs the night.
" There are ſeveral chambers beyond
theſe, your Excellenza,” faid 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."
o Good," ſaid the Count, « let us go
on. You ſee theſe rooms fhew nothing but
damp walls and decaying furniture. I have
been fo 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 drop-
ping to pieces, I will have them taken down,
and this antique furniture removed.”
“ Dear fir !” ſaid Henri, “ here is an
arm-chair fo maffy with gilding, that it re-
ſembles one of the ſtate chairs at the Lou-
vre, more than any thing elſe.”
« Yes,” ſaid the Count, ſtopping a mo.
ment


( 92
ment to ſurvey it, “ there is a hiſtory be.
longing to that chair, bue I have not time
to tell it. --Let us pafs 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, Ludo.
vico ?-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 be-
yond the ſaloon, and terminates the ſuite."
"O, here is the ſaloon,” ſaid the Count,
as they entered the ſpacious apartment, in
which Emily and Dorothée had reſted. He
here ſtood for a moment, ſurveying the re.
liques of faded grandeur, which it exhibit-
ed—the ſumptuous tapeſtry-the long and
low fophas of velvet, with frames heavily
carved and gilded--the floor inlaid with
ſmall ſquares of fine marble, and cover-
ed in the centre with a piece of very rich
tapeſtry work—the caſements of painted
glaſs, and the large Venetian mirrors, of a
en
ſize


( 93 )
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 bril-
liant 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 va-
nilhed 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 exhibi-
ted with the preſent! Now, inſtead of a blaze
of lights, and a ſplendid and buſy crowd,
they reflected only the rays of the one glim.
mering 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, awak-
ing from his deep reverie, “how the ſcene
is changed ſince laſt I ſaw it! I was a
young
was a


il 94 )
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 echo-
ing to'the dance ! Now, they reſound only
one feeble voice and even that will, ere
long, be heard no more! My ſon, remem-
ber, 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
fung and danced in this once gay apart-.
ment, 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,
9
which
W


( 95 )
which the dark arras gave to it. He ap-
proached the bed, with an emotion of ſo-
lemnity, and, perceiving it to be covered
with the pall of black velvet, pauſed;
6. What can this mean?” ſaid he, as he gazed
upon it, i
“I have heard, my Lord,” ſaid Ludovi-
co, as he ſtood at the feet, looking within
the canopied curtains, “that the Lady Mar-
chioneſs 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-fer-
vants."
Ludovico


( 96 )
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 neep?”.
." When I am weary, my Lord,” replied
Ludovico, “ I ſhall not fear to ſleep; in
the meanwhile I have a book chat will enter-
tain me.”
" Well,” ſaid the Count, “ I hope no-
thing will diſturb you; but if you ſhould be
ſerioully 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 flight grounds; or ſuffer
the gloom of this chamber, or its remote
ſituation,


( 99 )
ſituation, to overcome you with ideal ter-
rors. Tomorrow, I ſhall have to thank
you for an important ſervice; theſe rooms
Thall 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.”
Helighted 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
faftened it. Then, as he retired to the
bed-chamber, he examined the rooms,
through which he paſſed, with more mi-
nuteneſs than he had done before, for he
apprehended that ſome perſon might have
concealed himſelf in them, for the purpoſe
VOL. IV,
of


( 98 )
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 filent 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, re-
flected in one of the large mirrors, he ſtart-
ed. 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 till. On looking
round, his eye was arreſted by the por.
trait 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 kin.
dled a wood fire, the bright blaze of which
revived his fpirits, which had begun to yield
s
to


( 100 )
led to the queſtion, Whether the ſpirit, af-
ter it has quitted the body, is ever permit. (
ted 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, boch an.
cient 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 diſ-
tend its faculties with wonder and aſtoniſh-
ment, attached the majority of the company
to the ſide of the Baron; and, though many
HII
NP
re
of


( 10 )
of the Count's propoſitions were urianſwers
able, 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 endea,
voured to forget the ſuperſtitious tales the
had been told in her convent. Meanwhile,
Emily had been liſtening with deep atten-
tion 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, re-
ftrained her; and, awaiting in anxious ex-
pectation the event of Ludovico's intrepi-
dity, ſhe determined that her future ſilence
hould depend upon.it.
When the party had ſeparated for the
F 3
night,


( 102
102 )
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
filence. “What muſic is that I hear?"
faid 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 in-
ſtrument with a delicate hand; who is it,
Pierre ?”
“ My Lord!” ſaid the man, heſitate
ingly.
“ Who plays that inſtrument?” repeated
the Count.
• Does not your lordſhip know, then ?".
ſaid the valet.
“What mean you ?” faid the County
ſomewhat ſternly..
“ Nothing, my Lord, I meant nothing,"
rejoined the man ſubmiſlively—- Only
that muſic-goes about the houſe at mid.
night


( 103 )
night often, and I thought your lordſhip
might have heard it before.”
“ Muſic goes about the houſe at mid.
night! 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 fpirit can do any thing!”
" Ah, poor fellow !” ſaid the Count, “I
perceive you are as filly as the reſt of them;
to-morrow, you will be convinced of your
ridiculous error. But hark !--what voice
is that ?”
" Oh, my Lord I 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
F4


( 104 )
es
what a dying cadence! This is ſurely ſome
thing 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."
Pierrę obeyed, and the Count ſoon after
diſmiſſed him, but did not fo foon loſe the
remembrance of the muſic, which long via
brated in his fancy in tones of inelting ſweet.
neſs, 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


( 105 )
Dea
hearth was now nearly expiring, for his at.
tention 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 Dorothée, who had
formerly picked it up in an obſcure corner
of the Marquis's library, and who, having
opened it and perceived ſonce 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 dif-
coloured with ſpots, that it was not without
difficulty
F 5


( 106 )
CO
difficulty the letters could be traced. The
fictions of the Provençal writers, whether
drawn from the Arabian legends, brought
by the Saracens into Spain, or recounting
the chivalric exploits performed by the
cruſaders, whom the Troubadours accom-
panied to the eaſt, were generally ſplendid
and always marvellous, both in ſcenery and
incident; and it is not wonderful, that Do-
rothée 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 man-
ners, which uſually characterized the fables
of the twelfth century, and of this deſcrip-
tion was the one he now happened to open,
which, in its original ſtyle, was of great
length, but which may be thus ſhortly re-
lated. The reader will perceive, that it is
ſtrongly tinctured with the ſuperſtition of
the times.
THE


( 107 )
urt was
THE PROVENÇAL. 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
honours he paid to feats of chivalry invited
the brave of diſtant countries to enter his
lifts, and his court was more ſplendid than
thoſe of many princes. Eight minitrels 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 adorn-
ed the walls with pictured exploits of his
anceſtors, the caſements of painted glaſs, en-
riched with armorial bearings, the gorgeous
banners, that waved along the roof, the
fumptuous canopies, the profuſion of gold
F6 : ."im.. and


( 108 )
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 ap-
pearance of a ſtranger of a noble air, but of
a ſorrowful and dejected countenance. Be-
lieving, that this perſon had been ſecreted
in the apartment, ſince it appeared impoſa
fible 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 hoftile deſign, but to
communicate


( 109 )
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 ex..
traordinary viſit.
“Without anſwering either of theſe enqui-
ries, 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 would ſcarcely believe, that the ſtranger
meant to draw him to ſo 'ſolitary a ſpot, at
this hour of the nighi, 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


( IIO
110 )
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 fymptom, that might intimate a
conſciouſneſs of evil deſign. He was ha-
bited like a knight, was of a tall and ma-
jeſtic ftature, and of dignified and courteous
manners. Still, however, he refuſed 10 com-
municate the ſubject of his errand in any
place, but that he had mentioned, and, at
the ſame time, gave hints concerning the
fecret he would diſcloſe, that awakened a de-
gree of folemn curioſity in the Baron, which,
at length, induced him to conſent to follow
the ſtranger, on certain condicions.
“ 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
folemnity, “ is to you alone. There are
only


( III )
only three living perſons, to whom the cir:
cumſtance is known; it is of more conſe-
quence to you and your houſe, than I ſhall
now explain. In future years, you will look
back to this night with ſatisfaction or re-
pentance, 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 de-
pend upon my prefent determination ?”
“ That is not now to be told,” ſaid the
ſtranger, “ I have explained myſelf to the
utinoſt. 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 counte-
nance aſſume a ſingular ſolemnity.”
[Here Ludovico thought he heard a noiſe,
and he threw a glance round the chamber,
and


( 12 )
and then held up the lamp to aſſiſt his ob
fervation; 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
words of the ſtranger, whoſe extraordinary
requeſt lie 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 foreft? Tell me, at leaſt,
who you are, and who afliſted to ſecrete you
in this chamber,”
“ The knight frowned at theſe latter words,
and was a moment ſilent; then, with a coun-
tenance 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


( 113 )
faid the Baron, “ I have heard of it."
(The knight looked haughtily.) “ Buc
why, ſince my caſtle is known to entertain
all true knights, did not your herald an-
nounce you? Why did you not appear at
the banquer, where your preſence would
have been welcomed, inſtead of hiding your-
ſelf in my caſtle and fealing to my cham-
ber, at midnight?"*
as Theſtranger frowned, and turned away in
ſilence; but the Baron repeated the queſtions.
• I come not,” ſaid the knight, “ to an-
fwer enquiries, but to reveal facts. If you
would know more, follow me, and again I
pledge the honour of a knight, that you
fhall return in ſafety.–Be quick in your de.
termination-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
antia


( 114 )
anti-room, ivhere the Baron, ſurpriſed to find
all his pages aſleep, ſtopped, and, with hafty
violence, was going to reprimand them for
their careleſſneſs, when the knight waved
his hand, and looked fo expreſſively upon
the Baron, that the latter reſtrained his re-
Sentment, 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 anazement, on perceiving that
theſe ſecret paſſages were fo well known to
a ſtranger, and felt inclined to return from
an adventure, that appeared to partake of
treachery, as well as danger. Then, con-
fidering that he was armed, and obſerve
ing the courteous and noble air of his con-
ductor, his courage returned, he bluſhed,
that it had failed him for a moment, and he
reſolved to trace the myſtery to its ſource.
f He


( 115 )
100
€ He now found himſelf on the heachy
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 con.
traſt of his preſent ſituation.”
[Here Ludovico pauſed a moment, and,
s looking at his own fire, gave it a brighten-
ing ſtir.]
“ The wind was ſtrong, and the Baron
watched his lamp with anxiety, expecting
every moment to ſee it extinguiſhed; but
though the fame wavered, it did not expire,
and he ſtill followed the ſtranger, who often
fighed 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


( 116 )
“ As they entered, beneath the dark and
ſpreading boughs, the Baron, affected by
the ſolemnity of the ſcene, heſitated whe-
ther to proceed, and demanded how much
further they were to go. The knight replied
only by a geſture, and the Baron, with heſie
tating ſteps and a ſuſpicious eye, followed
through an obfcure and intricate path, till,
having proceeded a conſiderable way, he
again demanded whither they were going,
and refuſed to proceed unleſs he was in-
formed.
“As he ſaid this, he looked at his own
fword, and at the knight alternately, who
firook his head, and whoſe dejected counte-
nance diſarmed the Baron, for a moment,
of fufpicion.
« A little further is the place, whither I
would lead you,” ſaid the ſtranger; “ no evil
fhall befall you I have fworn it on the
honour of a knight,"
"The Baron, re-aſſured, again followed in
filence, and they ſoon arrived at a deep re-
ceſs of the foreſt, where the dark and lofty
cheſnuts
.


( 117 )
cheſnuts entirely excluded the ſky, and which
was ſo overgrown with underwood, that they
proceeded with difficulty. The Knight lighed
deeply as he paſſed, and ſometimes pauled ;
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 welrer-
ing 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 re-
mains 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 reſem-
blance of the ſtranger his conductor, to
whom


( 118 )
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 toniſhed 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 cur-
tains 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 de-
ceived 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 :-
“ The body of Sir Bevys of Lancaiter,
a noble knight of England, lies before you.
He was, this night, way-laid and murdered,
as he journeyed from the Holy City towards
his


( 119 )
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 ad-
venture 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, at-
tended by all the noble knights and ladies
who graced the court of the Baron de
Brunne.”
Ludovico, having finiſhed this flory, 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 hearch. In his dream he
ſtill beheld the chamber where he really was,
and,


( 120 )
and, once or twice, ſtarted from imperfect
Numbers, imagining he ſaw a man's face,
looking over the high back of his arm-chair.
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,
*
---
-
-
CH A P,


(
)
121
CHA P. VII.
56 Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of Number;
Thou haſt no figures, nor no fantaſies,
Which buſy care draws in the brains of men ;
Therefore thou ſleep'ft fo found.”
KESPEARE.
I HE Count, who had nept little during
I the night, roſe early, and, anxious to ſpeak
with Ludovico, went to the north apart-
ment; 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 Ludo-
vico, wearied with watching, had probably
fallen into a deep Neep, the Count was not
ſurpriſed on receiving no anſwer, and, leav-
ing the door, he went down to walk in his
grounds.
It was a gray autumnal morning. The
Vol. IV.
ſun,


( 122 )
ſun, riſing over Provence, gave only a feeble
light, as his rays ſtruggled through the va-
pours 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 fails 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 Me-
diterranean. Her mind was now not occu-
pied 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 indiffer-
ence, though her judgment conſtantly re-
proached her for the affection, that lingered


( 123 )
___
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 recall-
ing 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 let-
ters, engraved on the ſtone poſtern, which
ſhe pauſed to examine, and, though they
G2 - appeared


( 124 )
appeared to have been rudely cut with a
pen-knife, the characters were familiar to
her; at length, recognizing the hand-writ-
ing of Valancourt, ſhe read, with trembling
anxiety, the following lines, entitled
SHIPWRECK.
'Tis 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 fill 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 fail
Bends to the form?- Now finks 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 Va-
lancourt had viſited the tower ; that he had
probably been here on the preceding night,
for


( 125 )
Mall
for it was ſuch an one as they deſcribed,
and that he had left the building very late-
ly, ſince it had not long been light, and
without light it was impoſſible cheſe 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 over-
came her fpirits; but her firſt impulſe was
to avoid him, and, immediately leaving
the tower, ſhe returned, with hafty ſteps,
towards the chateau. As ſhe paſſed along
The remembered the muſic ſhe had lately
heard near the tower, with the figure, which
had appeared, and, in this moment of agi-
tation, ſhe was inclined to believe, that
ſhe had then heard and ſeen Valancourt;
but other recollections foon convinced her
of her error. On turning into a thicker
part of the woods, ſhe perceived a perſon,
walking Nowly in the gloom at foine little
diſtance, and, her mind engaged by the
G3, .
idea
reine


( 126 )
idea of him, ſhe ſtarted and pauſed, ima.
gining this to be Valancourt. The perſon
advanced with quicker ſteps, and, before
the 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 folitude. But he foon
· perceived this to be more a ſubject of con-
cern than of light laughter, and, changing
his manner, affectionately expoſtulated with
Emily, on thụs 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 hav-
ing yet heard from his friend, the Advo-
: vate at Avignon, in anſwer to the queſtions
propoſed to him, reſpecting the eſtates of
- the late Madame Montoni, he, with friend-
ly zeal, endeavoured to cheer Emily with
hopes of eſtabliſhing her claim to them ;
while ſhe felt, that the eſtates could now
:::: : .con-


( 127 :)
cil.
contribute little to the happineſs of a life,
in which Valancourt had no longer an in-
tereſt.
When they returned to the chateau,
Emily retired to her apartment, and Count
De Villefort to the door of the north chan-
bers. This was ſtill faſtened; but, being
now determined to arouſe Ludovico, he re-
newed 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 fume
accident had befallen Ludovico, whom ter-
ror of an imaginary being might have de-
prived of his ſenſes. He, therefore, left the
door with an intention of ſummoning his
fervants 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 ven-
tured on the north ſide of the chateau, ſince
the preceding night. :
... : G 4 ... " He
,
5


( 128 )
“ He ſleeps foundly 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 Dorothée
was telling of a door, that opened from a
gallery, leading from the great ftair-cafe
into the laſt anti-room of the ſaloon, and,
this being much nearer to the bed cham-
ber, 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 interef.ed for Lu.
dovico, he was himſelf going to ſtrike upon
the door with the inſtrument, when he cb.
terved its ſingular beauty, and with held
the blow. It appeared, on the firſt glance,


( 129 )
to be of ebony, ſo dark and cloſe was its
grain and to 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 reach-
ed the ſaloon, he called loudly upon Ludo.
vico; 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
eyen the breathings of a perſon in Neep were
heard; and his uncertainty was not foon ter-
G5 minated,


( 130 )
minated, ſince, the ſhutters being all cloſed,
the chamber was too dark for any object to
be diſtinguiſhed in it.
The Count bade a fervant 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 ven-
tured thus far, that they inſtantly fed, 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
examiné further, and, Ludovico not yet ap-
pearing, he ſtood for a moment, ſuſpended
in aſtoniſhment, and ſcarcely truſting his
· Senſes, till, his eyes glancing on the bed, he
advanced


( 131 )
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 night 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
fought ſociety, and his fellow fervants 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 examina-
tion, 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 exa-
· mined them; but ſuch as opened wide
G6
enough


( 133 )
r00
peared, that Ludovico muſt have quitted
theſe rooms by ſome concealed paſſage, for
the Count could not believe, that any ſuper-
natural 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, or-
der as if he had juſt walked out by the com-
mon 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 cha-
teau, but in the neighbourhood, and, retir-
. . ing.


