CHAPTER IX
Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land, For many a long month lost in snow profound, When Sol from Cancer sends the seasons bland, And in their northern cave the storms hath bound; From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound, Torrents are hurl'd, green hills emerge, and lo, The trees with foliage, cliffs with flow'rs are crown'd; Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow. BEATTIE
Several of her succeeding days passed in suspense, for Ludovicocould only learn from the soldiers, that there was a prisoner in theapartment, described to him by Emily, and that he was a Frenchman,whom they had taken in one of their skirmishes, with a party of hiscountrymen. During this interval, Emily escaped the persecutions ofBertolini, and Verezzi, by confining herself to her apartment; exceptthat sometimes, in an evening, she ventured to walk in the adjoiningcorridor. Montoni appeared to respect his last promise, though he hadprophaned his first; for to his protection only could she attribute herpresent repose; and in this she was now so secure, that she did not wishto leave the castle, till she could obtain some certainty concerningValancourt; for which she waited, indeed, without any sacrifice ofher own comfort, since no circumstance had occurred to make her escapeprobable.
On the fourth day, Ludovico informed her, that he had hopes of beingadmitted to the presence of the prisoner; it being the turn of asoldier, with whom he had been for some time familiar, to attend himon the following night. He was not deceived in his hope; for, underpretence of carrying in a pitcher of water, he entered the prison,though, his prudence having prevented him from telling the sentinel thereal motive of his visit, he was obliged to make his conference with theprisoner a very short one.
Emily awaited the result in her own apartment, Ludovico having promisedto accompany Annette to the corridor, in the evening; where, afterseveral hours impatiently counted, he arrived. Emily, having thenuttered the name of Valancourt, could articulate no more, but hesitatedin trembling expectation. 'The Chevalier would not entrust me with hisname, Signora,' replied Ludovico; 'but, when I just mentioned yours, heseemed overwhelmed with joy, though he was not so much surprised as Iexpected.' 'Does he then remember me?' she exclaimed.
'O! it is Mons. Valancourt,' said Annette, and looked impatiently atLudovico, who understood her look, and replied to Emily: 'Yes, lady, theChevalier does, indeed, remember you, and, I am sure, has a very greatregard for you, and I made bold to say you had for him. He then enquiredhow you came to know he was in the castle, and whether you ordered meto speak to him. The first question I could not answer, but the second Idid; and then he went off into his ecstasies again. I was afraid his joywould have betrayed him to the sentinel at the door.'
'But how does he look, Ludovico?' interrupted Emily: 'is he notmelancholy and ill with this long confinement?'--'Why, as to melancholy,I saw no symptom of that, lady, while I was with him, for he seemedin the finest spirits I ever saw any body in, in all my life. Hiscountenance was all joy, and, if one may judge from that, he was verywell; but I did not ask him.' 'Did he send me no message?' said Emily.'O yes, Signora, and something besides,' replied Ludovico, who searchedhis pockets. 'Surely, I have not lost it,' added he. 'The Chevaliersaid, he would have written, madam, if he had had pen and ink, and wasgoing to have sent a very long message, when the sentinel entered theroom, but not before he had give me this.' Ludovico then drew forth aminiature from his bosom, which Emily received with a trembling hand,and perceived to be a portrait of herself--the very picture, which hermother had lost so strangely in the fishing-house at La Vallee.
Tears of mingled joy and tenderness flowed to her eyes, while Ludovicoproceeded--'"Tell your lady," said the Chevalier, as he gave me thepicture, "that this has been my companion, and only solace in all mymisfortunes. Tell her, that I have worn it next my heart, and that Isent it her as the pledge of an affection, which can never die; that Iwould not part with it, but to her, for the wealth of worlds, and that Inow part with it, only in the hope of soon receiving it from her hands.Tell her"--Just then, Signora, the sentinel came in, and the Chevaliersaid no more; but he had before asked me to contrive an interview forhim with you; and when I told him, how little hope I had of prevailingwith the guard to assist me, he said, that was not, perhaps, of somuch consequence as I imagined, and bade me contrive to bring back youranswer, and he would inform me of more than he chose to do then. Sothis, I think, lady, is the whole of what passed.'
'How, Ludovico, shall I reward you for your zeal?' said Emily: 'but,indeed, I do not now possess the means. When can you see the Chevalieragain?' 'That is uncertain, Signora,' replied he. 'It depends upon whostands guard next: there are not more than one or two among them, fromwhom I would dare to ask admittance to the prison-chamber.'
'I need not bid you remember, Ludovico,' resumed Emily, 'how very muchinterested I am in your seeing the Chevalier soon; and, when you do so,tell him, that I have received the picture, and, with the sentiments hewished. Tell him I have suffered much, and still suffer--' She paused.'But shall I tell him you will see him, lady?' said Ludovico. 'Mostcertainly I will,' replied Emily. 'But when, Signora, and where?' 'Thatmust depend upon circumstances,' returned Emily. 'The place, and thehour, must be regulated by his opportunities.'
'As to the place, mademoiselle,' said Annette, 'there is no other placein the castle, besides this corridor, where WE can see him in safety,you know; and, as for the hour,--it must be when all the Signors areasleep, if that ever happens!' 'You may mention these circumstances tothe Chevalier, Ludovico,' said she, checking the flippancy of Annette,'and leave them to his judgment and opportunity. Tell him, my heart isunchanged. But, above all, let him see you again as soon as possible;and, Ludovico, I think it is needless to tell you I shall very anxiouslylook for you.' Having then wished her good night, Ludovico descendedthe staircase, and Emily retired to rest, but not to sleep, for joy nowrendered her as wakeful, as she had ever been from grief. Montoni andhis castle had all vanished from her mind, like the frightful vision ofa necromancer, and she wandered, once more, in fairy scenes of unfadinghappiness:
As when, beneath the beam Of summer moons, the distant woods among, Or by some flood, all silver'd with the gleam, The soft embodied Fays thro' airy portals stream.
