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Section
6
The Mysteries of Udolpho
by Ann Radcliffe
CHAPTER VIII
Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd,
Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked, or charitable,
I will speak to thee.
HAMLET
Count de Villefort, at length, received a letter from the advocate at
Avignon, encouraging Emily to assert her claim to the estates of the
late Madame Montoni; and, about the same time, a messenger arrived
from Monsieur Quesnel with intelligence, that made an appeal to the
law on this subject unnecessary, since it appeared, that the only
person, who could have opposed her claim, was now no more. A friend
of Monsieur Quesnel, who resided at Venice, had sent him an account
of the death of Montoni who had been brought to trial with Orsino, as
his supposed accomplice in the murder of the Venetian nobleman.
Orsino was found guilty, condemned and executed upon the wheel, but,
nothing being discovered to criminate Montoni, and his colleagues, on
this charge, they were all released, except Montoni, who, being
considered by the senate as a very dangerous person, was, for other
reasons, ordered again into confinement, where, it was said, he had
died in a doubtful and mysterious manner, and not without suspicion
of having been poisoned. The authority, from which M. Quesnel had
received this information, would not allow him to doubt its truth,
and he told Emily, that she had now only to lay claim to the estates
of her late aunt, to secure them, and added, that he would himself
assist in the necessary forms of this business. The term, for which
La Vallee had been let being now also nearly expired, he acquainted
her with the circumstance, and advised her to take the road thither,
through Tholouse, where he promised to meet her, and where it would
be proper for her to take possession of the estates of the late
Madame Montoni; adding, that he would spare her any difficulties,
that might occur on that occasion from the want of knowledge on the
subject, and that he believed it would be necessary for her to be at
Tholouse, in about three weeks from the present time.
An increase of fortune seemed to have awakened this sudden kindness
in M. Quesnel towards his niece, and it appeared, that he entertained
more respect for the rich heiress, than he had ever felt compassion
for the poor and unfriended orphan.
The pleasure, with which she received this intelligence, was clouded
when she considered, that he, for whose sake she had once regretted
the want of fortune, was no longer worthy of sharing it with her;
but, remembering the friendly admonition of the Count, she checked
this melancholy reflection, and endeavoured to feel only gratitude
for the unexpected good, that now attended her; while it formed no
inconsiderable part of her satisfaction to know, that La Vallee, her
native home, which was endeared to her by it's having been the
residence of her parents, would soon be restored to her possession.
There she meant to fix her future residence, for, though it could not
be compared with the chateau at Tholouse, either for extent, or
magnificence, its pleasant scenes and the tender remembrances, that
haunted them, had claims upon her heart, which she was not inclined
to sacrifice to ostentation. She wrote immediately to thank M.
Quesnel for the active interest he took in her concerns, and to say,
that she would meet him at Tholouse at the appointed time.
When Count de Villefort, with Blanche, came to the convent to give
Emily the advice of the advocate, he was informed of the contents of
M. Quesnel's letter, and gave her his sincere congratulations, on the
occasion; but she observed, that, when the first expression of
satisfaction had faded from his countenance, an unusual gravity
succeeded, and she scarcely hesitated to enquire its cause.
'It has no new occasion,' replied the Count; 'I am harassed and
perplexed by the confusion, into which my family is thrown by their
foolish superstition. Idle reports are floating round me, which I
can neither admit to be true, or prove to be false; and I am, also,
very anxious about the poor fellow, Ludovico, concerning whom I have
not been able to obtain information. Every part of the chateau and
every part of the neighbourhood, too, has, I believe, been searched,
and I know not what further can be done, since I have already offered
large rewards for the discovery of him. The keys of the north
apartment I have not suffered to be out of my possession, since he
disappeared, and I mean to watch in those chambers, myself, this very
night.'
Emily, seriously alarmed for the Count, united her entreaties with
those of the Lady Blanche, to dissuade him from his purpose.
'What should I fear?' said he. 'I have no faith in supernatural
combats, and for human opposition I shall be prepared; nay, I will
even promise not to watch alone.'
'But who, dear sir, will have courage enough to watch with you?' said
Emily.
'My son,' replied the Count. 'If I am not carried off in the night,'
added he, smiling, 'you shall hear the result of my adventure,
tomorrow.'
The Count and Lady Blanche, shortly afterwards, took leave of Emily,
and returned to the chateau, where he informed Henri of his
intention, who, not without some secret reluctance, consented to be
the partner of his watch; and, when the design was mentioned after
supper, the Countess was terrified, and the Baron, and M. Du Pont
joined with her in entreating, that he would not tempt his fate, as
Ludovico had done. 'We know not,' added the Baron, 'the nature, or
the power of an evil spirit; and that such a spirit haunts those
chambers can now, I think, scarcely be doubted. Beware, my lord, how
you provoke its vengeance, since it has already given us one terrible
example of its malice. I allow it may be probable, that the spirits
of the dead are permitted to return to the earth only on occasions of
high import; but the present import may be your destruction.'
The Count could not forbear smiling; 'Do you think then, Baron,' said
he, 'that my destruction is of sufficient importance to draw back to
earth the soul of the departed? Alas! my good friend, there is no
occasion for such means to accomplish the destruction of any
individual. Wherever the mystery rests, I trust I shall, this night,
be able to detect it. You know I am not superstitious.'
'I know that you are incredulous,' interrupted the Baron.