( 134 ) :
ing 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 vi-
vacity, and his manners were particularly
grave and reſerved, whenever the topic,
which now agitated the Count's family with
wonder and alarm, was introduced. i
On the diſappearing of Ludovico, Baron
St. Foix ſeemed ſtrengthened in all his for-
mer opinions concerning the probability of
apparitions, though it was difficult to diſ-
cover 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 curioſiy, reduced the
mind to a ſtate of ſenſibility, which render-
ed it more liable to the influence of ſuper-
ftition in general. It is, however, certain,
that from this period the Baron and his ad-
herents became more bigoted to their own
ſyſtems than before, while the terrors of
the Count's ſervants increaſed to an exceſs,
that
1


( 135 )
that occafioned 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 Ludo.
vico proved unſucceſsful, and, after ſeveral
days of indefatigable enquiry, poor An-
nette gave herſelf up to deſpair, and the
other inhabitants of the chateau to amaze-
ment.
.
Emily, whoſe mind had been deeply af-
fected by the diſaſtrous fate of the late Mar-
chioneſs and with the myſterious connec-
tion, which ſhe fancied had exiſted between
her and St. Aubert, was particularly im-
preſſed by the late extraordinary event, and
much concerned for the loſs of Ludovico,
whoſe integrity and faithful ſervices claim-
ed 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
-
.by w


( 136 )
the reſpectful love and admiration of a
daughter, and to whom, by Dorothée's con-
ſent, ſhe, at length, mentioned the appear-
ance, which they had witneſſed in the cham-
ber of the deceaſed Marchioneſs. At any
other period, he would have ſmiled at ſuch
a relation, and have believed, that its ob-
ject had exifted only in the diſtempered
fancy of the relater; but he now attended
to Emily with ſeriouſneſs, and, when the
concluded, requeſted of her a promiſe, that
this occurrence ſhould reſt in ſilence.
.“ Whatever may be the cauſe and the im-
port 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 Dorothée, and
2-
required


( 137 )
Sna
required of her alſo a promiſe of filence,
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 Vil.
leroi's death, with ſome of which he ap-
peared to be already acquainted, while by
others he was evidently ſurpriſed and agi-
tated. After liſtening to this narrative, the
Count retired to his cloſet, where he re.
mained alone for ſeveral hours; and, when
he again appeared, the ſolemnity of his
manner ſurpriſed and alarmed Emily, but
The 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
Monf. St. Foix, and Emily: the latter of
whom was ſoon after embarraſſed and di.
ſtreſſed by the arrival of another viſitor,
Monſ. Du Pont, which made her deter-
mine upon withdrawing to her convent im-
mediately. The delight, that appeared in
his countenance, when he met her, told
that
COI
ho


( 138 )
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 be
trayed.
But M. Du Pont, with truer ſympathy,
ſeemed to underſtand her manner, and his
countenance quickly loſt its vivacity, and
funk into the languor of deſpondency.
On the following day, however, he fought
-an opportunity of declaring the purport of
-his- viſit, and renewed his ſuit ; a declara-
iration, which was received-with real concern
by Emily, who endeavoured to leſſen the
pain the 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 compaſ-
fion; and, being more ſenſible than ever of
the impropriety of remaining longer at the
chateau,


( 139 )
III
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 re-
ceived a fevere ſhock; you believe you can
never entirely recover it, and you will en-
courage this belief, till the habit of in-
dulging ſorrow will ſubdue the ſtrength of
your mind, and diſcolour your future views
with melancholy 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 af.
.fection ; 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
5
is
will


( 140 )
will overcome theſe feelings, unleſs you che-
riſh 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 folemnity, “ for I
have known what it is to love, and to la.
ment the object of my love. Yes," conti-
nued he, while his eyes filled with tears, “I
have ſuffered !--but thoſe times have paſſed
away-lony paſſed! and I can now look
back upon thein without emotion."
: “My dear fir,” ſaid Emily, timidly,
“ what mean thoſe tears ? --they ſpeak, I
fear, another language-they plead for me.”
" They are weak tears, for they are uſe.
leſs ones," replied the Count, drying them,
“ I would have you ſuperior to ſuch weak-
neſs. Theſe; however, are only faint traces
of a grief, which, if it had not been op-
poſed by long continued effort, might have
led me to the verge of madneſs! Judge,
then, whether I have not cauſe to warn you
of
a


( 141 )
of an indulgence, which may produce lo
terrible an effect, and which mult certain-
ly, if not oppoſed, overcloud the years, that
otherwiſe might be happy. M. Du Pont
is a ſenGble 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 happi-
í neſs reſerved for you.”
? He was ſilent a moment; and then add-
ed, in a firmer voice, “ I do not wiſh, that
you ſhould make a violent effort to over-
come 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 poffibie you
may yet be happy; and that you will fome-
times think with complacency of poor Du
Pont,


( 142 )
C
Pont, and not condemn him to the ſtate of
deſpondency, from which, my dear Emily,
I am endeavouring to withdraw you.”
"Ah! my dear fir,” ſaid Einily, while
her tears ſtill fell, 6s do not ſuffer the bene-
volence 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 par-
don 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 per.
mit; but though I forbear to oppoſe your
preſent retirement, 1 ſhall urge the claims
of friendſhip for your future viſits.”
* Tears of gratitude mingled with thoſe
of tender regret, while Emily thanked the
Count


( 143 )
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 pe-
riod, 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 che convent is
ſo near the chateau, that my daughter and
I ſhall often viſit you; and if, fometimes, -
we ſhould dare to bring you another viſitor
-- will you forgive us ?”
Emily looked diſtreffed, and remained
ſilent.
“ Well,” rejoined the Count, “ I will
purſue this ſubject no further, and muſt
now entreat your forgivenefs 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.
7
ị
Emily,


( 144 )
IE
Emily, when ſhe left the Count, went to
mention her intended departure to the
Counteſs, who oppoſed it with polite ex-
preſſions 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 follow-
ing day. M. Du Pont, in extreme regret,
ſaw her depart, while the Count endeavour-
ed 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
fifterly attentions of the nuns. A report of
the late extraordinary occurrence at the cha-
teau 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 men-
tion ſome particulars of that unaccountable
event. Emily was guarded in her conver-
ſation,


( 145 )
ſation 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 ſur-
priſed, when I heard the Count had the te-
inerity to inhabit it. Its former poffeffor, I
fear, had ſome deed of conſcience to atone
for; let us hope that the virtues of its pre-
ſent owner will preſerve him from the
puniſhment due to the errors of the laſt,
if, indeed, he was criminal.” .
“Of what crime, then, was he ſuſpect-
ed?” ſaid a Mademoiſelle Feydeau, a boarder
at the convent. A
« Let us pray for his ſoul !” ſaid a nun,
who had till now fat in ſilent attention.
“If he was criminal, his puniſhment in
this world was ſufficient.”
There was a mixture of wildneſs and fo-
lemnity in her manner of delivering this,
· VOL. IV.
H
.. which


( 146 )
which ſtruck Emily exceedingly; but Ma--
demoiſelle repeated- her queſtion, without
noticing the ſolemn eagernefs of the nun.
: « I dare not preſume to ſay what was his
crime,” replied fifter Frances; “but I have
heard many reports of an extraordinary na
ture, 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 be.
fore ſpoken, and whom they called ſiſter
Agnes.
“ You then,” ſaid Mademoiſelle Fey-
deau, “ are poſſibly acquainted with cir.
cumſtances, that enable you to judge, whe-
ther he was criminal or not, and what was
the crime imputed to him." .
“I am,” replied the nun; « but who
Thall dare to ſcrutinize my thoughts--who
Thall


( 147 )
ſhall dare to pluck out my opinion ? God
only is his judge, and to that judge he is
gone!”
Emily looked with furprife at fifter
Frances, who returned her a ſignificant
glance.
..“ I only requeſted your opinion,” faid
Mademoiſelle Feydeau, mildly; " if the
ſubject is diſpleaſing to you, I will drop it."
“ Diſpleaſing !”—ſaid the nun, with em.
phafis.--" 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
fifter Frances, “ ſhe is often thus; but ſhe
has no meaning in what ſhe ſays. Her in-
tellects are at times deranged. Did you
never ſee her thus before ?”
- Never," ſaid Emily. “I have, indeed,
ſometimes, thought, that there was the me-
H 2
lancholy


( 148 )
lancholy of madneſs in her look, but never
before perceived it in her ſpeech. Pour
fóul, I will pray for her!”
- Your prayers then, my daughter, will
unite with ours,” obſerved the lady abbeſs,
6 ſhe has need of them.”
* Dear lady,” ſaid Mademoiſelle Fey-
deau, addreſſing the abbefs, “ what is your
opinion of the late Marquis ? The ſtrange
circumítances, that have occurred at the
chateau, have ſo much awakened my curi-
oſity, that I ſhall be pardoned the queſtion.
What was his imputed crime, and what
the puniſhment, to which liſter Agnes al-
luded ?”
- 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,
Mariana
I know


( 149 )
I know of none he ſuffered. She probably
alluded to the ſevere one, which an exafpe-
rated conſcience can inflict. Beware, my
children, of incurring ſo terrible a puniſh-
ment-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 facred order need not have bluſhed to
copy her virtues ! Our holy convent re-
- ceived her mortal part ; her heavenly ſpirit,
I doubt not, afcended 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
fins, and endeavour to purify our ſouls for
the heaven to which she is gone!”
Emily was affected by the folemnity of
this exłortation, and, remembering her fa-
ther, " The heaven, to which ke, too, is
gone !” faid ſhe, faintly, as ſhe ſuppreſſed
her ſighs, and followed the abbeſs and the
nuns to the chapel.
H
3
С НА Р. .


(
150)
CH A P. 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, en-
couraging 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 ſub-
ject unneceſſary, ſince it appeared, that the
only perſon, who could have oppoſed her
claim, was now no more. A friend of M.
Queſnel, who refided 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


( 151 )
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 fe-
nate as a very dangerous perfon, was, for
other reaſons, ordered again into confine-
ment, where, it was ſaid, he had died in a
doubtful and myſterious manner, and noç
without ſuſpicion of having been poiſoned,
The authority, from which M. Queſnel
had received this information, would not al-
low 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 aſiſt
in the neceſſary forms of this buſineſs. The
term, for which LaVallée 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 whe:
it would be proper for her to take pofler
fion of the eſtates of the late Madame Mon-
H4
toni;


( 152 )
toni; adding, that he would ſpare her any
difficulties, that might occur on that occa-
ſion 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. Queſ-
nel 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 con.
ficered, that he, for whoſe fake ſhe had once
regretted the want of fortune, was no longer
worthy of ſharing it with her; but, remem-
bering 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 inconfiderable part of her
fatisfa&tion to know, that'La Vallée, her na.
tive home, which was endeared to her by its
having


( 153 )
mean
Uri
Пce
having been the reſidence of her parents,
would ſoon be reſtored to her poffeßion.
There ſhe meant to fix her future reſidence,
for, though it could not be compared with
the chateau at Thulouſe, 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 oftentation. She
wrote immediately to thank M. Queſnel for
the active intereſt he took in her concerns,
and to ſay that ſħe would meet him at Tho-
louſe at the appointed time.
When Count de Villefort, with Blanche,
came to the convent to give Emily the ad-
vite of the advocate, he was informed of the
contenis of M. Queſnel's letter, and gave
her his ſincere congratulations on the occa-
fion; but ſhe obſerved, that, when the firſt
expreſſion of ſatisfaction fiad faded from his
countenance, an unuſual gravity ſucceeded,
and the ſcarcely heſitated to enquire its
cauſe.
" It has no new occafion,” replied the
Count;
HS


( 154 )
Count; “ I am haraſſed and perplexed
by the confuſion into which my family is
thrown by their fooliſh ſuperſtition. Idle
reports are foating 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, fince 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 poffeßion, ſince he diſap-
peared, and I mean to watch in thoſe cham-
bers, myſelf, this very night."
• Emily, ſeriouſly alarmed for the Count,
united her entreaties with thoſe of the Lady
Blanche, to diffuade him from his pur.
poſe.
“What ſhould I fear?” ſaid he. “I
have no faith in ſupernatural combats, and
for human oppoſition I ſhall be prepared ;
nay,


( 155 )
nay, I will even promiſe not to watch.
alone.”
“ But who, dear fir, 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, to-morrow.”
The Count and Lady Blanche, ſhortly
afterwards, took leave of Emily, and re-
turned to the chateau, where he informed
Henri of his intention, who, not without
fome 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 chat ſuch a ſpirit haunts thoſe
chambers can now, I think, ſcarcely be
doubted. Beware, my lord, how you pro-
voke its yengeance, ſince it has already
H6
· given


( 156 )
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;
bue the preſent import may be your de-
ſtruction."
The Count could not forbear ſmiling;
6 Do you think then, Baron," ſaid he," that
my deſtruction is of ſufficient importance 10
draw back to earth the foul of the deparred?
Alas! my good friend, there is no occaſion
for ſuch means to accomplish the deftruc-
tion of any individual. Wherever the niyfo
tery reſts, I truſt I fhall, this night, be able
to detect it. You know I am not fuper-
Atitious." .
« I know that you are incredulous," in-
terrupted the Baron.
:“Well, call it what you will, I meant to
fay, that, though you know I am free from
fuperftition- if any thing fupernatural 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


( 157 )
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 ex-
peet, 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
fpirits, and retired to the north apartments,
accompanied by his ſon, and followed by
the Baron, M. Du Pont and ſome of the do-
meſtics, who all bade hiin 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 viſi-
ble, 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,
fer a bottle of wine and a lamp before them,
laid their ſwords upon the table, and, ftir.
ring the wood into a blaze, began to con-
verfe


( 158 )
verſe on indifferent topics. But Henri was
often filent and abſtracted, and fometimes
threw a glance of mingled awe and curi-
oſity round the gloomy apartment; while
the Count gradually ceaſed to converſe,
and fat either loſt in thought, or reading a
volume of Tacitus, which he had brought
to beguile the tediouſneſs of the night.
obci
CHAP


( 159 )
CHA P. IX.
5 Give thy thoughts no tongue.”
SHAKESPEARE
AKESPEARE
OU
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 imme-
diately 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, en-
deavoured to treat the ſubject of his curio-
ſity with levity; but the Baron was ſerious,
and purſued his enquiries ſo cloſely, that
the Count, at length, reſuming his gravity,
faid, “ Well, my friend, preſs the ſubject
no further, I entreat you ; and let me re-
que ft


f160
W
queſt alſo, that you will hereafter be filent
upon any thing you may think extraordi-
nary in my future conduct. I do not ſcru-
ple to tell you, that I am unhappy, and that
the watch of the laſt night has not aſiſted
nie to diſcover Ludovico; upon every oc-
currence of the night you niult excuſe my
reſerve.”
"But where is Henri ?") faid the Baron,
with ſurpriſe and diſappointment at this de-
nial.
“He is well in his own apartment," re-
plied the Count. “ You will not queſtion
him on this topic, my friend, ſince you
know my wiſh.”
o Certainly not,” ſaid the Baron, fome-
what chagrined, “ ſince it would be diſa
pleaſing 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


(161)
“Let us talk no more upon this ſubject,”
faid the Count; “ you may be aſſured, that
no ordinary circumſtance has impoſed this
filence 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 fincerity of my
friendſhip.”
“I will not doubt either,” ſaid the Baron,
“though you muſt allow me to expreſs my
ſurpriſe, at this filence."
“ 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 appre-
hend
í


( 162 )
hend any thing from the north chambers,
ſince Henri and himſelf had been permitted
to return from them in ſafety. .
Henri, however, was leſs ſucceſsful in
diſguiling his feelings. From his counte-
nance an expreſſion of terror was not entire-
ly faded; he was often ſilent and thought-
ful, 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 play-
ful ridicule and of reſerve in his mention
of the north apartment. Of what had oc-
curred there, however, he ſaid nothing,
and, when ſhe'ventured to remind him of
his promiſe to tell her the reſult of his en
quiries, and to aſk if he had received any
proof that thoſe chambers were haunted, his
look became folemn, for a moment, then,
ſeeming to recollect himſelf, he ſmiled, and
ſaid, “ My dear Emily, do not fuffer my lady
abbeſs to infect your good underſtanding
, with


( 163 )
with theſe fancies; ſhe will teach you to
expect a ghoſt in every dark roon. 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 pafs 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 acqui-
red 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


( 164 )
Emily liſtened in ſilence to the various
opinions of the nuns, concerning the con-
duct of the Count, inoſt of whom condemn-
ed 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 lie
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 proteco
tion !" ſaid fifter Agnes, 6 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 inno.
cence is but comparative. Yet ftill how
wide afunder are the extremes of guilt, and
to what an horrible depth may we fall k
@h! "
The nun, as ſhe concluded, uttered a,
i ſhuddering


( 165 )
Thuddering ſigh, that ſtartled Ernily, who,
looking' up, perceived the eyes of Agnes
fixed on hers; after which the filter 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 Neep now-beware
how you awaken them !- they will ſting
you, even unto death !”
Emily, affe ted by theſe words, and by
the folemnity with which they were deli-
vered, could not ſuppreſs her tears.
"Ah! is it ſo?” exclaimed Agnes, her
countenance ſoftening from its fternneſs
“ 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 expref-
fion, “ no gentleneſs,--no peace, nò hope !
I knew them all once--my eyes could
weep-but now they burn, for now, my
ſoul


( 166 )
foul 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 re-
pent !”
“Who repent and turn to the true faith,”
obſerved Siſter Frances.
« For all but me !" replied Agnes fo.
lemnly, who pauſed, and then abruptly
added, “ My head burns, I believe I am
not well. O! could I ſtrike from my me-
mory all former ſcenes—the figures, that
riſe up, like furies, to torment me! I fee
them, when I Neep, and, when I ain awake,
they are ſtill before niy eyes! I ſee them
now-now !”
She ſtood in a fixed attitude of horror,
her ſtraining eyes moving Nowly round the
room, as if they followed ſomething. One
of the nuns gently took her hand, to lead
her from the parlour. Agnes became calın,
drew her other hand acroſs her eres, looked
again,


( 167 )
again, and, fighing deeply, ſaid, “ They
are gone--they are gone! I ain feveriſh, I
know not what I ſay. I am thus, fome-
times, but it will go off again, I ſhall foon
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
fifters; remember me in your oriſons !"
When they had withdrawn, Frances, ob.
ſerving Emily's emotion, faid, “ Do not be
alarmed, our ſiſter is often thus deranged,
though I have not lately ſeen her ſo fran-
cic; 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 the converſed, at
firſt !” obſerved Emily, “ her ideas followed
each other in perfect order.”
Yes," replied the nun, “.this is no-
thing