A week elapsed, before Ludovico again visited the prison; for thesentinels, during that period, were men, in whom he could not confide,and he feared to awaken curiosity, by asking to see their prisoner. Inthis interval, he communicated to Emily terrific reports of whatwas passing in the castle; of riots, quarrels, and of carousals morealarming than either; while from some circumstances, which he mentioned,she not only doubted, whether Montoni meant ever to release her, butgreatly feared, that he had designs, concerning her,--such as shehad formerly dreaded. Her name was frequently mentioned in theconversations, which Bertolini and Verezzi held together, and, at thosetimes, they were frequently in contention. Montoni had lost large sumsto Verezzi, so that there was a dreadful possibility of his designingher to be a substitute for the debt; but, as she was ignorant, that hehad formerly encouraged the hopes of Bertolini also, concerning herself,after the latter had done him some signal service, she knew not how toaccount for these contentions between Bertolini and Verezzi. The causeof them, however, appeared to be of little consequence, for she thoughtshe saw destruction approaching in many forms, and her entreaties toLudovico to contrive an escape and to see the prisoner again, were moreurgent than ever.
At length, he informed her, that he had again visited the Chevalier, whohad directed him to confide in the guard of the prison, from whom hehad already received some instances of kindness, and who had promised topermit his going into the castle for half an hour, on the ensuing night,when Montoni and his companions should be engaged at their carousals.'This was kind, to be sure,' added Ludovico: 'but Sebastian knows heruns no risque in letting the Chevalier out, for, if he can get beyondthe bars and iron doors of the castle, he must be cunning indeed. Butthe Chevalier desir
ed me, Signora, to go to you immediately, and tobeg you would allow him to visit you, this night, if it was only for amoment, for that he could no longer live under the same roof, withoutseeing you; the hour, he said, he could not mention, for it must dependon circumstances (just as you said, Signora); and the place he desiredyou would appoint, as knowing which was best for your own safety.'
Emily was now so much agitated by the near prospect of meetingValancourt, that it was some time, before she could give any answer toLudovico, or consider of the place of meeting; when she did, she sawnone, that promised so much security, as the corridor, near her ownapartment, which she was checked from leaving, by the apprehension ofmeeting any of Montoni's guests, on their way to their rooms; and shedismissed the scruples, which delicacy opposed, now that a seriousdanger was to be avoided by encountering them. It was settled,therefore, that the Chevalier should meet her in the corridor, at thathour of the night, which Ludovico, who was to be upon the watch, shouldjudge safest: and Emily, as may be imagined, passed this interval ina tumult of hope and joy, anxiety and impatience. Never, since herresidence in the castle, had she watched, with so much pleasure, thesun set behind the mountains, and twilight shade, and darkness veil thescene, as on this evening. She counted the notes of the great clock, andlistened to the steps of the sentinels, as they changed the watch,only to rejoice, that another hour was gone. 'O, Valancourt!' said she,'after all I have suffered; after our long, long separation, when Ithought I should never--never see you more--we are still to meet again!O! I have endured grief, and anxiety, and terror, and let me, then, notsink beneath this joy!' These were moments, when it was impossiblefor her to feel emotions of regret, or melancholy, for any ordinaryinterests;--even the reflection, that she had resigned the estates,which would have been a provision for herself and Valancourt for life,threw only a light and transient shade upon her spirits. The idea ofValancourt, and that she should see him so soon, alone occupied herheart.
At length the clock struck twelve; she opened the door to listen, ifany noise was in the castle, and heard only distant shouts of riot andlaughter, echoed feebly along the gallery. She guessed, that the Signorand his guests were at the banquet. 'They are now engaged for thenight,' said she; 'and Valancourt will soon be here.' Having softlyclosed the door, she paced the room with impatient steps, and often wentto the casement to listen for the lute; but all was silent, and, heragitation every moment increasing, she was at length unable to supportherself, and sat down by the window. Annette, whom she detained, was, inthe meantime, as loquacious as usual; but Emily heard scarcely any thingshe said, and having at length risen to the casement, she distinguishedthe chords of the lute, struck with an expressive hand, and then thevoice, she had formerly listened to, accompanied it.
Now rising love they fann'd, now pleasing dole They breath'd in tender musings through the heart; And now a graver, sacred strain they stole, As when seraphic hands an hymn impart!
Emily wept in doubtful joy and tenderness; and, when the strain ceased,she considered it as a signal, that Valancourt was about to leave theprison. Soon after, she heard steps in the corridor;--they were thelight, quick steps of hope; she could scarcely support herself, as theyapproached, but opening the door of the apartment, she advanced to meetValancourt, and, in the next moment, sunk in the arms of a stranger. Hisvoice--his countenance instantly convinced her, and she fainted away.
On reviving, she found herself supported by the stranger, who waswatching over her recovery, with a countenance of ineffable tendernessand anxiety. She had no spirits for reply, or enquiry; she asked noquestions, but burst into tears, and disengaged herself from hisarms; when the expression of his countenance changed to surprise anddisappointment, and he turned to Ludovico, for an explanation; Annettesoon gave the information, which Ludovico could not. 'O, sir!' saidshe, in a voice, interrupted with sobs; 'O, sir! you are not the otherChevalier. We expected Monsieur Valancourt, but you are not he! OLudovico! how could you deceive us so? my poor lady will never recoverit--never!' The stranger, who now appeared much agitated, attempted tospeak, but his words faltered; and then striking his hand against hisforehead, as if in sudden despair, he walked abruptly to the other endof the corridor.