'Well, call it what you will, I mean to say, that, though you know I
am free from superstition--if any thing supernatural has appeared, I
doubt not it will appear to me, and if any strange event hangs over
my house, or if any extraordinary transaction has formerly been
connected with it, I shall probably be made acquainted with it. At
all events I will invite discovery; and, that I may be equal to a
mortal attack, which in good truth, my friend, is what I most expect,
I shall take care to be well armed.'
The Count took leave of his family, for the night, with an assumed
gaiety, which but ill concealed the anxiety, that depressed his
spirits, and retired to the north apartments, accompanied by his son
and followed by the Baron, M. Du Pont and some of the domestics, who
all bade him good night at the outer door. In these chambers every
thing appeared as when he had last been here; even in the bed-room no
alteration was visible, where he lighted his own fire, for none of
the domestics could be prevailed upon to venture thither. After
carefully examining the chamber and the oriel, the Count and Henri
drew their chairs upon the hearth, set a bottle of wine and a lamp
before them, laid their swords upon the table, and, stirring the wood
into a blaze, began to converse on indifferent topics. But Henri was
often silent and abstracted, and sometimes threw a glance of mingled
awe and curiosity round the gloomy apartment; while the Count
gradually ceased to converse, and sat either lost in thought, or
reading a volume of Tacitus, which he had brought to beguile the
tediousness of the night.
CHAPTER IV
Give thy thoughts no tongue.
SHAKESPEARE
The Baron St. Foix, whom anxiety for his friend had kept awake, rose
early to enquire the event of the night, when, as he passed the
Count's closet, hearing steps within, he knocked at the door, and it
was opened by his friend himself. Rejoicing to see him in safety,
and curious to learn the occurrences of the night, he had not
immediately leisure to observe the unusual gravity, that overspread
the features of the Count, whose reserved answers first occasioned
him to notice it. The Count, then smiling, endeavoured to treat the
subject of his curiosity with levity, but the Baron was serious, and
pursued his enquiries so closely, that the Count, at length, resuming
his gravity, said, 'Well, my friend, press the subject no further, I
entreat you; and let me request also, that you will hereafter be
silent upon any thing you may think extraordinary in my future
conduct. I do not scruple to tell you, that I am unhappy, and that
the watch of the last night has not assisted me to discover Ludovico;
upon every occurrence of the night you must excuse my reserve.'
'But where is Henri?' said the Baron, with surprise and
disappointment at this denial.
'He is well in his own apartment,' replied the Count. 'You will not
question him on this topic, my friend, since you know my wish.'
'Certainly not,' said the Baron, somewhat chagrined, 'since it would
be displeasing to you; but methinks, my friend, you might rely on my
discretion, and drop this unusual reserve. However, you must allow
me to suspect, that you have seen reason to become a convert to my
system, and are no longer the incredulous knight you lately appeared
to be.'
'Let us talk no more upon this subject,' said the Count; 'you may be
assured, that no ordinary circumstance has imposed this silence upon
me towards a friend, whom I have called so for near thirty years; and
my present reserve cannot make you question either my esteem, or the
sincerity of my friendship.'
'I will not doubt either,' said the Baron, 'though you must allow me
to express my surprise, at this silence.'
'To me I will allow it,' replied the Count, 'but I earnestly entreat
that you will forbear to notice it to my family, as well as every
thing remarkable you may observe in my conduct towards them.'
The Baron readily promised this, and, after conversing for some time
on general topics, they descended to the breakfast-room, where the
Count met his family with a cheerful countenance, and evaded their
enquiries by employing light ridicule, and assuming an air of
uncommon gaiety, while he assured them, that they need not apprehend
any evil from the north chambers, since Henri and himself had been
permitted to return from them in safety.
Henri, however, was less successful in disguising his feelings. From
his countenance an expression of terror was not entirely faded; he
was often silent and thoughtful, and when he attempted to laugh at
the eager enquiries of Mademoiselle Bearn, it was evidently only an
attempt.
In the evening, the Count called, as he had promised, at the convent,
and Emily was surprised to perceive a mixture of playful ridicule and
of reserve in his mention of the north apartment. Of what had
occurred there, however, he said nothing, and, when she ventured to
remind him of his promise to tell her the result of his enquiries,
and to ask if he had received any proof, that those chambers were
haunted, his look became solemn, for a moment, then, seeming to
recollect himself, he smiled, and said, 'My dear Emily, do not suffer
my lady abbess to infect your good understanding with these fancies;
she will teach you to expect a ghost in every dark room. But believe
me,' added he, with a profound sigh, 'the apparition of the dead
comes not on light, or sportive errands, to terrify, or to surprise
the timid.' He paused, and fell into a momentary thoughtfulness, and
then added, 'We will say no more on this subject.'
Soon after, he took leave, and, when Emily joined some of the nuns,
she was surprised to find them acquainted with a circumstance, which
she had carefully avoided to mention, and expressing their admiration
of his intrepidity in having dared to pass a night in the apartment,
whence Ludovico had disappeared; for she had not considered with what
rapidity a tale of wonder circulates. The nuns had acquired their
information from peasants, who brought fruit to the monastery, and
whose whole attention had been fixed, since the disappearance of
Ludovico, on what was passing in the castle.