( 168 ).
thing 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 circum,
ſtance reduced her to this deplorable con-
dition?"
“I have,” replied the nun, who ſaid no
more till Emily repeated the queſtion, when
ſhe added in a low voice, and looking-ſig-
nificantly 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 attach-
ment


( 169 )
ment to Emily frequently occaſioned him,
an attachment, that had ſubfilted 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 mademoi-
ſelle St. Aubert, his inferior in point of for-
tune, forbade him to declare it to her fa-
mily, 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 admira-
tion; and there he found the miniature, that
had ſince cheriſhed a paſſion fatal to his re-
poſe. During this expedition into Italy, his
Vol. IV.
facher
is
i


( 170 )
I
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 affifted 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 friend.
Jy zeal, to ſooth him with a belief, that pa-
tience, perſeverance and prudence would
finally obtain for him happineſs and Emi-
ly: “ Time,” ſaid he, “ will wear away
the melancholy impreſſion, which diſap-
pointment has left on her mind, and the
will be ſenſible of your merit. Your ſer-
vices 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
11


( 171 )
imagination is reſcued from its preſent de-
luſion, 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 bis
friend believed, he willingly yielded to an
invitation to prolong his viſit at the cha-
teau, 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 the was addreſſing, and, above,
the din lamp, that gave light to the place.
Turning her eyes, as the door opened, the
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
I 2


( 172 :)
as
her emotion, ſat down on the mattreſs by
her, laying, “ Your curioſity, fiſter, 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-fifters, 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 re-
veal it. Love was the occaſion of her crime
and of her madneſs. She was beloved by a
gentleman of inferior fortune, and her fa-
ther, as I have heard, beſtowing her on a
nobleman, whom ſhe diſliked, an ill-go-
verned paſſion proved her deſtruction.-
Every obligation of virtue and of duty was
forgotten, and the prophaned her marriage
vows; but her guilt was ſoon detected, and
Dhe would have fallen a ſacrifice to the ven-
geance


( 373.)
geance 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 ruinour, and
employed ſuch means as induced her huſ-
band 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 in.
tereſted.”
“ 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 The
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, the funk into a
1 3
deep
F


( 174 )
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
fifter, fonie 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 affec-
tions, for a nobleman of his choice; but,
from what Dorothée had related, there ap-
peared no reaſon to fuppofe; that ſhe had
eſcaped the vengeance of a jealous huſband,
or to doubt for a moment the innocence of
her conduct. But Emily, while the lighed
over the miſery of the nun, could not for-
bear ſhedding a few tears to the misfortunes
of the Marchioneſs; and, when ſhe return-
ed to the mention of fifter Agnes, the 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
fo long ago, that few of the preſent fiſter.
hood,


( 175 )
are
ter
lood, I believe, were witneſſes of the cere-
mony; nay, even our lady mother did not
then preſide over the convent: but I can re-
member, when ſiſter Agnes was a very beau-
tiful woman. She retains that air of high
rank, which always diſtinguiſhed her, but
her beauty, you muſt perceive, is filed ; I
can ſcarcely diſcover even a veftige of the
lovelineſs, that once animated her features.”
: " It is ſtrange,” ſaid Emily,“ but there
are moments, when her countenance has ap-
peared familiar to my meniory! You will
think me fanciful, and I think myſelf ſo, for
I certainly never ſaw fifter 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 recol-
lection."
“ You have been intereſted by the deep
melancholy of her countenance," ſaid Fran-
ces, “ and its impreſſion has probably de-
luded your imagination; for I might as rea-
ſonably think I perceive a likeneſs between
you and Agnes, as you, that you have ſeen
14
her


( 16 )
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 ſur-
priſe ?"
Emily did not appear to notice this queſ.
tion, but remained thoughiful, 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 foon came back to the ſubject of the un-
happy nun, and Emily remained in the cell
of fifter Frances, till the mid-night bell
arouſed her; when, apologizing for having
interrupted the ſiſter's repoſe, till this lace
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


( 177 )
Several days followed, during which
Emily law neither the Count, or any of his
family; and, when, at length, he appeared,
ſhe remarked, with concer
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 Pyrenées, that opens to-
wards Gaſcony, and I have been thinking,
Emily, that when you ſet out for La Val-
lée, we'may go part of the way together ;;
is would be a ſatisfaction to me to guardi
· you towards your home."
She thanked the Count for his friendly:
conſideration, and lamented, that the necel-
fity for her going firſt to Tholouſe would
render this plan impracticable. “ But, when
you are at the Baron's reſidence,” he added,
“you will be only a ſhort journey from la
15.
Vallée,


( 178)
Vallée, and I think, fir, you will not leave
the country without viſiting me; it is unne-
ceſſary 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 Vallée, 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 converſa-
tion 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 Tholonſe, that La
Vallée was at liberty, and that he wilhed
her to ſet off for the former place, where he
awaited her arrival, with all poſlible diſ-
patch, ſince his own affairs preſſed him to
return


( 179 )
return to Gaſcony. Emily did not heſitate
to obey him, and, having taken an affecting
Count's family, in which M.
Du Pont was ſtill included, and of her
friends at the convent, ſhe ſet out for Tho-
louſe, attended by the unhappy Annette,
and guarded by a ſteady ſeryant of the
Count.
--
Se
n
-
Pula
I 6
CHAP.
-


(158)
verſe on indifferent topics. But Henri was
often ſilent and abſtracted, and fometimes
threw a glance of mingled awe and curi-
oſity round the gloomy apartment; while
the Count gradually ceaſed to converſe,
and fat either loſt in thought, or reading a
volume of Tacitus, which he had brought
to beguile the tediouſneſs of the night.
СНАР.


( 159 )
. CH A P. IX.
66 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 imme-
diately 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 ſiniling, en-
deavoured to treat the ſubject of his curio-
fity with levity ; but the Baron was ſerious,
and purſued his enquiries ſo cloſely, that
the Count, at length, reſuming his gravity,
faid, “ Well, my friend, preſs the ſubject
no further, I entreat you ; and let me re-
que it


f 10 )
queſt alſo, that you will hereafter be filent
upon any thing you may think extraordi-
nary in my future conduct. I do not ſcru-
ple to tell you, that I amr unhappy, and trat
the watch of the laſt night has not affifted
ne to diſcover Ludovico; upon every oc-
currence of the night you nuſt excufe niy
reſerve."
"But where is Henri ?” ſaid the Baron,
with ſurpriſe and diſappointment at this de
nial.
"He is well in his own apartment," re-
plied the Count. “ You will not queſtion
him on this topic, my friend, ſince you
know my wiſh."
o Certainly not," ſaid the Baron, fone-
what chagrined, “ ſince it would be diſa
pleaſing 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.”
66 Let


( 161 )
“Let us talk no more upon this ſubject,”
faid the Count; “ you may be aſſured, that
no ordinary circumítance has impoſed this
filence 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 fincerity of my
friendſhip."
“I will not doubt either," ſaid the Baron,
" though you muſt allow me to expreſs my
ſurpriſe, at this filence."
" 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 appre-
hend


( 162 )
hend any thing from the north chambers,
ſince Henri and himſelf had been permitted
to return from them in ſafety.
Henri, however, was lefs ſucceſsful in
'diſguiſing his feelings. From his counte-
nance an expreſſion of terror was not entire-
ly faded; he was often ſilent and thought-
ful, 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 play-
ful ridicule and of referve in his mention
of the north apartment. Of what had oc-
curred there, however, he faid nothing,
and, when the ventured to remind him of
his promiſe to tell her the reſult of his en
quiries, 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 fuffer my lady
abbeſs to infect your good underſtanding
with


( 163 )
?
with theſe fancies; ſhe will teach you to
expect a ghoſt in every dark room. But
believe me,” added he, with a profound
figh, “ 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
US
:
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 me 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 acqui-
red 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


( 164 )
Emily liſtened in ſilence to the various
opinions of the nuns, concerning the con-
duct of the Count, inoſt of whom condemn-
ed it as raſh and preſumptuous, affirmingy
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 fpirit, and did
not fear the ſpells of an evil one, ſince lie
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 protec-
tion !” ſaid lifter 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 inno.
cence is but comparative. Yet ftill how
wide aſunder are the extremes of guilt, and
to what an horrible depth may we fall }
Oh! "
The nun, as ſhe concluded, urtered a,
, ſhuddering


( 165 )
Thuddering ligh, that ſtartled Emily, who,
looking up, perceived the eyes of Agnes
fixed on hers; after which the fifter 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 neep now-beware
how you awaken them !- they will ſting
you, even unto death !”
Emily, affe ted by theſe words, and by
the folemnity with which they were deli-
vered, could not ſuppreſs her tears.
"Ah! is it ſo?” exclaimed Agnes, her
countenance ſoftening from its ſternneſs
« ſo young, and ſo unfortunate! We are
filters, then, indeed. Yet, there is no bond
of kindneſs among the guilty,” ſhe added,
while her eyes reſumed their wild expreſ-
fion, “ no gentleneſs,-no peace, no hope !
I knew them all once--my eyes could
weep-but now they burn, for now, my
foul
A


( 166 )
foul is fixed, and fearleſs !-1 lament no
more !"
« Rather let us repent and pray,” faid
another nun. “ We are taught to hope,
that prayer and penitence will work our
ſalvation. There is hope for all who re-
pent !”
“Who repent and turn to the true faith,”
obſerved fifter Frances.
“ For all but me!” replied Agnes fo.
lemnly, who pauſed, and then abruptly
added, " My head burns, I believe I am
not well. O! could I ſtrike from my me-
mory all former ſcenes-the figures, that
riſe up, like furies, to torment me!-I fee
them, when I neep, and, when I am awake,
they are ſtill before niy eyes! | lee them
now-now!"
She ſtood in a fixed attitude of horror,
her ſtraining eyes moving lowly round the
room, as if they followed ſomething. One
of the nuns gently took her hand, to lead
her from the parlour. Agnes became calın,
drew her other hand acroſs her eyes, looked
again,


( 167 )
again, and, ſighing deeply, ſaid, “ They
are gone-they are gone! I ain feveriſh, I
know not what I ſay. I ain thus, ſome-
times, but it will go off again, I ſhall foon
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,
e I ſhall be better there. Good night, my
fifters; remember me in your oriſons !"
When they had withdrawn, Frances, ob.
ferving Emily's emotion, faid, “ Do not be
alarmed, our ſiſter is often thus deranged,
though I have not lately ſeen her ſo fran-
cic; 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 the converſed, at
firſt !” obſerved Emily, “ her ideas followed
each other in perfect order."
* Yes," replied the nun, “this is no-
thing


( 168 )
a mom
thing 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 circum,
ſtance reduced her to this deplorable con-
dition?”
" I have,” replied the nun, who ſaid no
more till Emily repeated the queſtion, when
ſhe added in a low voice, and looking-ſig-
nificantly 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 attach-
ment


( 169 )
i
ment 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 mademoi-
ſelle St. Aubert, his inferior in point of for-
tune, forbade him to declare it to her fa-
mily, 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,
Toothed 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 admira-
tion; and there he found the miniature, that
had ſince cheriſhed a paſſion fatal to his re-
poſe. During this expedition into Italy, his
VOL. IV.
father
,


( 170 )
=
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 friend-
ly zeal, to ſooth him with a belief, that pa-
tience, perſeverance and prudence would
finally obtain for him happineſs and Emi-
ly: “ Time," ſaid he, “ will wear away
the melancholy impreſſion, which diſap.
pointment has left on her mind, and ſhe
will be ſenſible of your merit. Your ſer-
vices 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


( 171 )
imagination is reſcued from its preſent de-
luſion, 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 cha-
teau, 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 the 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
I 2
her


( 172 )
her emotion, ſat down on the mattreſs by
her, laying, “ Your curioſity, fiſter, 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-fifters, only becauſe I
would not publiſh her crime to them.”
“I ſhall conſider your confidence in me
as a favour," ſaid Einily, “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 re-
veal it. Love was the occaſion of her crime
and of her madneſs. She was beloved by a
gentleman of inferior fortune, and her fa-
ther, as I have heard, beltowing her on a
nobleman, whom ſhe diſliked, an ill-go-
verned paffion proved her deſtruction,
Every obligation of virtue and of duty was
forgotten, and the prophaned her marriage
vows; but her guilt was ſoon detected, and
Die would have fallen a ſacrifice to the ven-
geance


( 173. }
geance 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 ruinour, and
einployed ſuch means as induced her huſ-
band 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 Emilý, “I am in-
tereſted."
- 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 the
had taken upon herſelf in becoming of our
order, at length unſettled her reaſon. Ac.
firſt, ſhe was frantic and melancholy by
quick alternatives; then, die ſunk into a
.. . 13
deep


( 174 )
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
fifter, fonie 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 affec-
tions, for a nobleman of his choice; but,
from what Dorothée had related, there ap-
peared no reaſon to fuppofe, that ſhe had
eſcaped the vengeance of a jealous huſband,
or to doubt for a moment the innocence of
her conduct. But Emily, while he lighed
over the miſery of the nun, could not for-
bear ſhedding a few tears to the misfortunes
of the Marchioneſs; and, when Mhe return
ed to the mention of fiſter 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 fifter.
hood,


( 175 )
1.
lood, I believe, were witneſſes of the cere-
mony; nay, even our lady mother did not
then preſide over the convent: but I can re-
member, when filter Agnes was a very beau-
tiful woman. She retains that air of high
rank, which always diſtinguiſhed her, buc
her beauty, you muſt perceive, is filed; I
can ſcarcely diſcover even a veftige of the
lovelineſs, that once animated her features.”
." It is ſtrange,” ſaid Emily, but there
are moments, when her countenance has ap-
peared familiar to my meniory! You will
think me fanciful, and I think myſelf ſo, for
I certainly never ſaw fiſter 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 recol-
lection."
“ You have been intereſted by the deep
melancholy of her countenance,” ſaid Fran.
ces, “ and its impreſſion has probably de-
luded your imagination; for I might as rea-
ſonably think I perceive a likeneſs between
you and Agnes, as you, that you have ſeen
14
her


(1:6 )
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 ſur-
priſe ş"
Emily did not appear to notice this queſ-
tion, 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.
Émily, recalled from her reverie, ſmiled,
and gave the converſation another turn, but
it foon came back to the ſubject of the un.
happy nun, and Einily remained in the cell
of fifter Frances, till the mid-night belt
arouſed her; when, apologizing for having
interrupted the ſiſter's repoſe, till this lace
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


( 170 )
!
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 affifted 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 ftill endeavoured, with friend-
dy zeal, to ſooth him with a belief, that pa-
tience, perſeverance and prudence would
finally obtain for him happineſs and Emi-
ly: “ Time," ſaid he, “ will wear away
the melancholy impreſſion, which diſap-
pointment has left on her mind, and the
will be ſenſible of your merit. Your ſera
vices 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


( 171 )
imagination is reſcued from its preſent de
luſion, 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 cha-
teau, 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 the 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 foon 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
I 2
her


( 1723)
her emotion, ſat down on the mattreſs by
her, laying, “ Your curioſity, fiſter, 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-fifters, only becauſe I
would not publiſh her crime to them.”
"I ſhall conſider your confidence in me
as a favour," ſaid Einįly, “and will not
miſuſe it.”
« Sifter Agnes," reſumed the nun, « is
of a noble family, as the dignity of her air
muft already have informed you, but I will
not diſhonour their name ſo much as to re-
veal it. Love was the occaſion of her crime
and of her madneſs. She was beloved by a
gentleman of inferior fortune, and her fa-
ther, as I have heard, beſtowing her on a
nobleman, whom ſhe diſliked, an ill-go-
verned paſſion proved her deitruction,
Every obligation of virtue and of duty was
forgotten, and the prophaned her marriage
vows; but her guilt was ſoon detected, and
Die would have fallen a ſacrifice to the ven-
geance


(373.)
geance 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
einployed ſuch means as induced her huſ-
band 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,
J believe, without a parallel."
“Pray proceed," ſaid Emily, “I am in-
tereſted.”
“ 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 the
had taken upon herſelf in becoming of our
order, at length unſettled her reaſon. Ac.
firſt, ſhe was frantic and melancholy by
quick alternatives; then, ſhe funk into a
1 3
deep


( 178 )
Vallée, and I think, fir, you will not leave
the country without viſiting me; it is unne-
ceffary 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 Vallée, 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 converſa-
tion 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
Vallée was at liberty, and that he wiſhed
her to ſet off for the former place, where he
awaited her arrival, with all poſſible diſ-
patch, ſince his own affairs preſſed him to
return


( 179 )
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 Tho.
louſe, attended by the unhappy Annette,
and guarded by a ſteady ſervant of the
Count.
J6
CHAP.