Suddenly, Annette dried her tears, and spoke to Ludovico. 'But,perhaps,' said she, 'after all, the other Chevalier is not this: perhapsthe Chevalier Valancourt is still below.' Emily raised her head.'No,' replied Ludovico, 'Monsieur Valancourt never was below, if thisgentleman is not he.' 'If you, sir,' said Ludovico, addressing thestranger, 'would but have had the goodness to trust me with your name,this mistake had been avoided.' 'Most true,' replied the stranger,speaking in broken Italian, 'but it was of the utmost consequence to me,that my name should be concealed from Montoni. Madam,' added he then,addressing Emily in French, 'will you permit me to apologize for thepain I have occasioned you, and to explain to you alone my name, and thecircumstance, which has led me into this error? I am of France;--I amyour countryman;--we are met in a foreign land.' Emily tried tocompose her spirits; yet she hesitated to grant his request. At length,desiring, that Ludovico would wait on the stair-case, and detainingAnnette, she told the stranger, that her woman understood very littleItalian, and begged he would communicate what he wished to say, in thatlanguage.--Having withdrawn to a distant part of the corridor, he said,with a long-drawn sigh, 'You, madam, are no stranger to me, though I amso unhappy as to be unknown to you.--My name is Du Pont; I am of France,of Gascony, your native province, and have long admired,--and, whyshould I affect to disguise it?--have long loved you.' He paused,but, in the next moment, proceeded. 'My family, madam, is probably notunknown to you, for we lived within a few miles of La Vallee, and Ihave, sometimes, had the happiness of meeting you, on visits inthe neighbourhood. I will not offend you by repeating how much youinterested me; how much I loved to wander in the scenes you frequented;how often I visited your favourite fishing-house, and lamented thecircumstance, which, at that time, forbade me to reveal my passion. Iwill not explain how I surrendered to temptation, and became possessedof a treasure, which was to me inestimable; a treasure, which Icommitted to your messenger, a few days ago, with expectationsvery different from my present ones. I will say nothing of thesecircumstances, for I know they will avail me little; let me onlysupplicate from you forgiveness, and the picture, which I so unwarilyreturned. Your generosity will pardon the theft, and restore theprize. My crime has been my punishment; for the portrait I stole hascontributed to nourish a passion, which must still be my torment.'
Emily now interrupted him. 'I think, sir, I may leave it to yourintegrity to determine, whether, after what has just appeared,concerning Mons. Valancourt, I ought to return the picture. I think youwill acknowledge, that this would not be generosity; and you will allowme to add, that it would be doing myself an injustice. I must considermyself honoured by your good opinion, but'--and she hesitated,--'themistake of this evening makes it unnecessary for me to say more.'
'It does, madam,--alas! it does!' said the stranger, who, after a longpause, proceeded.--'But you will allow me to shew my disinterestedness,though not my love, and will accept the services I offer. Yet, alas!what services can I offer? I am myself a prisoner, a sufferer, likeyou. But, dear as liberty is to me, I would not seek it through halfthe hazards I would encounter to deliver you from this recess of vice.Accept the offered services of a friend; do not refuse me the reward ofhaving, at least, attempted to deserve your thanks.'
'You deserve them already, sir,' said Emily; 'the wish deserves mywarmest thanks. But you will excuse me for reminding you of the dangeryou incur by prolonging this interview. It will be a great consolationto me to remember, whether your friendly attempts to release me succeedor not, that I have a countryman, who would so generously protectme.'--Monsieur Du Pont took her hand, which she but feebly attempted towithdraw, and pressed it respectfully to his lips. 'Allow me to breatheanother fervent sigh for your happiness,' said he, 'and to applaudmyself for an affection, which I cannot conquer.' As he said t
his, Emilyheard a noise from her apartment, and, turning round, saw the door fromthe stair-case open, and a man rush into her chamber. 'I will teach youto conquer it,' cried he, as he advanced into the corridor, and drew astiletto, which he aimed at Du Pont, who was unarmed, but who, steppingback, avoided the blow, and then sprung upon Verezzi, from whom hewrenched the stiletto. While they struggled in each other's grasp,Emily, followed by Annette, ran further into the corridor, callingon Ludovico, who was, however, gone from the stair-case, and, as sheadvanced, terrified and uncertain what to do, a distant noise, thatseemed to arise from the hall, reminded her of the danger she wasincurring; and, sending Annette forward in search of Ludovico, shereturned to the spot where Du Pont and Verezzi were still struggling forvictory. It was her own cause which was to be decided with that ofthe former, whose conduct, independently of this circumstance, would,however, have interested her in his success, even had she not dislikedand dreaded Verezzi. She threw herself in a chair, and supplicated themto desist from further violence, till, at length, Du Pont forced Verezzito the floor, where he lay stunned by the violence of his fall; and shethen entreated Du Pont to escape from the room, before Montoni, or hisparty, should appear; but he still refused to leave her unprotected;and, while Emily, now more terrified for him, than for herself, enforcedthe entreaty, they heard steps ascending the private stair-case.
'O you are lost!' cried she, 'these are Montoni's people.' Du Pontmade no reply, but supported Emily, while, with a steady, though eager,countenance, he awaited their appearance, and, in the next moment,Ludovico, alone, mounted the landing-place. Throwing an hasty glanceround the chamber, 'Follow me,' said he, 'as you value your lives; wehave not an instant to lose!'
Emily enquired what had occurred, and whither they were to go?
'I cannot stay to tell you now, Signora,' replied Ludovico: 'fly! fly!'
She immediately followed him, accompanied by Mons. Du Pont, down thestair-case, and along a vaulted passage, when suddenly she recollectedAnnette, and enquired for her. 'She awaits us further on, Signora,' saidLudovico, almost breathless with haste; 'the gates were open, a momentsince, to a party just come in from the mountains: they will be shut,I fear, before we can reach them! Through this door, Signora,' addedLudovico, holding down the lamp, 'take care, here are two steps.'
Emily followed, trembling still more, than before she had understood,that her escape from the castle, depended upon the present moment; whileDu Pont supported her, and endeavoured, as they passed along, to cheerher spirits.
'Speak low, Signor,' said Ludovico, 'these passages send echoes allround the castle.'
'Take care of the light,' cried Emily, 'you go so fast, that the airwill extinguish it.'