Emily listened in silence to the various opinions of the nuns,
concerning the conduct of the Count, most of whom condemned it as
rash and presumptuous, affirming, that it was provoking the vengeance
of an evil spirit, thus to intrude upon its haunts.
Sister Frances contended, that the Count had acted with the bravery
of a virtuous mind. He knew himself guiltless of aught, that should
provoke a good spirit, and did not fear the spells of an evil one,
since he could claim the protection of an higher Power, of Him, who
can command the wicked, and will protect the innocent.
'The guilty cannot claim that protection!' said sister Agnes, 'let
the Count look to his conduct, that he do not forfeit his claim! Yet
who is he, that shall dare to call himself innocent!--all earthly
innocence is but comparative. Yet still how wide asunder are the
extremes of guilt, and to what an horrible depth may we fall! Oh!'--
The nun, as she concluded, uttered a shuddering sigh, that startled
Emily, who, looking up, perceived the eyes of Agnes fixed on hers,
after which the sister rose, took her hand, gazed earnestly upon her
countenance, for some moments, in silence, and then said,
'You are young--you are innocent! I mean you are yet innocent of any
great crime!--But you have passions in your heart,--scorpions; they
sleep now--beware how you awaken them!--they will sting you, even
unto death!'
Emily, affected by these words and by the solemnity, with which they
were delivered, could not suppress her tears.
'Ah! is it so?' exclaimed Agnes, her countenance softening from its
sternness--'so young, and so unfortunate! We are sisters, then
indeed. Yet, there is no bond of kindness among the guilty,' she
added, while her eyes resumed their wild expression, 'no gentleness,-
-no peace, no hope! I knew them all once--my eyes could weep--but
now they burn, for now, my soul is fixed, and fearless!--I lament no
more!'
'Rather let us repent, and pray,' said another nun. 'We are taught
to hope, that prayer and penitence will work our salvation. There is
hope for all who repent!'
'Who repent and turn to the true faith,' observed sister Frances.
'For all but me!' replied Agnes solemnly, who paused, and then
abruptly added, 'My head burns, I believe I am not well. O! could I
strike from my memory all former scenes--the figures, that rise up,
like furies, to torment me!--I see them, when I sleep, and, when I am
awake, they are still before my eyes! I see them now--now!'
She stood in a fixed attitude of horror, her straining eyes moving
slowly round the room, as if they followed something. One of the
nuns gently took her hand, to lead her from the parlour. Agnes
became calm, drew her other hand across her eyes, looked again, and,
sighing deeply, said, 'They are gone--they are gone! I am feverish,
I know not what I say. I am thus, sometimes, but it will go off
again, I shall soon be better. Was not that the vesper-bell?'
'No,' replied Frances, 'the evening service is passed. Let Margaret
lead you to your cell.'
'You are right,' replied sister Agnes, 'I shall be better there.
Good night, my sisters, remember me in your orisons.'
When they had withdrawn, Frances, observing Emily's emotion, said,
'Do not be alarmed, our sister is often thus deranged, though I have
not lately seen her so frantic; her usual mood is melancholy. This
fit has been coming on, for several days; seclusion and the customary
treatment will restore her.'
'But how rationally she conversed, at first!' observed Emily, 'her
ideas followed each other in perfect order.'
'Yes,' replied the nun, 'this is nothing new; nay, I have sometimes
known her argue not only with method, but with acuteness, and then,
in a moment, start off into madness.'
'Her conscience seems afflicted,' said Emily, 'did you ever hear what
circumstance reduced her to this deplorable condition?'
'I have,' replied the nun, who said no more till Emily repeated the
question, when she added in a low voice, and looking significantly
towards the other boarders, 'I cannot tell you now, but, if you think
it worth your while, come to my cell, to-night, when our sisterhood
are at rest, and you shall hear more; but remember we rise to
midnight prayers, and come either before, or after midnight.'
Emily promised to remember, and, the abbess soon after appearing,
they spoke no more of the unhappy nun.
The Count meanwhile, on his return home, had found M. Du Pont in one
of those fits of despondency, which his attachment to Emily
frequently occasioned him, an attachment, that had subsisted too long
to be easily subdued, and which had already outlived the opposition
of his friends. M. Du Pont had first seen Emily in Gascony, during
the lifetime of his parent, who, on discovering his son's partiality
for Mademoiselle St. Aubert, his inferior in point of fortune,
forbade him to declare it to her family, or to think of her more.
During the life of his father, he had observed the first command, but
had found it impracticable to obey the second, and had, sometimes,
soothed his passion by visiting her favourite haunts, among which was
the fishing-house, where, once or twice, he addressed her in verse,
concealing his name, in obedience to the promise he had given his
father. There too he played the pathetic air, to which she had
listened with such surprise and admiration; and there he found the
miniature, that had since cherished a passion fatal to his repose.
During his expedition into Italy, his father died; but he received
his liberty at a moment, when he was the least enabled to profit by
it, since the object, that rendered it most valuable, was no longer
within the reach of his vows. By what accident he discovered Emily,
and assisted to release her from a terrible imprisonment, has already
appeared, and also the unavailing hope, with which he then encouraged
his love, and the fruitless efforts, that he had since made to
overcome it.