( 180 )
c H A P.
1.
“ 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 Langue-
doc towards the north-weſt; and, on this
her return to Tholouſe, which ſhe had laſt
left with Madame Montoni, the 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 paffed—and he had no longer
the power, or the will to afflict ;-he had
become


( 181 )
become a clod of earth, and his life was
vaniſhed like a ſhadow! Emily could have
wept at his fate, had the not remembered
his crimes; for that of her unforlunare aunt
ſhe did weep, and all ſenſe of her errors was
sovercome by the recollection of her misfor.
tunes.
Other thoughts and other emotions ſuc-'
ceeded, 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, fhe 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 Va.
lancourt, and where he was then to inhabit,
when ſhe would be far, far away! She ſaw,
once more, that chain of the Pyrenées, which
overlooked La Vallée, rifing, like faint
clouds, on the horizon. “ There, too, is
Galcony, extended at their feet!” ſaid ſhe,
“O my father, my mother! And there
- too, is the Garonne !” ſhe added, drying
the


( 182 )
the tears, that obſcured her fight," and
Tholouſe, and my aunt's manſion-and the
groves in her garden! O my friends! are
ye all loſt to me-muft 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 reflec-
tions and anticipations, which ſhe had fuf.
fered, 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 Va.
lancourt, and what depreſſing fears had af-
failed her; the very words ſhe had uttered,
as ſhe withdrew her laſt look from the pro.
fpect, 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


( 183 )
Now, that futurity, ſo anxiouſly antici-
pated, 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 contem-
plating his image in her heart, for he was
no longer the ſame Valancourt ſhe had che.
riſhed there the ſolace of many a mourn-
ful hour, the animating friend, that had en-
abled her to bear up againſt the oppreſſion
of Montoni-the diſtant hope, that had
beamed over her gloomy proſpect ! On per-
ceiving this beloved idea to be an illuſion of
her own creation, Valancourt ſeemed to be
annihilated, and her ſoul fickened at the
blank, that remained. His marriage with
a rival, even his death, ſhe thought. The
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


( 184 )
ce
retu
upon the landſcape, which had excited them,
and perceived, that ſhe was paſſing the very
bank, where ſhe had taken leave of Valan-
court, on the morning of hier departure from
Tholoufe, and me 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 mourns::
frilly againſt the high trees; and remembered
the fixed look of mingled tenderneſs and
anguiſh, with which he had then regardedi
her. This recollection was too much for:
her heart; and the fork back in the carriage,
nor once. looked up, till it ſtopped at the
gates of what was now her own manfion).
Theſe being opened, and by the ſervant,
to w.boſe care the chateau bad been entruſt.
ed, the carriage drove into the court, where,
alighting, the baſtily 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, the found a letrer
from him, informing her, that buſineſs of
con-


( 185 )
conſequence had obliged him to leave Tho-
louſe two days before. Emily was, upon
the whole, not ſorry to be ſpared his pre-
fence, 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 buſinefs, which remained for
her to tranfact. But M. Queſnel's unkind-
neſs did not long occupy her thoughts,
which returned to the remembrance of the
perſons fhe had been accuſtomed to ſee in this
manhon, and chiefly of theill-guided and un-
fortunate Madame Montoni. In the room,
where ſhe now-fat, ſhe had breakfafted with
her on the morning of their departure for
Italy; and the view of it brought moſt for-
cibly to her recollection all Me had herſelf
fuffered, at that time, and the many gay ex-
pectations, which her aunt had formed, re-
ſpecting the journey before her. While
Emily's mind was thus engaged, her eyes.
wandered


( 186 )
ex
ave
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 Va.
lancourt, on the eve of her journey ;, anil.
all the anxiety, the tender intereſt he had
ſhewn concerning her future happineſs, his
earneſt remonftrances againſt her commit-
ting 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 recol-
lections, which the view of this avenue oc-
caſioned, ſhe turned abruptly from the win,
dow, and ſunk into a chair beſide it, where
The fat, given up to grief, till the entrance
of Annette, with coffee, arouſed her.
“Dear madam, how melancholy this place
looks


( 187 )
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 the had taken the
coffee, ſhe retired to her apartment, where
the endeavoured to repoſe her fatigued ſpi-
rits. But buſy memory would ſtill ſupply
her with the viſions of former times: ſhe
faw Valancourt intereſting and benevolent,
as he had been wont to appear in the days
of their early love, and, amidſt ihe 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 occua
pation recovered her from ſuch melancholy
reflections ; for, being deſirous of quitting
Tholouſe, and of haſtening on to La Val-
lée, ſhe made ſome enquiries into the condi-
tion of the eſtate, and immediately dif-
patched a part of the neceſſary buſineſs,
concerning
es


( 188 )
concerning it, according to the directions of
Monſ. Queſnel. It required a ſtrong effort
to abſtract her thoughts from other intereſts
fufficiently to attend to this, but ſhe was re-
warded for her exertions by again experi.
encing, that employment is the fureſt anti-
dote to forrow.
This day was devoted entirely to buſi
neſs; and, among other concerns, ſhe em
ployed 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 the thought ſhe could
bear to viſit the gardens, where ſhe had ſo
often walked with Valancourt; and, know-
ing, that, if the delayed to do ſo, their
ſcenes would only affect her the more,
whenever they Nhould be viewed, ſhe took
advantage of the preſent ſtate of her mind
and entered them. .
Paffing haſtily the gate leading from the:
court into the gardens, ſhe hurried up the
great avenue, Icarcely permitting her me.
mory
N
.


e 189 )
mory to dwell for a moment on the circum-
ſtance of her having here parted with Valan-
court, 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 heſi-
tated whether to aſcend, but, her reſolution
returning, the proceeded.
6 Ah!” ſaid Emily, as ſhe aſcended,
er theſe are the ſame high trees, that uſed to
Wave over the terrace, and there the fainç
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 !- when
Jaſt I ſaw them!”-Shechecked the thought,
but could not reſtrain her tears, and, after
walking Nowly on for a few moments, her
agitation, upon the view of this well-known
ſcene, increaſed ſomuch, that ſhe was obliged
to ſtop, and lean upon the wall of the ter-
race. It was a mild, and beautiful evening.
The


( 190 )
The ſun was ſetting over the extenſive land.
{cape, to which his beams, noping from be-
neath a dark cloud, that overhúng 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
fame hour; and it was exactly on this ſpot,
that, on the night preceding her departure
for Italy, ſhe had liſtened to his remon-
ſtrances againſt the journey, and to the
pleadings of paſſionate affection. Soine ob.
fervations, which ſhe made on the landſcape,
brought this to her remembrance, and with
it all the ininute particulars of that conver-
ſation ;-the alarming doubts he had ex-
preſſed concerning Montoni, doubts, which
had ſince been fatally confirmed; the rea-
ſons and entreaties he had employed to pre-
vail with her tº conſent to an immediate
marriage; the tenderneſs of his love, the
paroxyſms of his grief, and the conviction
he had repeatedly expreſſed, that they ſhould
never


( 191 )
never meet again in happineſs! All thefe
circumſtances roſe afreth 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 recol.
lections came to her mind, “ and what
have I gained by the fortitude I then prac-
tiſed ?-am I happy now ?-He ſaid, we
hould 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 the had formerly exerted,
if it had not conducted her to happineſs,
had faved her from irretrievable misfortune
from


. ( 192 )
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 confpired to
betray Valancourt into a courſe of life ſo
different from that, which the virtues, the
taſte, and the purſuits of his early years
had promiſed; but ſhe ſtill loved him too
well to believe, that his heart was even how
depraved, though his conduct had been cri. .
minal. 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 ne.
ver been at Paris ;' a renark, that had ſur-
priſed her at the time it was uttered, but
which ſhe now underſtood, and ſhe ex-
claimed ſorrowfully, “ O Valancourt ! if
ſuch a friend as my father had been with
you at Paris--your noble, ingenuous na-
ture would not have fallen!”
The ſun was now ſet, and, recalling her
thoughts from their melancholy ſubject, The
con


. ( 193 )
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
Aowery thickets, that bounded the terrace,
was awakened by the cool evening air,
which foated 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 Valan.
court, before her departure from Tholouſe,
had ſo unexpectedly taken place. The
door was now ſhut, and ſhe trembled, while
The heſitated whether to open it; but her
wiſh to ſee again a place, which had been
the chief fcene of her former happineſs, ac
length overcoming her reluctance to en.
counter the painful regret it would renew,
the entered. The room was obſcured by a
melancholy fade; but through the open
- lattices, darkened by the hanging foliage of
„Vol. IV.
K
the


( 194 )
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 fet
out for Italy. The filent and deſerted air
of the place added folemnity to her emo-
tions, for the heard only the low whiſper
of the breeze, as it ſhook the leaves of the
vines, and the very faint munnur of the
Garonne.
She feated herſelf in a chair, near the lat.
tice, 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 hiin, when her aunt favoured the
connection, for here ſhe had often fat and
worked, while he converſed, or read; and
The now well remembered with what diſa.
criminating


[ 195 )
criminating judgment, with what tempered
energy, he uſed to repeat ſome of the ſub-
limeſt 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 poiſible," ſaid Emily, as
theſe recollections returned " is it poſſible,
that a mind, ſo ſuſceptiblc of whatever is
grand or beautiful, could ſtoop to low
purſuits, and be ſubdued by frivolous temp-
tations?"
She remeinbered how often the had ſeen
the ſudden tear ſtart in his eye, and had
heard his voice tremble with emocion,
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 recollečtions becoming too painful
to be endured, The abruptly left the pavi-
lion, and, anxious to eſcape from the me-
morials
K2


( 197 )
vouring to recollect the figure, air and fea-
tures of the perſon ſhe had juſt ſeen. Her
view of him, however, had been ſo tran-
ſient, and the gloom had rendered it fu im-
perfect, that ſhe could remember nothing
with exactneſs; yet the general appear-.
ance of his figure, and his abrupt depar-
fure, made her ſtill believe, that this per-
ſon was Valancourt. Sometimes, indeed,
fhe thought, that her fancy, which had
been occupied by the idea of him, had
fuggefted his image to her uncertain ſight:
but this conjecture was fleeting. If it was
himſelf, whom the had ſeen, the wondered
much, that he ſhould be at Tholouſe, and
more, how he had gained adinittance 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 paffed in anxious conjecture,
and in efforts to diſmiſs the ſubject from
her thoughts. But, theſe endeavours were
K 3. ineffectual,


( 198 )
ineffectual, and a thouſand inconſiſtent
emotions affailed her, whenever ſhe fancied
that Valancourt might be near her; now, ine
dreaded it to be true, and now the feared it
to be falſe ; and, while ſhe conſtantly tried
to perſuade herſelf, that ſhe wiſhed the per-
fon, whom ſhe had leen, might not be Va-
lancourt, her heart as conſtantly contradict-
ed her reaſon.
The following day was occupied by the
viſits of ſeveral neighbouring families, for-
merly 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 ſituacion; all which was
done with the utmoſt decorum, and the vi-
fitors departed with as much compoſure as
they had arrived.
Emily was wearied by theſe formalities,
and diſguſted by the fubfervient manners of
many perſons, who had thought her ſcarce-
ly


:) ( 199 )
Ly worthy of common attention, while ſhe
was believed to be a dependant on Madame
Montoni.
“ Surely,” ſaid ſhe, “there is ſome ma.
gic in wealth, which can thus make per.
fons pay their court to it, when it does not
even benefit themfelves. How ftrange it
is, that a fool or a knave, with riches,
Thould be treated with more reſpect by the
world, than a good man, or a wiſe man in
poverty!” . ..:
It was evening, jefore 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, left ſhe ſhould meet
again the perſon, whom ſhe had ſeen on
the preceding night, and he ſhould prove
to be Valancourt. The ſuſpenſe and anx-.
iety 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 prompt-
ed her to go, but prudence and a delicate
K 4
pride


( 200 )
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 ven-
tured thither, ſhe made Annette her com-
panion, and confined her walk to the lower
grounds, but often ſtarted as the leaves-
ruſtled in the breeze, imagining, that ſome
perfon was among the thickets; and, at the
turn of every alley, ſhe looked forward
with apprehenſive expectation. She pur-
ſued her walk thoughtfully and filently,
for her agitation would not fuffer her to:
converfe with Annette, to whom, however,
thought and filence were ſo intolerable, thar
The 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: fakering voice, and trying to command
her emotion.
r. The


( 201 )
ne
“ The night before laſt, you know, ma-
dam"
" I know nothing, Annette,” replied
her lady in a more hurried voice.
« The night before lait, 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 ?” re:
joined Emily, looking round her, and turn-
ing 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 fome-
body 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
K 5
came


(202)
came out into the court to watch him. .
Preſently, he ſees him come Nowly 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 ſet-
tled what window he ſhould break in at.”
...“ But the gun,” ſaid Emily~" the
gun!”
“ Yes, madam, all in good time. Pre-
ſently, 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
hiin 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 fo
pale, madam: The man was not killed,
I dare fay; but if he was, his comrades
carried him off: for, when Jean went in the
4 de out morning,


( 203 )
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
fpirits 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 delired 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 poſible ſhe might receive of Valan-
court. Having diſmiſſed Annette, that ſhe
might weep and think at liberty, ſhe endea-
voured to recollect the exact air of the per-
fon, whom ſhe had ſeen on the terrace, and
ſtill her fancy gave her the figure of Va..
lancourt. She had, indeed, ſcarcely, a,
K6
doubt,


į ( 204 )
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 lo
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 repri-
manding him, for having fired with bullets,
and ordering diligent enquiry to be made
in the neighbourhood for the diſcovery of
the wounded perſon, ſhe diſmiſfed 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
the conſidered the ſubject, the more her
conviction ſtrengthened, that it was he,
who


( 205 )
who had viſited the gardens, for the pura
poſe of ſoothing the miſery of diſappointed
affection, amidft the ſcenes of his former
happineſs.
“ Déar madam,” ſaid Annette, when
The returned, " I never ſaw you fo 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 fo 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 the
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


( 206 )
the agonizing conſiderations that had affaila:
ed her before, but which ſhe, at length, en-:
deavoured to ſooth by a new remark. If
the ſtranger was Valancourt, it was cer-
tain he hari coine alone, and it appeared,
therefore, that he had been able to quit the
gardens, without aſiſtance; a circumſtance
which did not ſeem probable, had his wound
been dangerous. With this conſideration,
The endeavoured to lupport herlelf, during
the enquiries, that were making by her
ſervants in the neighbourhood; but day
after day came, and ſtill cloſed in uncer-
tainty, concerning this affair: and Emily,
ſuffering in ſilence, ac length, drooped,
and ſunk under the preffure of her anxiety..
She was attacked by a flow fever, and when
ſhe yielded to the perſuaſion of Annette to
ſend for medical advice, the phyſicians pre.
ſcribed 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 pro-
nioting


( 207 )
moting that happinefs in others, which the
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 fuch obſerva-
ons, as often enabled her, unaſked, to fulfil
their wiſhes.
Her indiſpoſition, and the buſineſs ſhe
engaged in, relative to this eſtate, had al-
'ready protracted her ſtay at Tholouſe be-
yond the period ſhe had formerly fixed for
her departure to La Vallée; 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 Vallée, a letter from
the Lady Blanche now informing her, that
the. Count and herſelf, being then at the
chateau of the Baron St. Foix, propoſed to
viſit her at La Vallée, 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,
was
her


( 208 )
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 Val-
lée in a few days, made haſty preparations
for the journey; and, in thus leaving Tho-
louſe, endeavoured to ſupport herſelf with
a belief, that, if any fatal accident had hap.
pened to Valancourt, ſhe muſt in this in.
terval 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-fer,
had cooled the air, and given that ſoft ver-
dure to the woods and paſtures, which is ſo
refreſhing to the eye ; while the rain-drops,
ftill 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
wit's


( 209 )
wich delighe; ſhe fighed 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 Val-
lée, without tears, and ſeemed to mourn
again the death of her father, as if it had
been an event of yeſterday. Having reach-
ed the pavilion, ſhe ſeated herſelf at the
open lattice, and, while her eyes fectled on
the diſtant mountains, that overlooked Gaf-
cony, ſtill gleaming on the horizon, though
the ſun had now left the plains below,
« Alas !” ſaid ſhe, “ I return to your long-
loft ſcenes, but ſhall meet no more the pa-
rents that were wont to render them delight-
ful!--no more ſhall ſee the ſmile of wel.
come, 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 re-
membrance of what that home had been
returned to her ; but, after indulging her
ſorrow for ſome time, the checked it, ac-
cuſing herſelf of ingratitude in forgetting -
the


( 210 )
the friends, that ſhe poffeffed, while ſhe la
mented thoſe that were departed; and ſhe,
at length, left the pavilion and the terrace,
without having obſerved a ſhadow of Valan-
court or of any other perſon. .
|
C H
A P.


( 211 )
| C
H
A
P.
XI.
- " Ah happy hills ! ah pleaſing ſhade!
Ah fields belov'd in vain!
Where once my careleſs childhood fray'd, .
A ſtranger yet to pain!
I feel the galės, that from ye blow,
A momentary bliſs beſtow
As waving freſh their gladſome wing,
My weary ſoul they ſeem to ſooth."
. GRAY
O n the following morning, Emily left
Tholouſe at an early hour, and reached La
Vallée about ſun-ſet. With the melancholy
The 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 the now courted every ſcene
that awakened the me:nory of her friends ;
in every room where the had been accul.
tomed


( 214 )
Thy farewel imile, with food regret, I view,
Thy beaming lights, ſoft gliding o’er the woods;
Thy diſant landſcape, touch'd with yellow hue
While falls the lengthen’d gicam ; thy winding foods,
Now veil'd in ſhade, ſave where the ſkiff's white fails
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,
Thusjoy ſucceeds to grief-thus (miles the varied man !
tu
One of Emily's earlieſt enquiries, afrer
her arrival at La Vallée, was concerning
Thercſa, her father's old fervant, whom it
may be remembered that M. Queſnel had
turred from the houſe when it was let, with-
out any proviſion. Underſtanding that ſhe
lived in a cottage at no great diſtance, Emily
walked thither, and, on approaching, was
pleaſed to fee, that her habitation was plea.
ſantly ſituated on a green ſlope, ſheltered by
a luft 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 overco.me with joy.
" Ah!