Ludovico now opened another door, where they found Annette, and theparty then descended a short flight of steps into a passage, which,Ludovico said, led round the inner court of the castle, and opened intothe outer one. As they advanced, confused and tumultuous sounds, thatseemed to come from the inner court, alarmed Emily. 'Nay, Signora,' saidLudovico, 'our only hope is in that tumult; while the Signor's peopleare busied about the men, who are just arrived, we may, perhaps, passunnoticed through the gates. But hush!' he added, as they approached thesmall door, that opened into the outer court, 'if you will remain here amoment, I will go to see whether the gates are open, and any body isin the way. Pray extinguish the light, Signor, if you hear me talking,'continued Ludovico, delivering the lamp to Du Pont, 'and remain quitestill.'
Saying this, he stepped out upon the court, and they closed the door,listening anxiously to his departing steps. No voice, however, was heardin the court, which he was crossing, though a confusion of many voicesyet issued from the inner one. 'We shall soon be beyond the walls,' saidDu Pont softly to Emily, 'support yourself a little longer, Madam, andall will be well.'
But soon they heard Ludovico speaking loud, and the voice also of someother person, and Du Pont immediately extinguished the lamp. 'Ah! itis too late!' exclaimed Emily, 'what is to become of us?' They listenedagain, and then perceived, that Ludovico was talking with a sentinel,whose voices were heard also by Emily's favourite dog, that had followedher from the chamber, and now barked loudly. 'This dog will betray us!'said Du Pont, 'I will hold him.' 'I fear he has already betrayed us!'replied Emily. Du Pont, however, caught him up, and, again listeningto what was going on without, they heard Ludovico say, 'I'll watch thegates the while.'
'Stay a minute,' replied the sentinel, 'and you need not have thetrouble, for the horses will be sent round to the outer stables, thenthe gates will be shut, and I can leave my post.' 'I don't mind thetrouble, comrade,' said Ludovico, 'you will do such another good turnfor me, some time. Go--go, and fetch the wine; the rogues, that are justcome in, will drink it all else.'
The soldier hesitated, and then called aloud to the people in the secondcourt, to know why they did not send out the horses, that the gatesmight be shut; but they were too much engaged, to attend to him, even ifthey had heard his voice.
'Aye--aye,' said Ludovico, 'they know better than that; they are sharingit all among them; if you wait till the horses come out, you must waittill the wine is drunk. I have had my share already, but, since you donot care about yours, I see no reason why I should not have that too.'
'Hold, hold, not so fast,' cried the sentinel, 'do watch then, for amoment: I'll be with you presently.'
'Don't hurry yourself,' said Ludovico, coolly, 'I have kept guard beforenow. But you may leave me your trombone,* that, if the castle should beattacked, you know, I may be able to defend the pass, like a hero.'
(* A kind of blunderbuss. [A. R.])
'There, my good fellow,' returned the soldier, 'there, take it--it hasseen service, though it could do little in defending the castle. I'lltell you a good story, though, about this same trombone.'
'You'll tell it better when you have had the wine,' said Ludovico.'There! they are coming out from the court already.'
'I'll have the wine, though,' said the sentinel, running off. 'I won'tkeep you a minute.'
'Take your time, I am in no haste,' replied Ludovico, who was alreadyhurrying across the court, when the soldier came back. 'Whither so fast,friend--whither so fast?' said the latter. 'What! is this the way youkeep watch! I must stand to my post myself, I see.'
'Aye, well,' replied Ludovico, 'you have saved me the trouble offollowing you further, for I wanted to tell you, if you have a mind todrink the Tuscany wine, you must go to Sebastian, he is dealing it out;the other that Federico has, is not worth having. But you are not likelyto have any, I see, for they are all coming out.'
'By St. Peter! so they are,' said the soldier, and again ran off, whileLudovico, once more at liberty, hastened to the door of the passage,where Emily was sinking under the anxiety this long discourse hadoccasioned; but, on his telling them the court was clear, they followedhim to the gates, without waiting another instant, yet not before hehad seized two horses, that had strayed from the second court, and werepicking a scanty meal among the grass, which grew between the pavementof the first.
They passed, without interruption, the dreadful gates, and took the roadthat led down among the woods, Emily, Monsieur Du Pont and Annette onfoot, and Ludovico, who was mounted on one horse, leading the other.Having reached them, they stopped, while Emily and Annette were placedon horseback with their two protectors, when, Ludovico leading the way,they set off as fast as the broken road, and the feeble light, which arising moon threw among the foliage, would permit.
Emily was so much astonished by this sudden departure, that she scarcelydared to believe herself awake; and she yet much doubted whether thisadventure would terminate in escape,--a doubt, which had too muchprobability to justify it; for, before they quitted the woods, theyheard shouts in the wind, and, on emerging from them, saw lights movingquickly near the castle above. Du Pont whipped his horse, and with somedifficulty compelled him to go faster.
'Ah! poor beast,' said Ludovico, 'he is weary enough;--he has been outall day; but, Sign
or, we must fly for it, now; for yonder are lightscoming this way.'
Having given his own horse a lash, they now both set off on a fullgallop; and, when they again looked back, the lights were so distantas scarcely to be discerned, and the voices were sunk into silence. Thetravellers then abated their pace, and, consulting whither they shoulddirect their course, it was determined they should descend into Tuscany,and endeavour to reach the Mediterranean, where they could readilyembark for France. Thither Du Pont meant to attend Emily, if he shouldlearn, that the regiment he had accompanied into Italy, was returned tohis native country.
They were now in the road, which Emily had travelled with Ugo andBertrand; but Ludovico, who was the only one of the party, acquaintedwith the passes of these mountains, said, that, a little further on, abye-road, branching from this, would lead them down into Tuscany withvery little difficulty; and that, at a few leagues distance, was a smalltown, where necessaries could be procured for their journey.
'But, I hope,' added he, 'we shall meet with no straggling parties ofbanditti; some of them are abroad, I know. However, I have got a goodtrombone, which will be of some service, if we should encounter any ofthose brave spirits. You have no arms, Signor?' 'Yes,' replied Du Pont,'I have the villain's stilletto, who would have stabbed me--but let usrejoice in our escape from Udolpho, nor torment ourselves with lookingout for dangers, that may never arrive.'