The Count still endeavoured, with friendly zeal, to sooth him with a
belief, that patience, perseverance and prudence would finally obtain
for him happiness and Emily: 'Time,' said he, 'will wear away the
melancholy impression, which disappointment has left on her mind, and
she will be sensible of your merit. Your services have already
awakened her gratitude, and your sufferings her pity; and trust me,
my friend, in a heart so sensible as hers, gratitude and pity lead to
love. When her imagination is rescued from its present delusion, she
will readily accept the homage of a mind like yours.'
Du Pont sighed, while he listened to these words; and, endeavouring
to hope what his friend believed, he willingly yielded to an
invitation to prolong his visit at the chateau, which we now leave
for the monastery of St. Claire.
When the nuns had retired to rest, Emily stole to her appointment
with sister Frances, whom she found in her cell, engaged in prayer,
before a little table, where appeared the image she was addressing,
and, above, the dim lamp that gave light to the place. Turning her
eyes, as the door opened, she beckoned to Emily to come in, who,
having done so, seated herself in silence beside the nun's little
mattress of straw, till her orisons should conclude. The latter soon
rose from her knees, and, taking down the lamp and placing it on the
table, Emily perceived there a human scull and bones, lying beside an
hour-glass; but the nun, without observing her emotion, sat down on
the mattress by her, saying, 'Your curiosity, sister, has made you
punctual, but you have nothing remarkable to hear in the history of
poor Agnes, of whom I avoided to speak in the presence of my lay-
sisters, only because I would not publish her crime to them.'
'I shall consider your confidence in me as a favour,' said Emily,
'and will not misuse it.'
'Sister Agnes,' resumed the nun, 'is of a noble family, as the
dignity of her air must already have informed you, but I will not
dishonour their name so much as to reveal it. Love was the occasion
of her crime and of her madness. She was beloved by a gentleman of
inferior fortune, and her father, as I have heard, bestowing her on a
nobleman, whom she disliked, an ill-governed passion proved her
destruction.--Every obligation of virtue and of duty was forgotten,
and she prophaned her marriage vows; but her guilt was soon detected,
and she would have fallen a sacrifice to the vengeance of her
husband, had not her father contrived to convey her from his power.
By what means he did this, I never could learn; but he secreted her
in this convent, where he afterwards prevailed with her to take the
veil, while a report was circulated in the world, that she was dead,
and the father, to save his daughter, assisted the rumour, and
employed such means as induced her husband to believe she had become
a victim to his jealousy. You look surprised,' added the nun,
observing Emily's countenance; 'I allow the story is uncommon, but
not, I believe, without a parallel.'
'Pray proceed,' said Emily, 'I am interested.'
'The story is already told,' resumed the nun, 'I have only to
mention, that the long struggle, which Agnes suffered, between love,
remorse and a sense of the duties she had taken upon herself in
becoming of our order, at length unsettled her reason. At first, she
was frantic and melancholy by quick alternatives; then, she sunk into
a deep and settled melancholy, which still, however, has, at times,
been interrupted by fits of wildness, and, of late, these have again
been frequent.'
Emily was affected by the history of the sister, some parts of whose
story brought to her remembrance that of the Marchioness de Villeroi,
who had also been compelled by her father to forsake the object of
her affections, for a nobleman of his choice; but, from what Dorothee
had related, there appeared no reason to suppose, that she had
escaped the vengeance of a jealous husband, or to doubt for a moment
the innocence of her conduct. But Emily, while she sighed over the
misery of the nun, could not forbear shedding a few tears to the
misfortunes of the Marchioness; and, when she returned to the mention
of sister Agnes, she asked Frances if she remembered her in her
youth, and whether she was then beautiful.
'I was not here at the time, when she took the vows,' replied
Frances, 'which is so long ago, that few of the present sisterhood, I
believe, were witnesses of the ceremony; nay, ever our lady mother
did not then preside over the convent: but I can remember, when
sister Agnes was a very beautiful woman. She retains that air of
high rank, which always distinguished her, but her beauty, you must
perceive, is fled; I can scarcely discover even a vestige of the
loveliness, that once animated her features.'
'It is strange,' said Emily, 'but there are moments, when her
countenance has appeared familiar to my memory! You will think me
fanciful, and I think myself so, for I certainly never saw sister
Agnes, before I came to this convent, and I must, therefore, have
seen some person, whom she strongly resembles, though of this I have
no recollection.'
'You have been interested by the deep melancholy of her countenance,'
said Frances, 'and its impression has probably deluded your
imagination; for I might as reasonably think I perceive a likeness
between you and Agnes, as you, that you have seen her any where but
in this convent, since this has been her place of refuge, for nearly
as many years as make your age.'
'Indeed!' said Emily.
'Yes,' rejoined Frances, 'and why does that circumstance excite your
surprise?'
Emily did not appear to notice this question, but remained
thoughtful, for a few moments, and then said, 'It was about that same
period that the Marchioness de Villeroi expired.'
'That is an odd remark,' said Frances.
Emily, recalled from her reverie, smiled, and gave the conversation
another turn, but it soon came back to the subject of the unhappy
nun, and Emily remained in the cell of sister Frances, till the mid-
night bell aroused her; when, apologizing for having interrupted the
sister's repose, till this late hour, they quitted the cell together.
Emily returned to her chamber, and the nun, bearing a glimmering
taper, went to her devotion in the chapel.
Several days followed, during which Emily saw neither the Count, or
any of his family; and, when, at length, he appeared, she remarked,
with concern, that his air was unusually disturbed.