( 215 )
* Ah! my dear young lady !” ſaid ſhe,
"I thought I ſhould never fee you again in
this world, when I heard you was gone to
that outlandilh country. I have been hard.
ly 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.
There ſa thanked her with tears, adding,
“ Yes, madenoiſelle, it is a very comfort-
able 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"
i “ 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-1 muſt not
ſay who it was. But how you are altered
fince I ſaw you laſt! You look fo pale now,
. .
. . and


( 216
and fo thin, too; but then, there is my old
inafter'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," faid
The, “ that Madame Cheron married a fo-
reign gentleman, afcer all, and took you
abroad; how does ſhe do ?”
Emily now mentioned her death.“ Alas!"
faid Thereſa, “if ſhe had not been my ma-
ſter's fifter, 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 niuch agitated.
“ A bleſſing on him!” continued The-
refa. "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, mademoi.
felle,


( 217 )
felle, he uſed to come to the chateau, and
walk about it, ſo diſconfolate! 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
fit, and think, and think, for the hour to-
gether. He uſed to be very fond of the
ſouth parlour, becauſe I told him it uſed to
be yours; and there he would ſtay, look.
! ing 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 ſun-fet, and then he muſt go back to
his brother's chateau. And then "
o - It is enough, Thereſa,” ſaid Emily: -
« How long have you lived in this cottage
-and how can I ſerve you ? will you re-
main here, or return and live with me?"
| ( Nay, ma’annfelle !” faid Therefa, 1 do
d not be 'ſo ſhy to your poor old ſervant,
Do I am ſure it is no diſgrace to like ſuch a
es good young gentleman.”
bi VOL. IV. L.
A deep


( 218 )
· A deep figh 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 hap-
pened to go that way, and I heard ſome-
body 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 fo! and ſaid he had loſt you for
ever, for that you would never return for
him. I thought he was out in his reckon.
ing there, but I ſaid nothing, and ſtole
away."
. «No i


( 219 )
- 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 Cheva.
lier'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
maiter and you, mademoiſelle."
6. Perhaps your love was not well bea
ftowed, then,” replied Emily, trying to con-
ceal her tears ; " but, however that might
be, we (hall meer no more.".
« Meet no more !-- not well beſtowed !"
exclaimed Thereſa. 6 What do I hear ?
No, mademoiſelle, my love was well be.
ſtowed, for it was the Chevalier Valan-
court, who gave me this cottage, and has
fupported me in my old age, ever ſince
M. Queſnel turned me from my maſter's
houſe."
L2
66 The


(220)
. « The Chevalier Valancourt!" ſaid Emi.
ly, 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 render 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 bademe go to ſerviceagain-Alas! Iwas
too old for that !- 'I he Chevalier found
me, and bought me this cottage, and gave
me inoney 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 ſup-
ported me in comfort. Think then, ma-
demoiſelle, 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 him.
ſelf by his generoſity, for quarter day is
u 9
gone


( 221 )
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 Cheva-
lier'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.”
66 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 faid, 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 Va-
lancourt, was now ſcarcely endurable,
and, ſince propriety would not ſuffer her
to ſend to the chateau of his brother, ſhe
L3
requeſted


( 222
222 )
requeſted that Thereſa would immediately
hire fome perfon to go to his ſteward from
herſelf, and, when he afked for the quarter-
age due to her, to make enquiries concern-
ing Valancourt. But ſhe firſt made The-
reſa promiſe never to mention her name in
this affair, or ever with that of the Cheva-
Jier Valancourt; and her former faithfulneſs
10 M. St. Aubert induced Emily to confide
in her aſſurances. Therefa now joyfully
undertook to procure a perſon for this er-
rand, and then Emily, after giving her a
ſum of money to ſupply her with prefent
comforts, returned, with ſpirits heavily op-
preffed, to her home, lamenting, more than
ever, that an heart, pofleffed of fo much
benevolence as Valancourt's, ſhould have
been contaminated by the vices of the
world, but affected by the delicate affec-
tion; which his kindneſs to her old fervant
expreſſed for herſelf.
CHAP


( 224 )
over fome of the wildeſt tract of the Pyre.
nées, 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 boalt-
ed, 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 fim-
ple inhabitants were but thinly ſcattered
over theſe wilds.
The Count left the chateau de St. Foix,
early in the morning, with an intention of
palling the night at a little inn upon the
mountains, about half way to La Vallée, of
which his guides had informed him; and,
though this was frequented chiefly by Spa-
nila


( 225 )
n
.
niſh muleteers, on their route into France, :
and, of courſe, would afford only ſorry ac-
commodation, the Count had no alterna-
tive, 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
fide, by abrupt heights. They had pro-
ceeded 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 pre-
fently faw, within a little green receſs among
the rocks, a group of inountaineers, 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 plea-
ſure. 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 wo-
L5
men


( 226 )
ms
men with caſtanets in their hands, to the
founds of a lute and a tamborine, till, from:
the briſk melody of France, the muſic
foftened into a flow movement, to which
two fe:nale peaſants danced a Spaniſh Pa-
van.
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 anima-
tion-where affectation ſo often diſtorted the
air, and vice perverted the mannersmighed:
to think, that natural graces and innocent.
· pleaſures flouriſhed in the wilds of ſolitude,
while they dropped amidſt the concourſe of
poliſhed ſociety. But the lengthening ſha-
dows 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 fun now threw a
yellow gleam upon the foreſts of pine and
cheſnut,


( 22.7 )
IS NOW
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 gleamn
ſtill lingered on the ſummits of the higheſt
Alps, overlooking the deep repoſe of even-
ing, 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
che mountains, and to the faint voice of the
izard among the rocks, that came at inter-
vals on the air. But her enthuſiaſm funk
into apprehenſion, when, as the ſhadows
L 6 : deep-


( 228 )
deepened, ſhe looked upon the doubiful
precipice, that bordered the road, as well
as on the various fantaſtic forms of dan.
ger, 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, aſſure
ing him that there was no danger, went on.
Blanche, revived by this aſſurance, again in-
dulged 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 na-
ture alone remained. Then fell the filent
dews, and every wild flower, and aromatic
plant, that bloomed among the cliffs, breath-
ed forth its ſweetneſs; then, too, when the
moun-


( 229 )
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 found 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
fitted acroſs the ſilent path, which Blanche
was purſuing, ſhe remembered the follow-
ing 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 myftic charms prepare,
Where Horror lurks, and ever-boding Care !
But, at the ſweet and ſilent ev’ning hour,
When clos’d in deep 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 flitt’ſt athwart the penſive wand'rer's way,
As his lone footſteps print the mountain-dew. .
From Indian iſles thou com'ft, with Summer's car,
Twilight thy love-thy guide her beaming ſtar!
To


( 230 )
To a warm imagination, the dubious
forms, that float, half veiled in darkneſs, af-
ford a higher delight, than the moſt dif.
tinct ſcenery, that the ſun can ſhew. While
the fancy thus wanders over landſcapes
partly of its own creation, a ſweet compla-
cency 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
toft and heard again, are circumſtances
which wonderfully heighten the enthuſi.
aſtic 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 filence,
which the reſt of the party ſeemed by mu-
tual 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


(231)
by the converſation of her lover, yielded
to the taſte fo congenial to his, and they
converſed in a low reſtrained voice, the ef.
fect of the penſive tranquillity, which twi:
light and the ſcene inſpired, rather than of
any fear, that they ſhould be heard. But;
while the heart was thus ſoothed to tender-
neſs, 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 twi-
light were remeinbered 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 fides; 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
fpot, that might afford ſome kind of ſhelter,
an object was perceived obſcurely through
the duſk, on a point of rock, a little way
down


( 232 )
110L
down the mountain, which they imagined
to be a hunter's or a ſhepherd's cabin, and
the party, with cautious Iteps, proceeded
towards it. Their labour, however, was
not rewarded, or their apprehenſions ſooth-
ed; for, on reaching the object of their
ſearch, they diſcovered a monumental croſs,
which marked the ſpot to have been pol-
luted 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 mur.
dered here by a horde of banditti, that had
infeſted this part of the Pyrenées, a few
years before ; and the uncommon fize of
the monument ſeemed to juſtify the ſuppo-
fition, that it was erected for a perſon of
ſome diſtinction. Blanche muddered, as
the liſtened to ſome horrid particulars of
the Count's fate, which one of the guides
related in a low, reſtrained tone, as if the
found of his own voice frightened him;
but, while they lingered at the croſs,, at-
tending
COMM


( 233 )
LA
teodist to his narrative, a flaſh of light-
ning glanced upon the rocks, thunder mut-
tered at a diſtance, and the travellers, now
alarmed, quitted this ſcene of folitary hor-
ror, 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
muft unavoidably paſs, with accounts of
their own dauntleſs courage and wonder-
ful 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 won-
derful execution it had done, when St.
Foix, perceiving, that Blanche was terri-
fied, interrupted him. The Count, mean-
while; ſecretly laughing at the terrible bila
tories and extravagant boaſtings of the man,
reſolved


(235 )
ſpot, fomewhat (heltered from the air, by
overhanging cliffs and by a wood of larch,
that rofe over a precipice on the left, and
the guides being yet ignorant how far they
were from the ir.n, the travellers determined
to reſt, till the moon ſhould riſe, or the
ftorm difperfe. Blanche, recalled to a fenfe
of the preſent moment, looked on the ſur.
rounding 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 ſhal-
low cavity, formed by the curve of impende
ing rocks. A light being ſtruck, a fire was
kindled, whofe blaze afforded fome 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 projec-
tion of the rock, the Count and his family
partook of a ſupper, which, in a ſcene leſs
rude,


( 237 )
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 im-
preſſive 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 Thewed dimly the grandeur of
the heavens, the maſs of vapours, that roll-
ver
ed


( 238 )
ed half way down the precipice beneath,
and the doubtful mountains.
“What dreadful pleaſure ! there to ſtand ſublime,
Like ſhipwreck'd mariner on deſert coalt,
And view th' enormous waſte of vapour, toft
In billows length’ning to th' horizon round * !"
From this romantic reverie he was awak.
ened 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 foon 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 un ſubjects, relating
to the natural hiſtory of the ſcene, among
wbich they wandered. He ſpoke of the
mineral and foffile ſubſtances, found in the
depths of theſe mountains,--the veins of
marble and granite, with which they
* The Minſtrel.
abounded,


(240)
tive, that rendered the ſcenes doubly in-
tereſting, and reſigned to ſolemn emotion,
while the 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 hav-
ing little doubt, that it proceeded from the
inn they were in ſearch of, the Count deter-
mined to purſue his way. The moon now
afforded a ſtronger, though ſtill an uncertain
light, as ſhe moved among broken clouds;
and che travellers, led by the ſound, re-com-
menced 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-ſer, had neglected to
provide more. In filent caution they fol-
lowed the found, which was heard but
at intervals, and which, after ſome time
entirely


( 241 )
VC
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 Counc 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
a rude and dangerous paffage, formed by an
*enormous pine, which, thrown acroſs the
chalin, united the oppoſite precipices, and
which had been felled probably by the hun-
ter, to facilitate his clace of the izard, or
the wolf. The whole party, the guides ex-
cepted, ſhuddered at the proſpect of croſſing
this alpine bridge, whoſe ſides afforded no
VOL. IV.
kind
M


( 242 )
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 de.
ſcending from rocks above, overhung with
lofty pines, and thence precipitating them-
ſelves into the deep abyſs, where their white
ſurges gleamed faintly in the moon-light.
The poor animals proceeded over this peril-
ous bridge with inſtinctive caution, neither
frightened by the noiſe of the cataract, or
deceived by the gloom, which the impend-
ing foliage threw athwart their way. It was
now, that the folitary 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,


( 243 )
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 focks of the
mountains, to protect them from the nightly
dercent of the wolves. The ſound was
much nearer than before, and, while they
rejoiced in the hope of foon reaching a
place of repoſe, a light was ſeen to glimmer
at a diſtance. It appeared at a height con-
ſiderably above the level of their path, and
was loft and ſeen again, as if the waving
branches of trees ſometimes excluded and
then admitted its rays. The guides hal-
looed with all their ſtrength, but the found
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 funk into a ſilence, which no
friendly hint of man diſturbed. The light,
however, that had been ſeen before, now
M2
were
became


( 244 )
became plainer, and, ſoon after, voices were
heard indiſtinctly on the wind; but, upon
the guides repeating the call, the voices ſud-
denly ceaſed, and the light diſappeared.
The Lady Blanche was now almoſt fink-
ing beneath the preſſure of anxiety, fatigue
and apprehenſion, and the united efforts of
the Count and St. Foix could ſcarcely ſup-
port her ſpirits. As they continued to ad.
vance, 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'en.
deavoured to re-animate his daughter's fpi-
rits by the near proſpect of ſhelter and re-
poſe, which, however rude the accommoda-
tion, a ruined watch-tower might afford.
“ Numerous watch-towers have been
erected among the Pyrenées," ſaid the
Count, anxious only to call Blanche's at-
tention from the fubject of her fears; “ and
the


( 245 )
como
che 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 for-
treſſes and the foreſts, and march forth, to
defend, perhaps, the entrance of ſome
grand paſs, where, planting themſelves on
the heights, they affail their aſtoniſhed ene-
mies, 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 Pyrenées, are carefully
preſerved; but ſome of thoſe in inferior ſta-
tions 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, re.
tires hither, and, with his faithful dogs, for-
gets, near a cheerful blaze, the labour of
M 3
the


(246)
NUL
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 Spa-
niſh ſmugglers, who croſs the mountains
with contraband goods from their reſpec.
tive countries, and the latter are parti-
cularly numerous, againſt whon 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 unat-
tainable, are equally reluctant to fight; an
engagement, therefore, very ſeldom happens,
but,
:


( 247 )
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 fum.
mit the building ſtood, but no light now
iffued 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 imperfect-
ly 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 path-way.
While the guides carried forward the
torch to examine the cliff, the Count, re-
maining with Blanche and St. Foix at its
M 4
foot,


( 250 }
entire; it was built of gray 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 folemnity, which muſt ſo
ſtrongly have characterized the pile even in
the days of its early ſtrength, was now con-
fiderably heightened by its ſhattered battle-
ments and half-demoliſhed walls, and by the
hugemaſſes of ruin, ſcattered in its wide area,
now filent and graſs-grown. In this court
of entrance ſtood the gigantic remains of an
oak, that ſeemed to have flouriſhed and de-
cayed with the building, which it ſtill ap-
peared frowningly to protect by the few re-
maining branches, leafleſs and moſs-grown,
that crowned its trunk, and whoſe wide ex-
tent told how enormous the tree had been in
a former age. This fortreſs was evidently
once of great ſtrength, and, froin its fitu.
ation on a point of rock, impending over a
• deep glen, had been of great power to an-
noy,


(251)
was
noy, as well as to reſiſt; the Count, there.
fore, as he ſtood ſurveying it, was ſomewhat
furpriſed, that it had been ſuffered, ancient
as it was, to link 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 ſur-.
veyed 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 re-
mains 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 fame,
whoſe voice had been the means of bringing
:
M 6 ... .the


( 252 )
the travellers thither. It now appeared cer-
tain, that the place was inhabited, and the
Count returned to conſult again with St.
Foix, whether he ſhould try to obtain ad-
mittance, for its wild aſpect had ſomewhat
ſhaken his former reſolution ; but, after a
ſecond conſultation, he ſubmitted to the con-
ſiderations, which before determined him,
and which were ſtrengthened by the diſco-
very of the dog, that guarded the fort,
as well as by the ſtillneſs that pervaded
1t. He, therefore, ordered one of his fer-
vants to knock at the gate, who was ad-
vancing 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 affifted him to clinib 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
val
Wa


( 254 )
" Friends,” repeated the Count; " open
the gates, and you ſhall know more.”
Strong bolts were now heard to be un-
drawn, and a man, armed with a hunting
ſpear, appeared. “What is it you want
at this hour?” ſaid he. The Count beck-
oned 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 ſe-
'veral 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 alarm-
ed by the appearance of the man, who had
opened


( 255 )
SCI
W
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 en-
couraged him to await the event. The gate
was foon opened, and ſeveral men in hun-
ters' 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 ſuf-
picious; but he was alſo weary, fearful of
the approaching ſtorm, and of encountering
alpine heights in the obſcurity of night;
being likewiſe fomewhat confident in the
ſtrength and number of his attendants, he,
after ſome further conſideration, determined
to accept the invitation. With this reſo..
lution he called his ſervants, who, advan-
cing round the tower, behind which ſome of
them


( 256 )
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, par-
tially ſeen by a fire, that blazed at its extre-
inity, round which four men, in the hunters'
dreſs, were feated, and on the hearth were
ſeveral dogs ſtretched in ſleep. In the
middle of the hall ſtood a large table, and
over the fire fume 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 ſpa-
cious hall; then at the men, and to her father,
who, ſmiling cheerfully at her, addreſſed
himſelf to the hunters. “ This is an hoſpi-
table 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


(257)
,
had been feated 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
loft 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
admic 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 talte
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


( 258 )
wa
was feated next her, preſſed her hand, and
gave her an encouraging look; but her at-
tention 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 fwoln
torrents, that deſcend from the heights, put
a ſtop to the chace." ..
· “ 'Tis a life of liberty and enjoyment,"
faid the Count : “ I ſhould like to paſs à
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 deli-
cious flavour, that feed upon the wild thyine
and herbs, that grow in the vallies. Now
I think of it, there is a brace of birds hung
Up


( 259 ) -
up in the ſtone gallery ; go fetch them,
Jacques, we will have them dreſſed."
The Count now made enquiry concern-
ing the method of purſuing the chace among
the rocks and precipices of theſe romantic
regions, and was liſtening to a curious de-
tail, when a horn was founded 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 founded 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 feat towards the gate ; and in a few mi-
nutes, two men appeared, each with a gun
over his ſhoulder, and piſtols in his belt.
56 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!


( 260 )
“ Hah! who the devil have you brought
home?" ſaid they in bad Spaniſh, on per-
ceiving the Count's party, “are they from
France, or Spain ? - where did you meet
with them?”
“ They niet with us, and a merry meet.
ing 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 feveral brace of birds. The
bag founded 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 hunters' 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


( 261 )
ſhape an ancient Roman helmet ; but the
brows that ſcowled beneath it, would have
characteriſed 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 railing 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 miſtruít ga-
thering 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
dreſing;


( 262 )
wa
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 dif-
treſſed, and remained filent, and St. Foix
looked at the Count, who ſaid, he pre-
ferred the comfortable blaze of the fire he
was then near. The hunters, however,
commended the warmth of the other apart.
ment, 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


( 264 )
guiſhed 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 haf-
tily 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 eafy 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 fo?” exclained the firſt ruf.
fian,


.( 265 )
fian, 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 ad-
viſer I warrant we have not yet forgot
St. Thomas's eve laſt year.”
.
Blanche's heart now funk 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 ob-
ſcure part of the paffage, ſhe was compelled
to liſten to the dreadful councils of thoſe,
who, ſhe was no longer ſuffered to doubt,
were banditii. 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
ihan we be hanged.”
“ Better, better,” cried his comrades.
« To commit murder, is a hopeful way
of eſcaping the gallows !” ſaid the firſt ruf-
Vol. IV.
N
fiane
!