The moon was now risen high over the woods, that hung upon the sides ofthe narrow glen, through which they wandered, and afforded them lightsufficient to distinguish their way, and to avoid the loose and brokenstones, that frequently crossed it. They now travelled leisurely, andin profound silence; for they had scarcely yet recovered from theastonishment, into which this sudden escape had thrown them.--Emily'smind, especially, was sunk, after the various emotions it had suffered,into a kind of musing stillness, which the reposing beauty of thesurrounding scene and the creeping murmur of the night-breeze among thefoliage above contributed to prolong. She thought of Valancourt and ofFrance, with hope, and she would have thought of them with joy, hadnot the first events of this evening harassed her spirits too much, topermit her now to feel so lively a sensation. Meanwhile, Emily wasalone the object of Du Pont's melancholy consideration; yet, with thedespondency he suffered, as he mused on his recent disappointment, wasmingled a sweet pleasure, occasioned by her presence, though theydid not now exchange a single word. Annette thought of this wonderfulescape, of the bustle in which Montoni and his people must be, now thattheir flight was discovered; of her native country, whither she hopedshe was returning, and of her marriage with Ludovico, to which there nolonger appeared any impediment, for poverty she did not consider such.Ludovico, on his part, congratulated himself, on having rescued hisAnnette and Signora Emily from the danger, that had surrounded them; onhis own liberation from people, whose manners he had long detested;on the freedom he had given to Monsieur Du Pont; on his prospect ofhappiness with the object of his affections, and not a little on theaddress, with which he had deceived the sentinel, and conducted thewhole of this affair.
Thus variously engaged in thought, the travellers passed on silently,for above an hour, a question only being, now and then, asked by DuPont, concerning the road, or a remark uttered by Annette, respectingobjects, seen imperfectly in the twilight. At length, lights wereperceived twinkling on the side of a mountain, and Ludovico had nodoubt, that they proceeded from the town he had mentioned, while hiscompanions, satisfied by this assurance, sunk again into silence.Annette was the first who interrupted this. 'Holy Peter!' said she,'What shall we do for money on our journey? for I know neither I, or mylady, have a single sequin; the Signor took care of that!'
This remark produced a serious enquiry, which ended in as serious anembarrassment, for Du Pont had been rifled of nearly all his money, whenhe was taken prisoner; the remainder he had given to the sentinel, whohad enabled him occasionally to leave his prison-chamber; and Ludovico,who had for some time found a difficulty, in procuring any part of thewages due to him, had now scarcely cash sufficient to procure necessaryrefreshment at the first town, in which they should arrive.
Their poverty was the more distressing, since it would detain themamong the mountains, where, even in a town, they could scarcely considerthemselves safe from Montoni. The travellers, however, had only toproceed and dare the future; and they continued their way through lonelywilds and dusky vallies, where the overhanging foliage now admitted, andthen excluded the moon-light;--wilds so desolate, that they appeared, onthe first glance, as if no human being had ever trode them before. Eventhe road, in which the party were, did but slightly contradict thiserror, for the high grass and other luxuriant vegetation, with which itwas overgrown, told how very seldom the foot of a traveller had passedit.
At length, from a distance, was heard the faint tinkling of asheep-bell; and, soon after, the bleat of flocks, and the party thenknew, that they were near some human habitation, for the light, whichLudovico had fancied to proceed from a town, had long been concealed byintervening mountains. Cheered by this hope, they quickened their pacealong the narrow pass they were winding, and it opened upon one of thosepastoral vallies of the Apennines, which might be painted for a sceneof Arcadia, and whose beauty and simplicity are finely contrasted by thegrandeur of the snow-topt mountains above.
The morning light, now glimmering in the horizon, shewed faintly, ata little distance, upon the brow of a hill, which seemed to peep from'under the opening eye-lids of the morn,' the town they were insearch of, and which they soon after reached. It was not without somedifficulty, that they there found a house, which could afford shelterfor themselves and their horses; and Emily desired they might not restlonger than was necessary for refreshment. Her appearance excited somesurprise, for she was without a hat, having had time only to throw onher veil before she left the castle, a circumstance, that compelled herto regret again the want of money, without which it was impossible toprocure this necessary article of dress.
Ludovico, on examining his purse, found it even insufficient to supplypresent refreshment, and Du Pont, at length, ventured to inform thelandlord, whose countenance was simple and honest, of their exactsituation, and requested, that he would assist them to pursue theirjourney; a purpose, which he promised to comply with, as far as he wasable, when he learned that they were prisoners escaping from Montoni,whom he had too much reason to hate. But, though he consented to lendthem fresh horses to carry them to the next town, he was too poorhimself to trust them with money, and they were again lamenting theirpoverty, when Ludovico, who had been with his tired horses to the hovel,which served for a stable, entered the room, half frantic with joy, inwhich his auditors soon participated. On removing the saddle from one ofthe horses, he had found beneath it a small bag, containing, no doubt,the booty of one of the condottieri, who had returned from a plunderingexcursion, just before Ludovico left the castle, and whose horse havingstrayed from the inner court, while his master was engaged in drinking,had brought away the treasure, which the ruffian had considered thereward of his exploit.
On counting over this, Du Pont found, that it would be more thansufficient to carry them all to France, where he now determined toaccompany Emily, whether he should obtain intelligence of his regiment,or not; for, though he had as much confidence in the integrity ofLudovico, as his small knowledge of him allowed, he could not endure thethought of committing her to his care for the voyage; nor, perhaps, hadhe resolution enough to deny himself the dangerous pleasure, which hemight derive from her presence.
He now consulted them, concerning the sea-port, to which they shoulddirect their way, and Ludovico, better informed of the geography of thecountry, said, that Leghorn was the nearest port of consequence, whichDu Pont knew also to be the most likely of any in Italy to assisttheir plan, since from thence vessels of all nations were continuallydeparting. Thither, therefore, it was determined, that they shouldproceed.