'My spirits are harassed,' said he, in answer to her anxious
enquiries, 'and I mean to change my residence, for a little while, an
experiment, which, I hope, will restore my mind to its usual
tranquillity. My daughter and myself will accompany the Baron St.
Foix to his chateau. It lies in a valley of the Pyrenees, that opens
towards Gascony, and I have been thinking, Emily, that, when you set
out for La Vallee, we may go part of the way together; it would be a
satisfaction to me to guard you towards your home.'
She thanked the Count for his friendly consideration, and lamented,
that the necessity for her going first to Tholouse would render this
plan impracticable. 'But, when you are at the Baron's residence,'
she added, 'you will be only a short journey from La Vallee, and I
think, sir, you will not leave the country without visiting me; it is
unnecessary to say with what pleasure I should receive you and the
Lady Blanche.'
'I do not doubt it,' replied the Count, 'and I will not deny myself
and Blanche the pleasure of visiting you, if your affairs should
allow you to be at La Vallee, about the time when we can meet you
there.'
When Emily said that she should hope to see the Countess also, she
was not sorry to learn that this lady was going, accompanied by
Mademoiselle Bearn, to pay a visit, for a few weeks, to a family in
lower Languedoc.
The Count, after some further conversation on his intended journey
and on the arrangement of Emily's, took leave; and many days did not
succeed this visit, before a second letter from M. Quesnel informed
her, that he was then at Tholouse, that La Vallee was at liberty, and
that he wished her to set off for the former place, where he awaited
her arrival, with all possible dispatch, since his own affairs
pressed him to return to Gascony. Emily did not hesitate to obey
him, and, having taken an affecting leave of the Count's family, in
which M. Du Pont was still included, and of her friends at the
convent, she set out for Tholouse, attended by the unhappy Annette,
and guarded by a steady servant of the Count.
CHAPTER X
Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain,
Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain:
Awake but one, and lo! what myriads rise!
Each stamps its image as the other flies!
PLEASURES OF MEMORY
Emily pursued her journey, without any accident, along the plains of
Languedoc towards the north-west; and, on this her return to
Tholouse, which she had last left with Madame Montoni, she thought
much on the melancholy fate of her aunt, who, but for her own
imprudence, might now have been living in happiness there! Montoni,
too, often rose to her fancy, such as she had seen him in his days of
triumph, bold, spirited and commanding; such also as she had since
beheld him in his days of vengeance; and now, only a few short months
had passed--and he had no longer the power, or the will to afflict;--
he had become a clod of earth, and his life was vanished like a
shadow! Emily could have wept at his fate, had she not remembered
his crimes; for that of her unfortunate aunt she did weep, and all
sense of her errors was overcome by the recollection of her
misfortunes.
Other thoughts and other emotions succeeded, as Emily drew near the
well-known scenes of her early love, and considered, that Valancourt
was lost to her and to himself, for ever. At length, she came to the
brow of the hill, whence, on her departure for Italy, she had given a
farewell look to this beloved landscape, amongst whose woods and
fields she had so often walked with Valancourt, and where he was then
to inhabit, when she would be far, far away! She saw, once more,
that chain of the Pyrenees, which overlooked La Vallee, rising, like
faint clouds, on the horizon. 'There, too, is Gascony, extended at
their feet!' said she, 'O my father,--my mother! And there, too, is
the Garonne!' she added, drying the tears, that obscured her sight,-
-'and Tholouse, and my aunt's mansion--and the groves in her garden!-
-O my friends! are ye all lost to me--must I never, never see ye
more!' Tears rushed again to her eyes, and she continued to weep,
till an abrupt turn in the road had nearly occasioned the carriage to
overset, when, looking up, she perceived another part of the well-
known scene around Tholouse, and all the reflections and
anticipations, which she had suffered, at the moment, when she bade
it last adieu, came with recollected force to her heart. She
remembered how anxiously she had looked forward to the futurity,
which was to decide her happiness concerning Valancourt, and what
depressing fears had assailed her; the very words she had uttered, as
she withdrew her last look from the prospect, came to her memory.
'Could I but be certain,' she had then said, 'that I should ever
return, and that Valancourt would still live for me--I should go in
peace!'
Now, that futurity, so anxiously anticipated, was arrived, she was
returned--but what a dreary blank appeared!--Valancourt no longer
lived for her! She had no longer even the melancholy satisfaction of
contemplating his image in her heart, for he was no longer the same
Valancourt she had cherished there--the solace of many a mournful
hour, the animating friend, that had enabled her to bear up against
the oppression of Montoni--the distant hope, that had beamed over her
gloomy prospect! On perceiving this beloved idea to be an illusion
of her own creation, Valancourt seemed to be annihilated, and her
soul sickened at the blank, that remained. His marriage with a
rival, even his death, she thought she could have endured with more
fortitude, than this discovery; for then, amidst all her grief, she
could have looked in secret upon the image of goodness, which her
fancy had drawn of him, and comfort would have mingled with her
suffering!
Drying her tears, she looked, once more, upon the landscape, which
had excited them, and perceived, that she was passing the very bank,
where she had taken leave of Valancourt, on the morning of her
departure from Tholouse, and she now saw him, through her returning
tears, such as he had appeared, when she looked from the carriage to
give him a last adieu--saw him leaning mournfully against the high
trees, and remembered the fixed look of mingled tenderness and
anguish, with which he had then regarded her. This recollection was
too much for her heart, and she sunk back in the carriage, nor once
looked up, till it stopped at the gates of what was now her own
mansion.