( 266 )
fian 's many an honeſt fellow hias run
his head into the nooſe that way, though.”
There was a pauſe of ſome moments, dur-
ing 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 buſi-
neſs 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 filently, 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 filently ?”
o By


( 267 )
“ By poiſon,” replied his companions.'
- Well ſaid! that will do,” ſaid the fe-
cond ruffian, “ that will give a lingering
death too, and ſatisfy my revenge. Theſe
barons (hall take care how they again tempt
our vengeance."
"I knew the fon, the moment I ſaw
him," ſaid the man, whom Blanche had
obſervec 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 hiin, with our brave lads, that ſuf-
fered.”
« And was not 1 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 as
this. While we run the chance of the
wheel for ſmuggling a few pounds of to-
N 2
bacco,


( 268 )
bacco, 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 ſtrag-
gling 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
-4." I am not for that, I am not for that,”
- replied the third robber, "let us make the
moſt of thein : only, if this is the Baron, I
Thould like to have a flaſh the more at him,
for the ſake of our brave comrades, that he
brought to the gallows.” ,
: “ Aye, aye, Nah as much as you will,”
rejoined the firſt man, “but I tell you the
Baron is a taller man."
“Confound your quibbling,” ſaid the
fecond ruffian, " Thall 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


( 269 )
had on his finger ?-it was diamond ; but
he has not got it on now: he ſaw me look-
ing 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, " ic 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 buſi-
neſs?" 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 pas.
- “Aye, aye,” ſaid his comrades, “let us
talk of that, and remember no time is to be
loft.”
"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
N 3
for.


( 270)
Cd
W
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," re:
joined his comrade, “ or it will be worſe
for you. We are not more than fix, 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 clofer."
Blanche, who had liſtened to this conver,
ſation, in an agony, which it would be im-
poſſible to deſcribe, could no longer diſtin-
guilh what was ſaid, for the ruffians now
ſpoke in lowered voices; but the hope, that,
ſhe might ſave her friends from the plot, if
the could find her way quickly to them,
fuddenly re-animated her fpirits, and lent
her ſtrength enough to turn her ſteps in
fearch of the gallery. Terror, however,
and


( 271 )
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 be-
came 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 diſ-
covered and ſeized her, and as they dragged
her towards the chamber they had quitted,
her ſcreams drew from them horrible threat-
enings.
Having reached the room, they began to
conſult what they ſhould do with her. “Let
us firſt know what ſhe has 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
N4
one


( 272 )
COOC
one of his comrades, approaching the trem-
bling Blanche. “ Fair lady, by your leave
that picture is mine ; come, furrender it, or
I ſhall ſeize it."
Blanche, entreating their mercy, imme-
diately gave up the miniature, while another
of the ruffians fiercely interrogated her,
concerning what ſhe had overheard of their
converſation, when, her confufion and terror
100 plainly telling what her tongue feared
to confefs, the ruffians looked expreſſively
upon one another, and two of them with-
drew to a remote part of the room, as if
to conſult further.
or There are diamonds, by St. Peter !"
exclaimed the fellow, who had been exa-
mining 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


( 274 ).
Thrill horn was founded without the for:
treſs, a ſignal, it appeared, they too well un-
derſtood ; 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 re.
newed her ſhriek, when the door of the room
was thrown open, and he appeared, much
disfigured with blood, and purſued by fe-
veral ruffians. Blanche neither faw, or heard
any more; her head ſwam, her fight 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 the continued,
for ſome time, entirely ſtill, and nearly in
a ſtate of ſtupefaction. But the dreadful
images of the paſt returning, ſhe endea-
youred


: ( 275 )
voured to raiſe herſelf, that the 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 ad
vanced to the place whence the ſound had
proceeded, where a body was lying ſtretched
upon the pavement, and where, by the glim-
mering, light of a lamp, the diſcovered the
pale and disfigured countenance of Sc. Foix.
Her horrors, at that moment, may be eaſily
imagined. He was ſpeechleſs; his eyes
were half cloſed, and, on the hand, which
The graſped in the agony of deſpair, cold
damps had ſettled. While ſhe vainly re-
peated 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, fupplicating him
to give his affiſtance to St. Foix, ſhe dit-
covered Ludovico! He ſcarcely pauſed to
recogniſe her, but immediately bound up
N 6
thie


( 276 )
the wounds of the Chevalier, and, perceive
ing, 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 apprehen-
fion of the ruffians, the light of a torch
flaſhed upon the walls, and then Count De
Villefort appeareil, with an affrighted coun-
tenance, and breathleſs with impatience,
calling upon his daughter. At the ſound of
his voice the 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 en-
quired for St. Foix, who now gåvé ſome
ſigns of life. Ludovico ſoon after returning
with water and brandy, the former was ap-
plied to his lips; and the latter to his tem-
ples 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-
· neceſ-


( 278 )
. While the Count was telling, that the ban.
ditti, 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,
foon after, Ludovico. “ I think I hear
mules coming along the glen, my Lord,"
faid he,“ but the roaring of the torrent be-
low will not let me be certain ; however, I
have brought what will ſerve the Chevalier,"
he added, Thewing a bear's ſkin, faſtened to
à 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
feveral goats upon it, made a kind of bed,
into which the Chevalier, who was however
how much revived, was gently lifted ; and,
the poles being raiſed upon the ſhoulders of
the


( 279 )
the guides, whoſe footing among theſe ſleeps
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
• kt 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.


(280 )
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
bis rays. A wreath of miſt was ſeen, float-
ing


( 281 ) .
ing 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 refrelhment, 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 a temporary relief, for it fed the
fever, that burned in his veins, and he could
neither diſguiſe in his countenance the an-
guiſh 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
fo


( 282 )
fo eſſentially to ſerve him and his family,
for to him he juftly 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...
CH AP.


r 285 )
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,
the perceived that Are was as diſtant from it
as ever. She would have accuſed herſelf of
weakneſs and ingratitude in thus ſuffering a
fenſe of the various bleſſings ſhe poffeffed 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 the
lamented a human being degraded to vice,
and conſequently to miſery, reaſon and hu-
manity 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, how-
ever


( 286 )
ever innocently, appeared to have been in
fome 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, the 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,
The ftill fancied the 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 ſud-
den clofe 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 ap-
proaching, was already at the door to re-
ceive her. "
ollt


( 287 )
“ 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 conſidera-
tion, ſat down, and then, looking in her
face, on which the wood fire threw a gleam,
ſhe was ſtruck with its expreſſion, and, un.
able to ſpeak, ſunk back in her chair with
a countenance ſo full of woe, that. Therefa
inſtantly comprehended the occaſion of it,
but ſhe remained ſilent. " Ah !” ſaid Emi-
ly, at length, “it is unneceſſary for me to
aſk the reſult of your enquiry—your filence,
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 !"
9
« A-sell.


( 288 )
" 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 afilic-
tion 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 fome 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 ” Einily was faint, and aſked for
fome water, and Thereſa, alarmed by the
voice, in which ſhe ſpoke, haſtened to her
afli ſtance, and, while ſhe held the water to
Emily's lips, continued, “ My dear young
miſtreſs, do not take it ſo to heart ; the
Chevalier
3,


( 289 )
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 ſome.
what better now, and can hear what you
have to ſay. Tell me, I entreat, the parti-
culars of what you know.”
• Stay till you are a little better, made-
moiſelle, 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
ja he ſeemed ſhy of talking about Monf. Va-
lancourt, 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
Vol. IV.
O
indeed.
mo


( 291 )
length; aye, and were more afraid of dif-
pleaſing 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 fat, 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 aftray fadly. Nay, for that mat-
ter, M. Valancourt had been put into pri.
fon at Paris, and my Lord, ſays Gabriel,
refuſed to take him out, and ſaid he de-
ferved to ſuffer; and, when old Gregoire,
the butler, heard of this, he actually bought
a walking ſtick to take with him to Paris,
m
S
Sa Wali
O
to
2


( 292 )
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 fad, indeed. And, foon
after, he went away again into Languedoc,
and, ſince that time, we have never ſeen
him."
Thereſa pauſed, and Emily, ſighing deep.
ly, remained with her eyes fixed upon the
foor, without ſpeaking. After a long
pauſe, ſhe enquired what further Thereſa
had heard. “ Yet why ſhould I aſk ?” The
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,


( 293 )
Valancourt,--dear heart !” Emily replied
only by a heavy figh.
- Dear lady, it breaks my heart to ſee
you look fo,” ſaid Thereſa, “ do not fit
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, 66. 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 endea-
vouring to underſtand what had been ſaid.
“ Aye, my dear lady,” ſaid Thereſa, miſ-
taking 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 haſ-
tily from her chair, paced the little room,
with
O 3


( 295 )
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 Theo
reſa 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
fupported me. Ah! he is in heaven, with
my bleſſed maſter, if ever ſaint was !"
Thereſa's voice faltered; ſhe wept, and
fet down the Alaſk, 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
à 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,
foft note of an oboe, or fute, was heard min-
gling with the blaſt, the fweetneſs of which
affected Emily's fpirits ; ſhe pauſed a mo-
ment, in attention; the tender tones, as
they (welled along the wind, till they were
04
so
loft


( 296 )
loſt again in the ruder guſt, came with a
plaintiveneſs, that couched her heart, and
the melted into tears.
“ Aye,” ſaid Thereſa, drying her eyes,
“ there is Richard, our neighbour's ſon,
playing on the oboe; it is fad enough, to
hear fuch ſweet muſic now." Emily con-
tinued 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 fo; 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, ma-
dam.” Emily's hand trembled, and ſhe ſpilt
the wine as ſhe withdrew it from her lips.
“ For whoſe fake !—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


( 297 )
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 miſ-
trefs, and ſhe was going to open it, when
Emily, checking her, requeſted ſhe would
not admit any perſon; but, afterwards, re-
collecting, 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 Emi-
ly's attention. She liſtened, turned her eyes
to the door, when a perſon now appeared,
and immediately a bright gleanı, that Aaſhed
from the fire, diſcovered—Valancourt !
Iêmily, on perceiving him, ſtarted from
her chair, trembled, and, finking into it
again, became inſenſible to all around her.
A ſcream from Thereſa now told, that ſhe
knew Valancourt, whom her imperfect ſight,
05
and


( 299 )
moments, which ſucceeded to the pangs
his ſuppoſed death had occaſioned her,
fhe forgot every fault, which had formerly
claimed indignation, and beholding Valan-
court ſuch as he appeared, when he won her
early affection, ſhe experienced emotions of
only tendernels 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 poffeffed it, ſhe again beheld Valan-
court, degraded-Valancourt unworthy of
the eſteem and tenderneſs ſhe had once be-
ftowed upon him; her ſpirits faltered, and,
withdrawing her hand, the turned from
hiin to conceal her grief, while he, yet
more embarraſſed and agitated, remained
filent.
A fenſe of what ſhe owed to herſelf re-
ftrained 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
hiin for the affiftance he had given her, bade
06
Thereſa


( 300 )
mon
Thereſa good evening. As ſhe was leaving
the cottage, Valancourt, who ſeemed ſud-
denly awakened as from a dream, entreated,
in a voice, that pleaded powerfully for com-
paffion, a few moments attention. Emily's,
heart, perhaps, pleaded as powerfully, but
The 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! fir,” 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,
Wel


(301)
miſtreſs there was crying, fit to break her
heart-
· Emily looked with much diſpleaſure at
Thereſa, but, before ſhe could ſpeak, Va-
lancourt, unable to repreſs the emotion,
which Thereſa's. imprudent diſcovery occa-
fioned, exclaimed, “O my Emily! am I
then ſtill dear to you! Did you, indeed,
honour me with a thought-a tear? O hea,
vens ! you weep--you weep now!"
“ Thereſa, ſir," ſaid Emily, with a re-
ſerved air, and trying to conquer her tears,
as has reaſon to renember you with grati.
tude, 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


( 307 )
do I ſay? Pardon me, pardon me, made-
moiſelle St. Aubert, I know not what I ut-
ter. I have no longer any claim upon your
remembrance, I have forfeited every pre-
tenſion to your eſteem, your love. Yes !
let me not forget, that I once poffeffed your
affections, though to know that I have loſt
them, is my ſevereſt affliction. Affiction-
do I call it !--that is a term of mildneſs.”
“ Dear heart !" faid 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 pre-
tends to deny it.”
• « This is inſupportable !” ſaid Emily;
“ Therefa, you know not what you ſay. Sir,
if you reſpect my tranquillity, you will fpare
me from the continuance of this diſtreſs.”
“I do reſpect your tranquillity too much,
voluntarily to interrupt it,” replied Valan.
court, in whoſe boſom pride now contended
with tenderneſs ; " and will not be a volun-
tary intruder. I would have entreated a few
moments


( 303 )
&
*
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 Valan-
court, in a voice, that ſoftened from ſolem.
nity into grief. .
- What! is my dear young maſter going
out in all this rain!" ſaid Thereſa. “ No, he
fhall not ftir 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
fpoken!”
Emily, in extreme vexation, now roſe
from her chair, “I muſt be gone,” ſaid ſhe,
" the ſtorm is over.”
« Stay, Emily, ſtay, mademoiſelle St. Au.
bere !"*
was


( 305 )
fire, with her eyes fixed, and the image of
Valancourt ſtill before them.
.“ M. Valancourt is ſadly altered! ma-
dam," ſaid Thereſa; “ he looks ſo thin to
what he uſed to do, and fo melancholy, and
then he wears his arm in a fling.”
. 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 Tho-
louſe; with this conviction her pity for him
returning, ſhe blamed herſelf for having oc-
caſioned him to leave the cottage, during the
ſtorm.
Soon after her ſervants arrived with the
carriage, and Emily having cenſured The.
reſa for her thoughtleſs converſation to Va-
lancourt, and ſtrictly charging her never to
repeat any hints of the ſame kind to him,
withdrew to her home, thoughtful and diſ-
confolate.
Meanwhile, Valancourt had returned to a
little inn of the village, whicher he had
arrived only a few moments before his
viſit to Thereſa's cottage, on the way
from


( 306
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, un-
able to ſummon reſolution enough to quit
a place, that contained the object moſt
dear to his heart. There were times, in.
deed, when grief and deſpair urged him to
appear again before Emily, and, regard.
leſs of his ruined circumſtances, to renew his
fuit. Pride, however, and the tenderneſs
of his affection, which could not long en-
dure the thought of involving her in his mif-
fortynes, 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 witneffed his early love, and, on
his way to Gaſcony, he ſtopped at Tholouſe,
where he remained when Emily arrived, con-
cealing, yet indulging his melancholy in the
gardens, where he had formerly paſſed with
her ſo many happy hours; often recurring,
with


( 308 )
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, whofe
bate unkindneſs had urged him to believe,
that they were indifferent as to his fate, he
remained, without informing them of his
fituation; and now, being ſufficiently reco-
vered to bear travelling, he had taken La
Vallée 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 at-
tended


(309)
11
tended 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 lately ap-
peared 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 fervant, was
quickly changed to forrow, when ſhe ob-
ſerved, at one moment, his wild and phren.
fied look, and, at another, the dark melan-
choly, that overhung him.
After he had liſtened, and for a confi.
derable time, to all ſhe had to relate, con-
cerning 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 fin.
ger,


(310)
ger, he delivered it her with a ſolenn charge
to preſent it to Emily, of whom he entreat-
ed, as a laſt favour, that ſhe would pre-
ferve it for his fake, and ſometimes, when
The 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 the received no anſwer, and
ſaw him no more.
CH AP.