Emily, having purchased a little straw hat, such as was worn by thepe
asant girls of Tuscany, and some other little necessary equipments forthe journey, and the travellers, having exchanged their tired horses forothers better able to carry them, re-commenced their joyous way, as thesun was rising over the mountains, and, after travelling through thisromantic country, for several hours, began to descend into the valeof Arno. And here Emily beheld all the charms of sylvan and pastorallandscape united, adorned with the elegant villas of the Florentinenobles, and diversified with the various riches of cultivation. Howvivid the shrubs, that embowered the slopes, with the woods, thatstretched amphitheatrically along the mountains! and, above all, howelegant the outline of these waving Apennines, now softening from thewildness, which their interior regions exhibited! At a distance, in theeast, Emily discovered Florence, with its towers rising on thebrilliant horizon, and its luxuriant plain, spreading to the feet ofthe Apennines, speckled with gardens and magnificent villas, or colouredwith groves of orange and lemon, with vines, corn, and plantations ofolives and mulberry; while, to the west, the vale opened to the watersof the Mediterranean, so distant, that they were known only by a blueishline, that appeared upon the horizon, and by the light marine vapour,which just stained the aether above.
With a full heart, Emily hailed the waves, that were to bear her back toher native country, the remembrance of which, however, brought with ita pang; for she had there no home to receive, no parents to welcome her,but was going, like a forlorn pilgrim, to weep over the sad spot, wherehe, who WAS her father, lay interred. Nor were her spirits cheered,when she considered how long it would probably be before she should seeValancourt, who might be stationed with his regiment in a distant partof France, and that, when they did meet, it would be only to lamentthe successful villany of Montoni; yet, still she would have feltinexpressible delight at the thought of being once more in the samecountry with Valancourt, had it even been certain, that she could notsee him.
The intense heat, for it was now noon, obliged the travellers to lookout for a shady recess, where they might rest, for a few hours, andthe neighbouring thickets, abounding with wild grapes, raspberries, andfigs, promised them grateful refreshment. Soon after, they turnedfrom the road into a grove, whose thick foliage entirely excluded thesun-beams, and where a spring, gushing from the rock, gave coolness tothe air; and, having alighted and turned the horses to graze, Annetteand Ludovico ran to gather fruit from the surrounding thickets, of whichthey soon returned with an abundance. The travellers, seated under theshade of a pine and cypress grove and on turf, enriched with such aprofusion of fragrant flowers, as Emily had scarcely ever seen, evenamong the Pyrenees, took their simple repast, and viewed, with newdelight, beneath the dark umbrage of gigantic pines, the glowinglandscape stretching to the sea.
Emily and Du Pont gradually became thoughtful and silent; but Annettewas all joy and loquacity, and Ludovico was gay, without forgetting therespectful distance, which was due to his companions. The repast beingover, Du Pont recommended Emily to endeavour to sleep, during thesesultry hours, and, desiring the servants would do the same, said hewould watch the while; but Ludovico wished to spare him this trouble;and Emily and Annette, wearied with travelling, tried to repose, whilehe stood guard with his trombone.
When Emily, refreshed by slumber, awoke, she found the sentinel asleepon his post and Du Pont awake, but lost in melancholy thought. As thesun was yet too high to allow them to continue their journey, and asit was necessary, that Ludovico, after the toils and trouble he hadsuffered, should finish his sleep, Emily took this opportunity ofenquiring by what accident Du Pont became Montoni's prisoner, and he,pleased with the interest this enquiry expressed and with the excuseit gave him for talking to her of himself, immediately answered hercuriosity.
'I came into Italy, madam,' said Du Pont, 'in the service of my country.In an adventure among the mountains our party, engaging with the bandsof Montoni, was routed, and I, with a few of my comrades, was takenprisoner. When they told me, whose captive I was, the name of Montonistruck me, for I remembered, that Madame Cheron, your aunt, had marriedan Italian of that name, and that you had accompanied them into Italy.It was not, however, till some time after, that I became convinced thiswas the same Montoni, or learned that you, madam, was under the sameroof with myself. I will not pain you by describing what were myemotions upon this discovery, which I owed to a sentinel, whom I hadso far won to my interest, that he granted me many indulgences, one ofwhich was very important to me, and somewhat dangerous to himself; buthe persisted in refusing to convey any letter, or notice of my situationto you, for he justly dreaded a discovery and the consequent vengeanceof Montoni. He however enabled me to see you more than once. You aresurprised, madam, and I will explain myself. My health and spiritssuffered extremely from want of air and exercise, and, at length, Igained so far upon the pity, or the avarice of the man, that he gave methe means of walking on the terrace.'
Emily now listened, with very anxious attention, to the narrative of DuPont, who proceeded:
'In granting this indulgence, he knew, that he had nothing to apprehendfrom a chance of my escaping from a castle, which was vigilantlyguarded, and the nearest terrace of which rose over a perpendicularrock; he shewed me also,' continued Du Pont, 'a door concealed inthe cedar wainscot of the apartment where I was confined, which heinstructed me how to open; and which, leading into a passage, formedwithin the thickness of the wall, that extended far along the castle,finally opened in an obscure corner of the eastern rampart. I have sincebeen informed, that there are many passages of the same kindconcealed within the prodigious walls of that edifice, and which were,undoubtedly, contrived for the purpose of facilitating escapes in timeof war. Through this avenue, at the dead of night, I often stole to theterrace, where I walked with the utmost caution, lest my steps shouldbetray me to the sentinels on duty in distant parts; for this end of it,being guarded by high buildings, was not watched by soldiers. In one ofthese midnight wanderings, I saw light in a casement that overlooked therampart, and which, I observed, was immediately over my prison-chamber.It occurred to me, that you might be in that apartment, and, with thehope of seeing you, I placed myself opposite to the window.'