These being opened, and by the servant, to whose care the chateau had
been entrusted, the carriage drove into the court, where, alighting,
she hastily passed through the great hall, now silent and solitary,
to a large oak parlour, the common sitting room of the late Madame
Montoni, where, instead of being received by M. Quesnel, she found a
letter from him, informing her that business of consequence had
obliged him to leave Tholouse two days before. Emily was, upon the
whole, not sorry to be spared his presence, since his abrupt
departure appeared to indicate the same indifference, with which he
had formerly regarded her. This letter informed her, also, of the
progress he had made in the settlement of her affairs, and concluded
with directions, concerning the forms of some business, which
remained for her to transact. But M. Quesnel's unkindness did not
long occupy her thoughts, which returned the remembrance of the
persons she had been accustomed to see in this mansion, and chiefly
of the ill-guided and unfortunate Madame Montoni. In the room, where
she now sat, she had breakfasted with her on the morning of their
departure for Italy; and the view of it brought most forcibly to her
recollection all she had herself suffered, at that time, and the many
gay expectations, which her aunt had formed, respecting the journey
before her. While Emily's mind was thus engaged, her eyes wandered
unconsciously to a large window, that looked upon the garden, and
here new memorials of the past spoke to her heart, for she saw
extended before her the very avenue, in which she had parted with
Valancourt, on the eve of her journey; and all the anxiety, the
tender interest he had shewn, concerning her future happiness, his
earnest remonstrances against her committing herself to the power of
Montoni, and the truth of his affection, came afresh to her memory.
At this moment, it appeared almost impossible, that Valancourt could
have become unworthy of her regard, and she doubted all that she had
lately heard to his disadvantage, and even his own words, which had
confirmed Count De Villefort's report of him. Overcome by the
recollections, which the view of this avenue occasioned, she turned
abruptly from the window, and sunk into a chair beside it, where she
sat, given up to grief, till the entrance of Annette, with coffee,
aroused her.
'Dear madam, how melancholy this place looks now,' said Annette, 'to
what it used to do! It is dismal coming home, when there is nobody
to welcome one!'
This was not the moment, in which Emily could bear the remark; her
tears fell again, and, as soon as she had taken the coffee, she
retired to her apartment, where she endeavoured to repose her
fatigued spirits. But busy memory would still supply her with the
visions of former times: she saw Valancourt interesting and
benevolent, as he had been wont to appear in the days of their early
love, and, amidst the scenes, where she had believed that they should
sometimes pass their years together!--but, at length, sleep closed
these afflicting scenes from her view.
On the following morning, serious occupation recovered her from such
melancholy reflections; for, being desirous of quitting Tholouse, and
of hastening on to La Vallee, she made some enquiries into the
condition of the estate, and immediately dispatched a part of the
necessary business concerning it, according to the directions of
Mons. Quesnel. It required a strong effort to abstract her thoughts
from other interests sufficiently to attend to this, but she was
rewarded for her exertions by again experiencing, that employment is
the surest antidote to sorrow.
This day was devoted entirely to business; and, among other concerns,
she employed means to learn the situation of all her poor tenants,
that she might relieve their wants, or confirm their comforts.
In the evening, her spirits were so much strengthened, that she
thought she could bear to visit the gardens, where she had so often
walked with Valancourt; and, knowing, that, if she delayed to do so,
their scenes would only affect her the more, whenever they should be
viewed, she took advantage of the present state of her mind, and
entered them.
Passing hastily the gate leading from the court into the gardens, she
hurried up the great avenue, scarcely permitting her memory to dwell
for a moment on the circumstance of her having here parted with
Valancourt, and soon quitted this for other walks less interesting to
her heart. These brought her, at length, to the flight of steps,
that led from the lower garden to the terrace, on seeing which, she
became agitated, and hesitated whether to ascend, but, her resolution
returning, she proceeded.
'Ah!' said Emily, as she ascended, 'these are the same high trees,
that used to wave over the terrace, and these the same flowery
thickets--the liburnum, the wild rose, and the cerinthe--which were
wont to grow beneath them! Ah! and there, too, on that bank, are the
very plants, which Valancourt so carefully reared!--O, when last I
saw them!'--she checked the thought, but could not restrain her
tears, and, after walking slowly on for a few moments, her agitation,
upon the view of this well-known scene, increased so much, that she
was obliged to stop, and lean upon the wall of the terrace. It was a
mild, and beautiful evening. The sun was setting over the extensive
landscape, to which his beams, sloping from beneath a dark cloud,
that overhung the west, gave rich and partial colouring, and touched
the tufted summits of the groves, that rose from the garden below,
with a yellow gleam. Emily and Valancourt had often admired together
this scene, at the same hour; and it was exactly on this spot, that,
on the night preceding her departure for Italy, she had listened to
his remonstrances against the journey, and to the pleadings of
passionate affection. Some observations, which she made on the
landscape, brought this to her remembrance, and with it all the
minute particulars of that conversation;--the alarming doubts he had
expressed concerning Montoni, doubts, which had since been fatally
confirmed; the reasons and entreaties he had employed to prevail with
her to consent to an immediate marriage; the tenderness of his love,
the paroxysms of this grief, and the conviction that he had
repeatedly expressed, that they should never meet again in happiness!