( 311 )
CHAP. XIV.
" Call up him, that left half told
The ſtory of Cambuſcan bold."
MILTON.
O N the following morning, as Emily fat
in the parlour adjoining the library, reflect.
ing on the ſcene of the preceding night;
Annette ruſhed wildly into the room, and,
without ſpeaking, funk 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,
The exclaimed, “I have ſeen his ghoſt, ma-
dam, I have ſeen his ghoſt !”
" Who do you mean?” ſaid Emily, with
extreme irnpatience.
" It came in from the hall, madam,” con-
tinued Annette, “ as I was croſſing to the
parlour."
“ Who are you ſpeaking of?” repeated
Emily, “ Who came in from the hall?"
« IC


( 372 )
“ 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 fervant 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 en.
gaged, 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, ac-
companied by Annette, who, as joy rendered
her


( 313 ):
-
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
Pyrenées, where they had been detained by
the illneſs of Monf. St. Foix, and the indiſ-
poſition of Blanche, who added, that the
Baron St. Foix was juſt arrived to attend
his ſon to his chateau, where he would re-
main till the perfect recovery of his wounds,
and then return to Languedoc, but that her
father and herſelf propoſed to be at La
Vallée, on the following day. She added,
that Émily's preſence would be expected ar
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, the referred her to
himſelf; and Emily, though much inter-
... Vol. IV.
eſted,
P


( 316 )
“ You may remember, madam, that, on
the night, when I ſat up in the north cham-
ber, 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 di-
vert my mind. I confeſs I did ſometimes
look round the chamber, with fomething
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 Lu-
dovico, ſmiling, “but ſeveral times, as the
wind whiſtled round the caſtle, and ſhook
the old cafements, 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 griin figures in the tapeſtry,
which ſeemed to frown upon me, as I
looked at them. I had far thus for above
an


( 317 )
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 noife 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 ſtrangere.
ports, that had been ſpread of theſe apart.
mients, I don't know, but, when I looked
towards the bed again, I fancied I ſaw a
man's face within the duſky curtains."
· Ac the mention of this, Emily trembled,
and looked anxioully, remembering the
fpectacle ſhe had herſelf witneſſed there
with Dorothée.
“I confefs, madam, my heart did fail
me, at that inſtant," continued Ludovico,
6 but a return of the noiſe drew my atten.
P 3
tion


( 318 )
tion 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, how-
ever, the arras near the bed was ſlowly
lified, and a perſon appeared behind it, en-
tering from a ſmall door in the wall. He
ftood 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, look.
ing over his inculder. 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 fat quite ſtill, watching
them, with my eyes half thut as if I was
aſleep. I ſuppoſe they thought me ſo, and
were debaring what they ſhould do, for I
heard them whiſper, and they ſtood in the
lame poſture for the value of a minute, and
then,


( 319 )
then, I thought I perceived other faces in
the duſkineſs beyond the door, and heard
louder whiſpers."
“ This door ſurpriſes me,” ſaid Emily,
"s becauſe I underſtood, that the Count
had cauſed the arras to be lifted, and the
walls examined, fufpecting, that they might
have concealed a paſſage through which
you had departed.”
It does not appear fo 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
fearch for a door where it ſeemed as if no
paffage could communicate with one; but
the truth was, that the paſſage was formed
within the wall itſelf.-But to return to
thie men, whom I ſaw obſcurely beyond
the door, and who did not ſuffer me to re-
main long in ſuſpenſe, concerning their de-
fign. They all ruſhed into the room, and
ſurrounded
s
i
P4


(320 ).
furrounded me, though not before I had
ſnatched up my ſword to defend myſelf.
But what could one man do againſt four ?
They foon diſarmed me, and, having faſt-
ened my arms, and gagged my mouth,
forced me through the private door, leav-
ing my ſword upon the table, to affift, 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 be-
fore, and down ſeveral flights of ſteps, till
we came to the vaults underneath :!e caf-
tle; 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. Af-
ter turning and cwining 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 ruf-
we
fians


(322)
n
: « Well, but they let you talk,” ſaid An- -
nette, « they did not gag you after they
got you away from the chateau, ſo I don't
fee what reaſon there was to be ſo very
weary of living; to ſay nothing about the
chance you had of feeing me again.”
· Ludovico fmiled, and Emily alſo, who
enquired what was the motive of theſe men
for carrying him off.
C" foon found out, madam," reſumed
Ludovico; " that they were pirates, who
had, during many years, fecreted their ſpoil
in the vaults of the caſtle, which, being ſo
near the fea, fuited 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 mar-
chionėſs, they eaſily fucceeded. The houſe-
keeper 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


(323)
would live there no longer; a' report ſoon
went abroad, thai it was haunted, and the
whole country believed this the more rea-
dily, 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 fecure fo
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 oppor;
tunities of diſpoſing of it to advantage.
The pirates were connected with Spaniſh
ſinugglers and handicci, who live among tho
wilds of the Pyrenées, and carry on various
kinds of traffic, fuch as nobody would think
P6
of;


( 324 )
of; and with this deſperate horde of ban.
ditti remained, till my lord arrived. I ſhall
never forget what I felt, when I firſt dif-
covered 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. 1,'
therefore, kept out of my lord's fight, but
had a ſtrict watch upon the ruffians, and
determined, if they offered him or his fa-
mily violence, to diſcover myſelf, and fight
for our lives. - Soon after, I overheard
lone of them laying a moft 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 fome unfatisfactory anſwer, my lord,
and Monf. St. Foix became furious, ſo
then we thought it a good time to diſcover
the


(325)
the plot, and ruſhing into the chamber, I
called out 6 Treachery! my lord count, des
fend yourſelf!” His lordſhip and the che,
valier 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,"
faid Emily, “and much p:ciſe is due, Lu-
dorico, to your prudence and intrepidity.
There are ſome circumſtances, however,
concerning the north apartments, which
Atill perplex me; but, perhaps, you may
be able to explain them. Did you ever
hear the banditti relate any thing extraor-
dinary 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 catch.
ing one of the pirates; it was ſince the
Count arrived at the chateau, he faid, and
he laughed heartily as he related the trick
he had played off.” in Sion . :
A bluſh
30


( 326)
* A bluſh overſpread Emily's cheek, and
the in patiently deſired Ludovico to ex-
plain 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 juft by.. There he lay
for ſome time in as great a fright, I ſup-
poſes ".. . "
r! “As,you was in,” interrupted Annette,
« when you fat up fo boldly to watch by.
yourſelf.” : ..
.:" Aye,” ſaid Ludovico, “in as great a
fright as he ever made any body elſe ſuf-
fer; and preſently the houſekeeper and ſome
other perſon came up to the bed, when
he, thinking they were going to examine
is, bethoughe bim, that his only chance of
eſcaping detection, was by terrifying them;
ſo he lifred up the counterpane, but that
did not, do, till he raiſed his face above
it, and then they both ſet off, he faid, as if
they


( 327 )
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 fo much ſuperſtitious terror, and
was ſorpriſed, that ſhe could have ſuffered
herſelf to be thus alarmed, till ſhe conſi-
dered, that, when the mind has once begun
to yield to the weakneſs of ſuperſtition,
trifles impreſs it with the force of convic-'
tion. Still, however, the remembered with
awe the myſterious muſic, which had
been heard, at midnight, near Chateau-lea
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 fay,
they believed the devil was in league with
them there.” .. . . . .
1.6. Yes, I will anſwer for it he was,” ſaid
Annette, her countenance brightening, “1
was ſure all along, that he or his ſpirits
to.
had


(329)
been ſpread of the north chambers, were
careful to leave every thing there as they had
found it, the better to promote the decepe
tion, 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 betray-
ing 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 Thewing 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 occafioned ſuch alarm among the
ſervants, they heard, as they were about to
unfatten the ſecret door, voices in the beda
room. , My lord has ſince told me, that
himſelf and M. Henri were then in the
apartment, and they heard very extraordi-
nary founds of lamentation, which it ſeems
were


( 330 )
were made by theſe fellows, with their uſual
deſign of ſpreading terror ; and my lord
has owned, he then felc fomewhat more,
{han ſurpriſe; but, as it was neceſſary to
the peace of his family, that no notice
ſhould be taken, he was filent on the ſub-
ject, 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
porch room, now perceived the cauſe of it;
and, having made fome further enquiries
upon this ſtrange affair, ſhe diſmiſſed Lu.
dovico, and went to give orders for the ac-
commodation of her friends, on the follow-
ing day. .
In the evening, Thereſa, lame as fhe was,
came to deliver the ring, with which Va-
lancourt had entruſted her, and, when ſhe
preſented it, Emily was much affected, for
fhe 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 her-
ſelf,


(331)
ſelf, though to have done fo would have
afforded her a melancholy pleaſure. The-
reſa entreated, expoſtulated, and then de.
fcribed the diſtreſs of Valancourt, when he
had given the ring, and repeated the mef-
ſage, with which he had commiſſioned her.
to deliver it; and Emily could not con-
ceal the extreme forrow this recital occa-
fioned her, but wept, and remained loſt in
thought. . ; . . ]
“Alas! my dear young lady!” ſaid Thea
reſa, “ 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 with as much to ſee you hap-
py. M. Valancourt, to be fure, 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 hard for Thereſa to be filent,
who, diſregarding the ſignal, continued,
“And how much you are alike in your
tempers and ways, and, that, if you were
married,


( 332 )
amarried, 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 hap-
pineſs, 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. Learn-
ing, 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 ſome-
thing to it, then it would be learning and
wiſdom too."
· Age and long ſervices had given Thereſa
a privilege to talk, but Emily now endeą.
voured 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 Va.
lancourt. She, therefore, only told Thereſa,
that it would much diſpleaſe her to hear
the ſubject renewed i that ſhe had reaſons
for


( 333 )
for her conduct, which ſhe did not think it
proper to mention, and that the ring muſt
be returned, with an aſſurance, that the
could not accept it with propriety; and, at
the ſame time, the forbade Thereſa to re-
peat any future meſſage from Válancourt,
as The 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 the 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 An-
nette, who aſſiſted her, ſpoke with joy and
affection of the ſafe return of Ludovico,
ſhe was conſidering how ſhe might beſt pro-
mote their happineſs, and determined, if it
appeared, that his affection was as un-
changed as that of the ſimple and honeſt
Annette, to give ber a marriage portion,
vino
and


(334)
and ſettle them on ſome part of her eſtate.
Theſe conſiderations led her to the remem-
brance of her father's paternal domain,
which his affairs had formerly compelled
him to diſpoſe of to M. Queſnel, and which
the 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 pe-
culiar 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 ap.
pear very improbable.
•
ose
"jorduri de acto 91.0 si
...
CHAP.


( 335 )
CHA P. XV. -
“ Sweet is the breath of vernal ſhower,
The bees' collected treaſures ſweet,
Sweet muſic's melting fall, but ſweeter yet
The ftill, ſmall voice of gratitude."
GRAY.
O N the following day, the arrival of her
friend revived the drooping Emily, and La
Vallée became once more the ſcene of focial
kindneſs and of elegant hoſpitality. Illneſs
and the terror ſhe had ſuffered had ſtolen
from Blanche much of her ſprightlineſs, but
all her affe&tionate ſimplicity remained, and,
though ſhe appeared leſs blooming, ſhe was
not leſs engaging than before. The unfor-
tunate adventure on the Pyrenées had made
the Count very anxious to reach home, and,'
after lidtle more than a week's, ſtay at Lal
Vallée, Emily prepared to ſet out with her
friends for Languedoc, affigning the care of
her houſe, during her abſence, to Thereſa.'
On


( 336 )
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, con.
fidered, that he had probably returned to the
reſidence of his brother, and, again refuſing
to accept the ring, bade Therefa preſerve it,
till ſhe ſaw him, which, with extreme reluc-
tance, ſhe promiſed to do.". . ..
On the following day, Count De Villefort,
with Emily and the Lady Blanche, left La
Vallée, and on the enſuing evening arrived:
at the Chateau-le: Blanc, where the Coun.
teſs, Henri, and M. Du Pont, whom Emily
was ſurpriſed to find there, received them i !
with much joy and congratulation. She
was concerned to obſerve, that the Cound
fțill encouraged the hopes of his friend, :
whoſe countenance declared, that his affec..
tion


1 337)
tion 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 the afterwards con-
vinced 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 remonftrate with her, on thus ſuffering an
ill-placed affection to poiſon the happineſs
of her moſt valuable years.
Obſerving her ſilence and the deep dejec,
tion of her countenance, he concluded with
faying, “ I will not ſay more now, but I
will Atill believe, my dear Mademoiſelle St.
Aubert, that you will not always reject a
Vol. IV.
perſon,


( 338 )
perſon, ſo truly eſtimable as my friend Da
Pont.”
· He ſpared her the pain of replying, by
leaving her; and the ſtrolled on, ſomewhat
diſpleaſed with the Count for having perſe-
vered to plead-for a ſuit, which ſhe had re-
peatedly rejected, and loſt amidit the melan.
choly recollections, which this topic had
revived, till ſhe had inſenſibly reached the
borders of the woods, that ſcreened the mo.
naſtery of St. Clair, when, perceiving how
far ſhe had wandered, ſhe determined to ex.
tend her walk a little farther, and to enquire
after 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 acquaintance, pro-
ceeded towards the convent parlour. As
ſhe croſſed the lawn, that Noped from the
front of the monaſtery towards the ſea, the
was ſtruck with the picture of repoſe, exhi-
bited by fome monks, ſitting in the cloiſters,
which


( 339 )
E 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 na-
ture, now that it had exchanged the bril-
liant colours of day for the ſober hue of
evening. Before the cloiſters, however,
ſpread an ancicnt cheſnut, whoſe ample
branches were deſigned to ſcreen the full
magnificence of a ſcene, that might tempt
the wiſh to worldly pleaſures; but ſtill, be-
neath the dark and ſpreading foliage, gleam-
ed a wide extent of ocean, and many a paff-
ing fail; while, to the right and left, thick
woods were feen ſtretching along the wind.
ing lhores. So much as this had been ad-
micted, perhaps, to give to the ſecluded vo-
tary an image of the dangers and viciffitudes
of life, and to conſole him, now that he had
renounced its pleafures, by the certainty of
having eſcaped its evils. As Emily walked
Q2
penſively


(340)
penſively along, conſidering how much ſuf-
fering ſhe might have eſcaped, had the be.
come a votareſs of the order, and remained
in this retirenient from the time of her fa-
ther's death, the veſper-bell ftruck up, and
the monks retired Nowly 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 even-
ing bell was founding, ſhe believed the
nuns had withdrawn into the chapel, and
fat down to reſt for a moment, before ſhe
returned to the chateau, where, however,
the increaſing gloom made her now anxious
to be.
Nor many minutes had elapſed, before a
nun, entering in hafte, enquired for the ab.
beſs, 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 Giſter Agnes, who
had been declining, for ſome time, and who
was now believed to be dying.
Of


( 341
.
no
Of her ſufferings the fifter gave a melan-
choly account, and of the horrors, into which
fhe had frequently ſtarted, but which had
now yielded to a dejection fo gloomy, that
neither the prayers, in which ſhe was joined
by the fiſterhood, or the aſſurances of her
confeffor, had power to recall her from it,
or to cheer her mind even with a momentary
gleam of comfort.
To this relation Emily liftened with ex,
treme concern, and, recoilecting the phren-
fied manners and the expreſſions of horror,
which ſhe had herfelf witneſſed of Agnes, to-
gether with the hiſtory, that fiſter Frances had
communicated, her compaſſion was height-
ened to a very painful degree. As the even-
ing was already far advanced, Emily did
not now deſire to fee her, or to join in the
maſs, and, after leaving many kind remem.
brances with the nun, for her old friends,
ſhe quitted the monaſtery, and returned over
the cliff's toward the chateau, meditating
upon what ſhe had juſt heard, till at length
R3
ſhe


( 342 )
ſhe forced her mind upon lefs intereſting
ſubjects.
The wind was high, and as ſhe drew near
the chateau, ſhe often pauſed to liſten to
its awful found, as it lwept over the bilo
lows, that beat below, or groaned along the
ſurrounding woods; and, while the reſted
on a cliff at a ſhort diſtance from the cha-
teau, 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 valt vault your courſe
ye ſteer,
l'nknown 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 fay-fome Go 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 fink 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


( 344 )
C H A P. 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.
UN the following evening, the view of
the convent towers, riſing among the ſha-
dowy 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, the
and the Lady Blanche extended their walk
to the inonaſtery. At the gate ſtood a car.
riage, 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,


( 345 )
former, that hifter Agnes was ftill living,
and ſenſible, but that it was thought The
could not ſurvive the night. In the par,
lour, 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 re-
garded, with affection. While they thuis
converſed, the abbeſs entered the room,
and expreſſed much fatisfaction at ſeeing
Emily, but her manner was unuſually fo-
Lemn, and her countenance dejected. “Our
houſe," ſaid ſhe, after the firſt falutations-
were over, “ is truly a houſe of mourning
a daughter is now paying the debt of na-
cure. You have heard, perhaps, that our
daughter Agnes is dying?”
Emily expreffed her fincere concern
“ Here death preſents to us a great and
awful leffon," continued the abbeſs ;: “ let
us read it, and profit by it; let it teach us
to prepare ourſelves for the change, that
2.5
awaits
US


( 347 )
:“ During her illneſs, ſhe has ſometimes
named you," reſumed the abbeſs ; “ per-
haps, 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 recol
lection the dying moments of her beloved
father, and ſhe wiſhed once more to weep
over the ſpot, where his remains were bu-
ried. During the ſilence, which followed
the abbels's ſpeech, many minute circum-
ftances attending his laſt hours occurred to
her--his emotion on perceiving himſelf to be:
in the neighbourhood of Chateau-le-Blanc--
his requett to be interred in a particular ſpot
in the church of this monastery--and the foc
lemn charge he had delivered her to deſtroy
certain papers, without examining them.---
vo
'Q 6
She


( 348 )
She recollected alſo the myſterious and hor-
rible 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 pain.
ful curioſity, concerning their full im-
port, and the motives for her father's
command, it was ever her chief conſo-
Bation, that ſhe had ſtrictly obeyed him in
this particular.
1 Little more was ſaid by the abbeſs, who
appeared too much affected by the ſubject
The had lately left, to be willing to con-
verfe, and her companions had been for
ſome time ſilent from the faine cauſe, when
this general reverie was interrupted by the
entrance of a ſtranger, Monſieur Bonnac,
who had juſt quitted the chamber of liſter
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


( 352 )
at
in were
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 ufual re.
medies to Agnes. « Peace," ſaid the ab.
beſs, when Emily was going to ſpeak,
er the delirium is going off, ſhe will ſoon re-
vive. When was the thus before, daugh.
ter ?”
: “ Not of many weeks, madam,” replied
the ņun, “ but her fpirits have been much
agitated by the arrival of the gentleman fhe
wiſhed ſo much to fee."
." Yes," obſerved the abbels, « that has
undoubtedly occaſioned this paroxyfm of
phrenry. When ihe is better, we will leave
her to repoſe.”
Emily very readily conſented, but, though
ſhe could now give little alliſtance, 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 me-
lancholy


! ( 353 )
eco
lancholy had ſucceeded. It was ſome mo.
ments before ſhe recovered fufficient fpirits
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, addreſling Emily,
" though.your name is St. Aubert, are you
not the daughter of the Marchioneſs ?”
“ What Marchioneſs ?” ſaid Emily, in ex-
treme 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
the tomb of the Villerois, now felt greatly
intereſted, and ſhe entreated Agnes to ex-
plain the reaſon of her queſtion. The ab-
beſs would now have withdrawn Emily
from


( 354 )
from the room, who being, however, der
tained by a ſtrong intereſt, repeated her en
treaties.
“ Bring me that caſket, fiſter," ſaid Ag.
nes; “I will ſhew her to you; yet you need
only look at that mirror, and you will behold
her; you ſurely are her daughter : ſuch
Atriking reſemblance is never found buc
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 reſeniblance of the pic-
ture, which ſhe had found among her late fa-
ther's papers. Agnes held out her hand to
receive it ; gazed upon it earneſtly for ſome
moments in ſilence; and then, with a coun-
tenance 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 re-
ſemblance between you ; but never, till this
day,


( 358 )
the tortures of compaſſion, remorſe, and
conſcience. Then, we awaken as from a
dream, and perceive a new world around us
we gaze in aſtonilhment, 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 amicted one ! O! how
long is it ſince I knew that luxury! I be-
lieved, that I had ſuffered the moſt agoniz. -
ing 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, ac-
cordingly
an


(359)
e
1
cordingly 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 be:
fore."
"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,” con-
tinued Emily, looking ftedfaſtly at her.
66 Of Udolpho!" exclaimed Laurentini,
.
66 of


( 360 )
« of Udolpho in Italy !” “ The ſame," re-
plied Emily
.“ You know me then,” faid Laurentini,
" and you are the daughter of the Marchio-
nefs.” Emily was ſomewhat ſurpriſed at
this abrupt affertion. “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 Lau.
rentini.
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 emo-
tion which St. Aubert had betrayed on the
mention of the Marchioneſs, would now
have ſuffered ſomething more than ſurpriſe,
had


(361)
had her confidence in his integrity been leſs;
as it was, ſhe could not, for a moment, bé.
lieve what the words of Laurentini inſinu-
ated; yet ſhe ſtill felt ſtrongly intereſted,
concerning them, and begged, that the
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 Udol-
pho, 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 ſuf-
fering—and of horror!”
At this moment, the terrible ſpectacle,
which Emily had witneſſed in a chamber of
that caſtle, occurred to her, and ſhe ſhud.
dered, while ſhe looked upon the nun-
Vol. IV. R.
and


( 363 )
object round the room_" Come from the
grave! What! Blood-blood too!- There
was no blood-thou canſt not ſay it !
Nay, do not ſinile, do not ſmile ſo pite-
ouſly !"
Laurentini fell into convulſions, as the
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 alliſtance of the abbeſs.
The Lady Blanche, and the boarders, who
were in the parlour, now aſſembled round
Emily, and, alarmed by her manner and af.
frighted countenance, aſked a hundred queſ-
tions, which ſhe avoided anſwering further,
than by ſaying, that the believed ſiſter Age
nes 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
terrible ſurmiſes, and perplexed with doubts
by ſome words from the nun, that ſhe was
R 2
unable
nes
cca
IS"


( 365 )
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 dulky
path they were winding, two perſons Rowly
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 Monf. 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 ear-
neftneſs 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 Lan-
guedoc, and that he was lodged at a ſmall
inn in the village, begged the favour of
R 3
Monſ.