Emily, remembering the figure that had formerly appeared on the terrace,and which had occasioned her so much anxiety, exclaimed, 'It was youthen, Monsieur Du Pont, who occasioned me much foolish terror; myspirits were, at that time, so much weakened by long suffering, thatthey took alarm at every hint.' Du Pont, after lamenting, that hehad occasioned her any apprehension, added, 'As I rested on thewall, opposite to your casement, the consideration of your melancholysituation and of my own called from me involuntary sounds oflamentation, which drew you, I fancy, to the casement; I saw there aperson, whom I believed to be you. O! I will say nothing of my emotionat that moment; I wished to speak, but prudence restrained me, tillthe distant foot-step of a sentinel compelled me suddenly to quit mystation.
'It was some time, before I had another opportunity of walking, for Icould only leave my prison, when it happened to be the turn of oneman to guard me; meanwhile I became convinced from some circumstancesrelated by him, that your apartment was over mine, and, when again Iventured forth, I returned to your casement, where again I saw you, butwithout daring to speak. I waved my hand, and you suddenly disappeared;then it was, that I forgot my prudence, and yielded to lamentation;again you appeared--you spoke--I heard the well-known accent of yourvoice! and, at that moment, my discretion would have forsaken meagain, had I not heard also the approaching steps of a soldier, when Iinstantly quitted the place, though not before the man had seen me.He followed down the terrace and gained so fast upon me, that I wascompelled to make use of a stratagem, ridiculous enough, to save myself.I had heard of the superstition of many of these men, and I uttereda strange noise, with a hope, that my pursuer would mistake it forsomething supernatural, and desist from pursuit. Luckily for myself Isucceeded; the man, it seems, was subject to fits, and the terror hesuffered threw him into one, by which accident I secured my retreat. Asense of the
danger I had escaped, and the increased watchfulness, whichmy appearance had occasioned among the sentinels, deterred me everafter from walking on the terrace; but, in the stillness of night,I frequently beguiled myself with an old lute, procured for me by asoldier, which I sometimes accompanied with my voice, and sometimes, Iwill acknowledge, with a hope of making myself heard by you; but it wasonly a few evenings ago, that this hope was answered. I then thought Iheard a voice in the wind, calling me; yet, even then I feared to reply,lest the sentinel at the prison door should hear me. Was I right, madam,in this conjecture--was it you who spoke?'
'Yes,' said Emily, with an involuntary sigh, 'you was right indeed.'
Du Pont, observing the painful emotions, which this question revived,now changed the subject. 'In one of my excursions through the passage,which I have mentioned, I overheard a singular conversation,' said he.
'In the passage!' said Emily, with surprise.
'I heard it in the passage,' said Du Pont, 'but it proceeded from anapartment, adjoining the wall, within which the passage wound, and theshell of the wall was there so thin, and was also somewhat decayed,that I could distinctly hear every word, spoken on the other side. Ithappened that Montoni and his companions were assembled in the room,and Montoni began to relate the extraordinary history of the lady, hispredecessor, in the castle. He did, indeed, mention some very surprisingcircumstances, and whether they were strictly true, his consciencemust decide; I fear it will determine against him. But you, madam, havedoubtless heard the report, which he designs should circulate, on thesubject of that lady's mysterious fate.'
'I have, sir,' replied Emily, 'and I perceive, that you doubt it.'
'I doubted it before the period I am speaking of,' rejoined DuPont;--'but some circumstances, mentioned by Montoni, greatlycontributed to my suspicions. The account I then heard, almost convincedme, that he was a murderer. I trembled for you;--the more so that I hadheard the guests mention your name in a manner, that threatened yourrepose; and, knowing, that the most impious men are often the mostsuperstitious, I determined to try whether I could not awaken theirconsciences, and awe them from the commission of the crime I dreaded. Ilistened closely to Montoni, and, in the most striking passages of hisstory, I joined my voice, and repeated his last words, in a disguisedand hollow tone.'
'But was you not afraid of being discovered?' said Emily.
'I was not,' replied Du Pont; 'for I knew, that, if Montoni had beenacquainted with the secret of this passage, he would not have confinedme in the apartment, to which it led. I knew also, from betterauthority, that he was ignorant of it. The party, for some time,appeared inattentive to my voice; but, at length, were so much alarmed,that they quitted the apartment; and, having heard Montoni order hisservants to search it, I returned to my prison, which was very distantfrom this part of the passage.' 'I remember perfectly to have heard ofthe conversation you mention,' said Emily; 'it spread a general alarmamong Montoni's people, and I will own I was weak enough to partake ofit.'
Monsieur Du Pont and Emily thus continued to converse of Montoni, andthen of France, and of the plan of their voyage; when Emily told him,that it was her intention to retire to a convent in Languedoc, where shehad been formerly treated with much kindness, and from thence to writeto her relation Monsieur Quesnel, and inform him of her conduct. There,she designed to wait, till La Vallee should again be her own, whithershe hoped her income would some time permit her to return; for DuPont now taught her to expect, that the estate, of which Montoni hadattempted to defraud her, was not irrecoverably lost, and he againcongratulated her on her escape from Montoni, who, he had not a doubt,meant to have detained her for life. The possibility of recovering heraunt's estates for Valancourt and herself lighted up a joy in Emily'sheart, such as she had not known for many months; but she endeavoured toconceal this from Monsieur Du Pont, lest it should lead him to a painfulremembrance of his rival.
They continued to converse, till the sun was declining in the west, whenDu Pont awoke Ludovico, and they set forward on their journey. Graduallydescending the lower slopes of the valley, they reached the Arno, andwound along its pastoral margin, for many miles, delighted with thescenery around them, and with the remembrances, which its classic wavesrevived. At a distance, they heard the gay song of the peasants amongthe vineyards, and observed the setting sun tint the waves with yellowlustre, and twilight draw a dusky purple over the mountains, which, atlength, deepened into night. Then the LUCCIOLA, the fire-fly of Tuscany,was seen to flash its sudden sparks among the foliage, while thecicala, with its shrill note, became more clamorous than even during thenoon-day heat, loving best the hour when the English beetle, with lessoffensive sound,
winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum.*
(* Collins. [A. R.])