All these circumstances rose afresh to her mind, and awakened the
various emotions she had then suffered. Her tenderness for
Valancourt became as powerful as in the moments, when she thought,
that she was parting with him and happiness together, and when the
strength of her mind had enabled her to triumph over present
suffering, rather than to deserve the reproach of her conscience by
engaging in a clandestine marriage.--'Alas!' said Emily, as these
recollections came to her mind, 'and what have I gained by the
fortitude I then practised?--am I happy now?--He said, we should meet
no more in happiness; but, O! he little thought his own misconduct
would separate us, and lead to the very evil he then dreaded!'
Her reflections increased her anguish, while she was compelled to
acknowledge, that the fortitude she had formerly exerted, if it had
not conducted her to happiness, had saved her from irretrievable
misfortune--from Valancourt himself! But in these moments she could
not congratulate herself on the prudence, that had saved her; she
could only lament, with bitterest anguish, the circumstances, which
had conspired to betray Valancourt into a course of life so different
from that, which the virtues, the tastes, and the pursuits of his
early years had promised; but she still loved him too well to
believe, that his heart was even now depraved, though his conduct had
been criminal. An observation, which had fallen from M. St. Aubert
more than once, now occurred to her. 'This young man,' said he,
speaking of Valancourt, 'has never been at Paris;' a remark, that had
surprised her at the time it was uttered, but which she now
understood, and she exclaimed sorrowfully, 'O Valancourt! if such a
friend as my father had been with you at Paris--your noble, ingenuous
nature would not have fallen!'
The sun was now set, and, recalling her thoughts from their
melancholy subject, she continued her walk; for the pensive shade of
twilight was pleasing to her, and the nightingales from the
surrounding groves began to answer each other in the long-drawn,
plaintive note, which always touched her heart; while all the
fragrance of the flowery thickets, that bounded the terrace, was
awakened by the cool evening air, which floated so lightly among
their leaves, that they scarcely trembled as it passed.
Emily came, at length, to the steps of the pavilion, that terminated
the terrace, and where her last interview with Valancourt, before her
departure from Tholouse, had so unexpectedly taken place. The door
was now shut, and she trembled, while she hesitated whether to open
it; but her wish to see again a place, which had been the chief scene
of her former happiness, at length overcoming her reluctance to
encounter the painful regret it would renew, she entered. The room
was obscured by a melancholy shade; but through the open lattices,
darkened by the hanging foliage of the vines, appeared the dusky
landscape, the Garonne reflecting the evening light, and the west
still glowing. A chair was placed near one of the balconies, as if
some person had been sitting there, but the other furniture of the
pavilion remained exactly as usual, and Emily thought it looked as if
it had not once been moved since she set out for Italy. The silent
and deserted air of the place added solemnity to her emotions, for
she heard only the low whisper of the breeze, as it shook the leaves
of the vines, and the very faint murmur of the Garonne.
She seated herself in a chair, near the lattice, and yielded to the
sadness of her heart, while she recollected the circumstances of her
parting interview with Valancourt, on this spot. It was here too,
that she had passed some of the happiest hours of her life with him,
when her aunt favoured the connection, for here she had often sat and
worked, while he conversed, or read; and she now well remembered with
what discriminating judgment, with what tempered energy, he used to
repeat some of the sublimest passages of their favourite authors; how
often he would pause to admire with her their excellence, and with
what tender delight he would listen to her remarks, and correct her
taste.
'And is it possible,' said Emily, as these recollections returned--
'is it possible, that a mind, so susceptible of whatever is grand and
beautiful, could stoop to low pursuits, and be subdued by frivolous
temptations?'
She remembered how often she had seen the sudden tear start in his
eye, and had heard his voice tremble with emotion, while he related
any great or benevolent action, or repeated a sentiment of the same
character. 'And such a mind,' said she, 'such a heart, were to be
sacrificed to the habits of a great city!'
These recollections becoming too painful to be endured, she abruptly
left the pavilion, and, anxious to escape from the memorials of her
departed happiness, returned towards the chateau. As she passed
along the terrace, she perceived a person, walking, with a slow step,
and a dejected air, under the trees, at some distance. The twilight,
which was now deep, would not allow her to distinguish who it was,
and she imagined it to be one of the servants, till, the sound of her
steps seeming to reach him, he turned half round, and she thought she
saw Valancourt!
Whoever it was, he instantly struck among the thickets on the left,
and disappeared, while Emily, her eyes fixed on the place, whence he
had vanished, and her frame trembling so excessively, that she could
scarcely support herself, remained, for some moments, unable to quit
the spot, and scarcely conscious of existence. With her
recollection, her strength returned, and she hurried toward the
house, where she did not venture to enquire who had been in the
gardens, lest she should betray her emotion; and she sat down alone,
endeavouring to recollect the figure, air and features of the person
she had just seen. Her view of him, however, had been so transient,
and the gloom had rendered it so imperfect, that she could remember
nothing with exactness; yet the general appearance of his figure, and
his abrupt departure, made her still believe, that this person was
Valancourt. Sometimes, indeed, she thought, that her fancy, which
had been occupied by the idea of him, had suggested his image to her
uncertain sight: but this conjecture was fleeting. If it was
himself whom she had seen, she wondered much, that he should be at
Tholouse, and more, how he had gained admittance into the garden; but
as often as her impatience prompted her to enquire whether any
stranger had been admitted, she was restrained by an unwillingness to
betray her doubts; and the evening was passed in anxious conjecture,
and in efforts to dismiss the subject from her thoughts. But, these
endeavours were ineffectual, and a thousand inconsistent emotions
assailed her, whenever she fancied that Valancourt might be near her;
now, she dreaded it to be true, and now she feared it to be false;
and, while she constantly tried to persuade herself, that she wished
the person, whom she had seen, might not be Valancourt, her heart as
constantly contradicted her reason.