( 365 )
Monf. Du Pont to invite him to the cha-
teau.
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 chareau,
where the kindneſs of the Count and the
ſprightlineſs of his ſon were exerted to diſ-
fipate 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 com-
manding, his manners had received the laſt
poliſh, and there was ſomething in his coun-
tenance uncommonly intereſting; for over
features, which, in youth, muſt have been
remarkably handſome, was ſpread a melan.
choly, that ſeemed the effect of long mil-
fortune, 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


( 369 )
struggle againſt the feelings, that depreffed
him, he relapſed into ſilence and abſtrac-
tion, from which, however, the Count fomè. *
times withdrew him in a manner ſo delicate
and benevolent, that Emily, while ſhie' ob-
ferved 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 witneſ-
ſed, 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 Mon-
toni; 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 Vil-
leroi, and the enquiries ſhe had made con-
cerning Emily's birth, occaſion her a leſs
degree of intereſt, though it was of a dif.
ferent nature.
The hiſtory, which fiſter Frances had for-
areas. R4
merly


( 369 )
m
an
that made him conſider the injunction ne-
ceſſary, which, had her faith in his princi-
ples been leſs, would have led to believe,
that there was a myſtery in her birth dilho-
nourable to her parents, which thoſe manu-
ſcripts 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
The had witneſſed.
On the following morning, ſhe was too
much indiſpoſed to attend her appointment
with the abbeſs, and, before the day con-
cluded, ſhe heard, that fifter Agnes was no
more. Monſ. Bonnac received this intelli.
gence with concern; but Emily obſerved,
that he did not appear ſo much affected
now, as on the preceding evening, imme.
diately 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
R 5


( 370 )
cn
Duntenance
might be, he was perhaps conſoled, in fome
degree, by a knowledge of the legacy be-
queathed 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 hor-
- rors of a priſon; and it was the grief he
had ſuffered from the wild career of a
favourite ſon, with the pecuniary anxie-
ties 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 with-
out 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 ob.
tained an order for admittance, the was ſo
much fhocked at the change, which long
confine-


( 372 )
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 appre-
henſions 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 con-
duct 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, pain-
ful 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 ho-
noured him.
The converſation of Monſ. Bonnac diſco-
vered, that Valancourt, ſome time after his
arrival at Paris, had been drawn into the
ſnares, which determined vice had ſpread
for


(373 )
for him, and that his hours had been chiefly
divided between the parties of the captivat-
ing Marchioneſs and thoſe gaming afſem-
blies, to which the envy, or the avarice, of
his brother officers had ſpared no art to
feduce him. In theſe parties he had loſt
large ſums, in efforts to recover ſmall ones, ·
and to ſuch loſſes the Count de Villefort
and M. 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
neceffary 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 con.
firmed by long habit.
In the folitude of his priſon, Valancourt
had leiſure for reflection, and cauſe for re-
pentance; here, too, the image oE nily,
which, amidſt the diffipation of the city,
had been obſcured, but never obliterated
from


( 374 )
from his heart, revived with all the charms
of innocence and beauty, to reproach him
for having facrificed his happineſs and de-
baſed his talents by purſuits, which his no-
bler 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 de-
praved, nor had habit riveted the chains,
that hung heavily on his conſcience; and,
as he retained that energy of will, which
was neceffary to burſt them, he, at length,
emancipated himſelf from the bondage of
vice, but not till after much effort and ſe-
''vere ſuffering.
· Being releaſed by his brother from the
priſon, where he had witnelled the affecting
meeting between Monſ. Bonnac and his wife,
with whom he had been for ſome me
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
***
la


( 376 ).
made him now adore ; and theſe reflections,
increaſing the pangs of remorſe and regret,
occaſioned the deep dejection, that had ac-
companied 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 che
depredating ſchemes of gameſters, Valan-
court 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 him-
ſelf 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 refut-
ing them; and, when he confeſſed himſelf to
be unworthy of her eſteem, he little ſufpect-
ed, that he was confirming to her the moſt
dread-


( 372 )
s 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, deter-
mined 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 Monf. Bonnac gave,
of his friend's ſituation, while at Paris,
convinced him, that Valancourt had been
entrapped by the ſchemes of a ſet of diffi.
pated young men, with whom his profeſſion
had partly obliged him to affociate, rather
than by an inclination to vice; and, charmed
by the humanity, and noble, though raſh
gene


( 381 )
terially connected with the fate of the Mar.
chioneſs de Villeroi, we ſhall omit the con-
verſation, that paſſed in the parlour of the
convent, and mingle with our relation a
brief hiſtory of
The
Em
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 weak.
neſs, and reprehended her with violence;
her ſpirit was exaſperated by their vehe-
mence, inſtead of being corrected by their
wiſdom;
5
m.


( 380 )
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 Lau-
rentini, during her laſt interview with Emily,
and a confeſſion of a very extraordinary na-
ture, given in her dying hours, had made
the abbels think it neceſſary to converte
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 indif.
poſition had then prevented the intended
converſation ; but now, after the will had
been examined, ſhe received a ſummons,
which the immediately obeyed, and became
informed of circumſtances that powerfully
affected her. As the narrative of the ab-
beſs was, however, deficient in many parti-
culars, of which the reader may wiſh to be
thformed, and the hiſtory of the nun is ma-
terially


( 384 )
he returned with extreme reluctance, for 10
his heart was ſtill faſcinated by the arts of 2
Laurentini, with whom, however, he had
on various pretences delayed his marriage ;
but, to reconcile her to this ſeparation, he
pow gave repeated promiſes of returning to
conclude the nuptials, as ſoon as the affair,
which thus ſuddenly called him to France,
Thould permit.
Soothed, in ſome degree, by theſe aſſur-
ances, ſhe ſuffered him to depart; and,
foon after, her relative, Montoni, arriving
at Udolpho, renewed the addreffes which
ſhe had before refufed, and which ſhe now
again rejected. Meanwhile, her thoughts
were conſtantly with the Marquis de Ville-
soi, for whom ſhe ſuffered all the delirium
of Italian love, cheriſhed by the ſolitude, to
which the confined herſelf ; for ſhe had now
loſt all talte for the pleaſures of ſociety
and the gaiety of amuſement. Her only
indulgences were to figh and weep over a
miniature of the Marquis ; to viſit the
fcenes, that had witneſſed their happineſs;
to


( 388 )
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, fuſ-
pected that her affections were engaged by
another perſon, when Laurentini arrived in
Languedoc. This artful Italian foon per-
ceived, that ſhe had regained her influence
over him, and, ſoothed by the diſcovery,
The determined to live, and to employ all
her enchantments to win his conſent to the
diabolical deed, which ſhe believed was
neceffary to the ſecurity of her happineſs.
She conducted her ſcheme with deep diffi.
mulation 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, the 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


( 387 )
been married, for ſome months, her de.
ſpair 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 con-
trived to throw herſelf in his way, with
an intention of reproaching him, for his
conduct, and of ſtabbing herſelf in his pre-
ſence; 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 trem-
bled with the conflict of emotions, that af.
failed 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 paffion had been reſiſted by pru-
dence, rather than overconie by indifference;
and, ſince the honour of his family would
not perunit him to marry her, he had endea-
voured 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
S 2
tempered


(390)
ther, whoſe amiable diſpoſition, ſhe had rea-
ſon to believe, would have enſured her hap-
pineſs. This circumſtance Laurentini had
diſcovered, ſoon after her arrival in France,
and had made ample uſe of it in affiſting
her deſigns upon the Marquis, to whom the
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 The 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 for-
ward for the completion of all her wiſhes,
proved only the commencement of a ſuffer-
ing, 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 hor-
rors of unavailing pity and remorſe, which
would probably have einpoiſoned all the
years


(391)
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 re-
venge 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 re-
mained of his wife's infidelity, now that the
had ſuffered the puniſhment of guilt. Even
when he was informed, that ſhe was dying,
he had felt ſuddenly and unaccountably re-
aſſured of her innocence, nor was the folemn
aſſurance ſhe made him in her laſt hour, ca-
pable of affording him a ſtronger conviction
of her blameleſs conduct.
In the firſt horrors of remorſe and deſpair,
he felt inclined to deliver op 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
$ 4


( 392 )
that was, to curſe her as the inftigator of his
crime, and to fay, that he ſpared her life
only on condition, that ſhe paſſed the reſt
of her days in prayer and penance. Over-
whelmed with diſappointment, on receiving
contempt and abhorrence from the man, for
whoſe fake ſhe had not ſcrupled to ſtain her
conſcience with human blood, and, touched
with horror of the unavailing crime ſhe had
committed, the 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 tu.
mult of war, or the diffipations of a capital;
but his efforts were vain ; a deep dejection
hung over him ever after, for which his
moſt intimate friends could not account,
and he, at length, died, with a degree of
horror nearly equal to that, which Lauren-
tini had ſuffered. The phyfician, who had
nbſerved the fingular appearance of the un-
fortunate


( 394 )
1
.
ſolemnly enjoined his daughter to deſtroy :
and anxiety for her peace had probably made
him forbid her to enquire into the melan-
choly ſtory, to which they alluded. Such,
indeed, had been his affliction, on the pre-
mature death of this his favourite fifter,
whoſe unhappy marriage had from the firſt
excited his tendereſt pity, that he never
could hear her named, or mention her him-
felf after her death, except to Madanie St.
Aubert. From Emily, whoſe ſenſibility he
feared to awaken, he had ſo carefully con-
cealed 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 fcrupulouſly obſerved his requeſt.
It was over ſome of the laſt pathetic let-
ters of the Marchioneſs, that St. Aubert was
weeping, when he was obſerved by Emily,
on the eve of her departure from La Vallée,
and it was her picture, which he had ſo ten-
derly careffed. Her diſaſtrous death may
account


( 396 )
tirely ignorant of the truth. The deep re-
morſe, that ſeized on the mind of Laurentini,
together with the ſufferings of diſappointed
paſſion, for the 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
fpirits, which ſuffered few interruptions from
fits of phrenfy, 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 inftrument, to
which ſhe fometimes joined the delightful
melody of her voice, in the moſt folemn and
melancholy airs of her native country, mo-
dulated by all the energetic feeling, that
dwelt in her heart. The phyſician, who had
attended her, recommended it to the fupe-
rior to indulge her in this whim, as the only
means of foothing 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 tranſgreffed againſt the rules


( 399 )
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 chain.
ber of Udolpho, hung a black veil, whoſe
fingular ſituation had excited Emily's curio-
fily, and which afterwards diſcloſed an ob-
ject that had overwhelmed her with horror;
for, on lifting it, there appeared, inſtead
of the picture ihe had expected, within a re-
ceſs 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 fea-
tures and hands. On ſuch an object, it will
be readily believed, that no perſon could
endure to look twice. Emily, it may be re-
collected, 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
WO
ren
2


( 398 )
the fingular behaviour which had formerly
alarmed her ; but it was in the nun's dying
hour, when her conſcience gave her perpe-
tually the idea of the Marchioneſs, that ſhe
became inore 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 affer-
tion, that had followed, on the recovery of
her fenfes, that Emily was the daughter of
the Marchioneſs de Villeroi, aroſe from a.
fufpicion that ſhe was fo;, for, knowing that
her rival, when the 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 un.
reſiſted 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 deceiv.
ed concerning the ſpectacle, that formerly
occafioned her ſo inuch terror, and had
was
ſince


( 402 )
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 cere-
mony of the veil, however, and the circum-
ſtance 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 overcume 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 fiſter of Monſ.
St. Aubert, was variouſly affected; but,
amidſt the forrow, which ſhe ſuffered for
her untimely death, die was releaſed froin
an anxious and painful conjecture, occa-
fioned by the raſh aſſertion of Signora Lau-
rentini,concerning her birth and the honour
of her parents. Her faith in St. Aubert's
prin.


( 403 )
principles would ſcarcely allow her to ſuf-
pect that he had acted diſhonourably ; and
The felt ſuch reluctance to believe herſelf
the daughter of any other, than her, whom
The had always conſidered and loved as a
mother, that ſhe would hardly admit ſuch a
circumſtance to be poſſible; yet the like-
neſs, which it had frequently been affirmed
The bore to the late Marchioneſs, the former
behaviour of Dorothée the old houſekeeper,
the aſſertion of Laurentini, and the myſte-
rious attachment which St. Aubert had diſ-
covered, awakened doubts as to his con-
nection with the Marchioneſs, which her
reaſon could neither vanquiſh, or confirm.
From there, 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 exhi-
bited, the indulgence of whoſe paſſions had
been the means of leading her gradually to
the commiſſion of a crime, from the pro-
phecy
Un


( 411 )
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 awaken-
ed 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 funk behind
the mountains, and even his reflected light
was fading from their higheſt points, Emily
did not leave the watch tower, but conti-
nued to indulge her melancholy reverie,
till a footſtep, at a little diſtance, ſtartled
her, and, on looking through the grate, the
obſerved a perſon walking below, whom,
however, foon perceiving to be Monſ. Bon-
nac, ſhe returned to the quiet thoughtfulneſs
his ſtep had interrupted. After ſome time,
ſhe again ſtruck her lute, and ſung her fa-
vourite air;. but again a ſtep diſturbed her,
T2
and,


( 415 )
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 circum-
ſtances, and I am again torturing myſelf
with a falſe hope !"
The ſilence of Emily confirmed this ſup-
poſicion; for the deep twilight would not
allow Valancourt to diſtinguiſh the aſtoniſh-
ment and doubting joy, that fixed her fea-
tures. For a moment, ſhe continued unable
to ſpeak; then a profound ſigh ſeemed to
give ſome relief to her ſpirits, and the
faid,
“ 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!-l am
T 4
dear


( 418 )
latter ſo clearly juſtified himſelf of the cri.
minal parts of the conduct, imputed to
him, and ſo candidly confeſſed and ſo feel.
ingly lamented the follies, which he had
committed, that the Count was confirmed
in the 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 be-
fore 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 fus
ture happineſs of Emily St. Aubert, for
whom he felt the ſolicitude of a parenti
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 ren-
dered Monſ. Bonnac, her eyes overflowed
with tears of pleaſure, and the further con-
verſation of Count de Villefort perfectly
diſſipated every doubt, as to the paſt and fu.
ture conduct of him, to whom ſhe now re-
ſtored,


( 425.)
.
to declare his love, and where now the re:
membrance of the anxiety he had then ſuf-
fered, and the retroſpect of all the dangers.
and misfor:unes they had each encountered,
ſince laſt they fat together beneath its
broad branches, exalted the ſenſe of their
preſent felicity, which, on this ſpot, ſacred
to the memory of Sc. Aubert, they ſolemnly.in
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 crea;
tures.
... Soon after their return to La Vallée,
the brother of Valancourt came to congra-
tulate him on his marriage, and to pay his
reſpects to Emily, with whom he was ſo
much pleaſed, as well as with the proſpect
Vol. IV.
of


(426 )
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 Tholsufe, were diſpoſed
of, and Emily purchaſed of Moni. Qnfo
nei the ancient domain of her lute fiche,
where, having given Annette a marriage-
portion, ſhe ſettled her as the houſekeeper,
and Ludovico as the ſteward; but, fince
both Valancourt and herſelf preferred the
pleaſant and long-loved ſhades of La Vallée
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 me-
mory.
The legacy, which had been bequeathed
to Emily by Signora Laurentini, ſhe begi-
ged Valancourt would allow her to reſign
to Monſ. Bonnac; and Valancourt, when
The


( 427 )
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 ſur.
viving relation of the houſe of chat name,
and thus affluence- reſtored his long op-
preſſed 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 oppreſ-
fion of the vicious, and the difrain 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 la-
bouring 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 Vallée became, once more,
the retreat of goodneſs, wiſdom and domeſtic
blefiedneſs!
O! uſeful


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