The travellers crossed the Arno by moon-light, at a ferry, and, learningthat Pisa was distant only a few miles down the river, they wished tohave proceeded thither in a boat, but, as none could be procured, theyset out on their wearied horses for that city. As they approached it,the vale expanded into a plain, variegated with vineyards, corn, olivesand mulberry groves; but it was late, before they reached its gates,where Emily was surprised to hear the busy sound of footsteps and thetones of musical instruments, as well as to see the lively groups, thatfilled the streets, and she almost fancied herself again at Venice;but here was no moon-light sea--no gay gondolas, dashing the waves,--noPALLADIAN palaces, to throw enchantment over the fancy and lead it intothe wilds of fairy story. The Arno rolled through the town, but no musictrembled from balconies over its waters; it gave only the busy voicesof sailors on board vessels just arrived from the Mediterranean;the melancholy heaving of the anchor, and the shrill boatswain'swhistle;--sounds, which, since that period, have there sunk almost intosilence. They then served to remind Du Pont, that it was probable hemight hear of a vessel, sailing soon to France from this port, and thusbe spared the trouble of going to Leghorn. As soon as Emily had reachedthe inn, he went therefore to the quay, to make his enquiries; but,after all the endeavours of himself and Ludovico, they could hear of nobark, destined immediately for France, and the travellers returned totheir resting-place. Here also, Du Pont endeavoured to learn where hisregiment then lay, but could acquire no information concerning it. Thetravellers retired early to rest, after the fatigues of this day;and, on the following, rose early, and, without pausing to view thecelebrated antiquities of the place, or the wonders of its hangingtower, pursued their journey in the cooler hours, through a charmingcountry, rich with wine, and corn and oil. The Apennines, no longerawful, or even grand, here softened into the beauty of sylvan andpastoral landscape; and Emily, as she descended them, looked downdelighted on Leghorn, and its spacious bay, filled with vessels, andcrowned with these beautiful hills.
She was no less surprised and amused, on entering this town, to findit crowded with persons in the dresses of all nations; a scene, whichreminded her of a Venetian masquerade, such as she had witnessed at thetime of the Carnival; but here, was bustle, without gaiety, and noiseinstead of music, while elegance was to be looked for only in the wavingoutlines of the surrounding hills.
Monsieur Du Pont, immediately on their arrival, went down to the quay,where he heard of several French vessels, and of one, that was to sail,in a few days, for Marseilles, from whence another vessel could beprocured, without difficulty, to take them across the gulf of Lyonstowards Narbonne, on the coast not many leagues from which city heunderstood the convent was seated, to which Emily wished to retire.He, therefore, immediately engaged with the captain to take them toMarseilles, and Emily was delighted to hear, that her passage to Francewas secured. Her mind was now relieved from the terror of pursuit, andthe pleasing hope of soon seeing her native country--that country whichheld Valancourt, restored to her spirits a degree of cheerfulness, suchas she had scarcely known, since the death of her father. At Leghornalso, Du Pont heard of his regiment, and that it had emba
rked forFrance; a circumstance, which gave him great satisfaction, for he couldnow accompany Emily thither, without reproach to his conscience, orapprehension of displeasure from his commander. During these days, hescrupulously forbore to distress her by a mention of his passion, andshe was compelled to esteem and pity, though she could not love him. Heendeavoured to amuse her by shewing the environs of the town, and theyoften walked together on the sea-shore, and on the busy quays, whereEmily was frequently interested by the arrival and departure of vessels,participating in the joy of meeting friends, and, sometimes, sheddinga sympathetic tear to the sorrow of those, that were separating. It wasafter having witnessed a scene of the latter kind, that she arranged thefollowing stanzas:
THE MARINER
Soft came the breath of spring; smooth flow'd the tide; And blue the heaven in its mirror smil'd; The white sail trembled, swell'd, expanded wide, The busy sailors at the anchor toil'd.
With anxious friends, that shed the parting tear, The deck was throng'd--how swift the moments fly! The vessel heaves, the farewel signs appear; Mute is each tongue, and eloquent each eye!
The last dread moment comes!--The sailor-youth Hides the big drop, then smiles amid his pain, Sooths his sad bride, and vows eternal truth, 'Farewel, my love--we shall--shall meet again!'
Long on the stern, with waving hand, he stood; The crowded shore sinks, lessening, from his view, As gradual glides the bark along the flood; His bride is seen no more--'Adieu!--adieu!'
The breeze of Eve moans low, her smile is o'er, Dim steals her twilight down the crimson'd west, He climbs the top-most mast, to seek once more The far-seen coast, where all his wishes rest.
He views its dark line on the distant sky, And Fancy leads him to his little home, He sees his weeping love, he hears her sigh, He sooths her griefs, and tells of joys to come.
Eve yields to night, the breeze to wintry gales, In one vast shade the seas and shores repose; He turns his aching eyes,--his spirit fails, The chill tear falls;--sad to the deck he goes!
The storm of midnight swells, the sails are furl'd, Deep sounds the lead, but finds no friendly shore, Fast o'er the waves the wretched bark is hurl'd, 'O Ellen, Ellen! we must meet no more!'
Lightnings, that shew the vast and foamy deep, The rending thunders, as they onward roll, The loud, loud winds, that o'er the billows sweep-- Shake the firm nerve, appall the bravest soul!
Ah! what avails the seamen's toiling care! The straining cordage bursts, the mast is riv'n; The sounds of terror groan along the air, Then sink afar;--the bark on rocks is driv'n!
Fierce o'er the wreck the whelming waters pass'd, The helpless crew sunk in the roaring main! Henry's faint accents trembled in the blast-- 'Farewel, my love!--we ne'er shall meet again!'
Oft, at the calm and silent evening hour, When summer-breezes linger on the wave, A melancholy voice is heard to pour Its lonely sweetness o'er poor Henry's grave!
And oft, at midnight, airy strains are heard Around the grove, where Ellen's form is laid; Nor is the dirge by village-maidens fear'd, For lovers' spirits guard the holy shade!