The following day was occupied by the visits of several neighbouring
families, formerly intimate with Madame Montoni, who came to condole
with Emily on her death, to congratulate her upon the acquisition of
these estates, and to enquire about Montoni, and concerning the
strange reports they had heard of her own situation; all which was
done with the utmost decorum, and the visitors departed with as much
composure as they had arrived.
Emily was wearied by these formalities, and disgusted by the
subservient manners of many persons, who had thought her scarcely
worthy of common attention, while she was believed to be a dependant
on Madame Montoni.
'Surely,' said she, 'there is some magic in wealth, which can thus
make persons pay their court to it, when it does not even benefit
themselves. How strange it is, that a fool or a knave, with riches,
should be treated with more respect by the world, than a good man, or
a wise man in poverty!'
It was evening, before she was left alone, and she then wished to
have refreshed her spirits in the free air of her garden; but she
feared to go thither, lest she should meet again the person, whom she
had seen on the preceding night, and he should prove to be
Valancourt. The suspense and anxiety she suffered, on this subject,
she found all her efforts unable to controul, and her secret wish to
see Valancourt once more, though unseen by him, powerfully prompted
her to go, but prudence and a delicate pride restrained her, and she
determined to avoid the possibility of throwing herself in his way,
by forbearing to visit the gardens, for several days.
When, after near a week, she again ventured thither, she made Annette
her companion, and confined her walk to the lower grounds, but often
started as the leaves rustled in the breeze, imagining, that some
person was among the thickets; and, at the turn of every alley, she
looked forward with apprehensive expectation. She pursued her walk
thoughtfully and silently, for her agitation would not suffer her to
converse with Annette, to whom, however, thought and silence were so
intolerable, that she did not scruple at length to talk to her
mistress.
'Dear madam,' said she, 'why do you start so? one would think you
knew what has happened.'
'What has happened?' said Emily, in a faltering voice, and trying to
command her emotion.
'The night before last, you know, madam'--
'I know nothing, Annette,' replied her lady in a more hurried voice.
'The night before last, madam, there was a robber in the garden.'
'A robber!' said Emily, in an eager, yet doubting tone.
'I suppose he was a robber, madam. What else could he be?'
'Where did you see him, Annette?' rejoined Emily, looking round her,
and turning back towards the chateau.
'It was not I that saw him, madam, it was Jean the gardener. It was
twelve o'clock at night, and, as he was coming across the court to go
the back way into the house, what should he see--but somebody walking
in the avenue, that fronts the garden gate! So, with that, Jean
guessed how it was, and he went into the house for his gun.'
'His gun!' exclaimed Emily.
'Yes, madam, his gun; and then he came out into the court to watch
him. Presently, he sees him come slowly down the avenue, and lean
over the garden gate, and look up at the house for a long time; and I
warrant he examined it well, and settled what window he should break
in at.'
'But the gun,' said Emily--'the gun!'
'Yes, madam, all in good time. Presently, Jean says, the robber
opened the gate, and was coming into the court, and then he thought
proper to ask him his business: so he called out again, and bade him
say who he was, and what he wanted. But the man would do neither;
but turned upon his heel, and passed into the garden again. Jean
knew then well enough how it was, and so he fired after him.'
'Fired!' exclaimed Emily.
'Yes, madam, fired off his gun; but, Holy Virgin! what makes you look
so pale, madam? The man was not killed,--I dare say; but if he was,
his comrades carried him off: for, when Jean went in the morning, to
look for the body, it was gone, and nothing to be seen but a track of
blood on the ground. Jean followed it, that he might find out where
the man got into the garden, but it was lost in the grass, and'--
Annette was interrupted: for Emily's spirits died away, and she
would have fallen to the ground, if the girl had not caught her, and
supported her to a bench, close to them.
When, after a long absence, her senses returned, Emily desired to be
led to her apartment; and, though she trembled with anxiety to
enquire further on the subject of her alarm, she found herself too
ill at present, to dare the intelligence which it was possible she
might receive of Valancourt. Having dismissed Annette, that she
might weep and think at liberty, she endeavoured to recollect the
exact air of the person, whom she had seen on the terrace, and still
her fancy gave her the figure of Valancourt. She had, indeed,
scarcely a doubt, that it was he whom she had seen, and at whom the
gardener had fired: for the manner of the latter person, as
described by Annette, was not that of a robber; nor did it appear
probable, that a robber would have come alone, to break into a house
so spacious as this.
When Emily thought herself sufficiently recovered, to listen to what
Jean might have to relate, she sent for him; but he could inform her
of no circumstance, that might lead to a knowledge of the person, who
had been shot, or of the consequence of the wound; and, after
severely reprimanding him, for having fired with bullets, and
ordering diligent enquiry to be made in the neighbourhood for the
discovery of the wounded person, she dismissed him, and herself
remained in the same state of terrible suspense. All the tenderness