CHAPTER III
This is no mortal business, nor no sound That the earth owes! SHAKESPEARE
We now return to the mention of Montoni, whose rage and disappointmentwere soon lost in nearer interests, than any, which the unhappy Emilyhad awakened. His depredations having exceeded their usual limits, andreached an extent, at which neither the timidity of the then commercialsenate of Venice, nor their hope of his occasional assistance wouldpermit them to connive, the same effort, it was resolved, shouldcomplete the suppression of his power and the correction of hisoutrages. While a corps of considerable strength was upon the point ofreceiving orders to march for Udolpho, a young officer, prompted partlyby resentment, for some injury, received from Montoni, and partly bythe hope of distinction, solicited an interview with the Minister, whodirected the enterprise. To him he represented, that the situation ofUdolpho rendered it too strong to be taken by open force, except aftersome tedious operations; that Montoni had lately shewn how capable hewas of adding to its strength all the advantages, which could be derivedfrom the skill of a commander; that so considerable a body of troops, asthat allotted to the expedition, could not approach Udolpho without hisknowledge, and that it was not for the honour of the republic to have alarge part of its regular force employed, for such a time as the siegeof Udolpho would require, upon the attack of a handful of banditti. Theobject of the expedition, he thought, might be accomplished much moresafely and speedily by mingling contrivance with force. It was possibleto meet Montoni and his party, without their walls, and to attack themthen; or, by approaching the fortress, with the secrecy, consistent withthe march of smaller bodies of troops, to take advantage either of thetreachery, or negligence of some of his party, and to rush unexpectedlyupon the whole even in the castle of Udolpho.
This advice was seriously attended to, and the officer, who gave it,received the command of the troops, demanded for his purpose. Hisfirst efforts were accordingly those of contrivance alone. In theneighbourhood of Udolpho, he waited, till he had secured the assistanceof several of the condottieri, of whom he found none, that he addressed,unwilling to punish their imperious master and to secure their ownpardon from the senate. He learned also the number of Montoni's troops,and that it had been much increased, since his late successes. Theconclusion of his plan was soon effected. Having returned with hisparty, who received the watch-word and other assistance from theirfriends within, Montoni and his officers were surprised by one division,who had been directed to their apartment, while the other maintained theslight combat, which preceded the surrender of the whole garrison. Amongthe persons, seized with Montoni, was Orsino, the assassin, who hadjoined him on his first arrival at Udolpho, and whose concealment hadbeen made known to the senate by Count Morano, after the unsuccessfulattempt of the latter to carry off Emily. It was, indeed, partly forthe purpose of capturing this man, by whom one of the senate had beenmurdered, that the expedition was undertaken, and its success was soacceptable to them, that Morano was instantly released, notwithstandingthe political suspicions, which Montoni, by his secret accusation,had excited against him. The celerity and ease, with which this wholetransaction was completed, prevented it from attracting curiosity, oreven from obtaining a place in any of the published records of thattime; so that Emily, who remained in Languedoc, was ignorant of thedefeat and signal humiliation of her late persecutor.
Her mind was now occupied with sufferings, which no effort of reason hadyet been able to controul. Count De Villefort, who sincerely attemptedwhatever benevolence could suggest for softening them, sometimesallowed her the solitude she wished for, sometimes led her into friendlyparties, and constantly protected her, as much as possible, from theshrewd enquiries and critical conversation of the Countess. He ofteninvited her to make excursions, with him and his daughter, during whichhe conversed entirely on questions, suitable to her taste, withoutappearing to consult it, and thus endeavoured gradually to withdraw herfrom the subject of her grief, and to awake other interests in her mind.Emily, to whom he appeared as the enlightened friend and protector ofher youth, soon felt for him the tender affection of a daughter, andher heart expanded to her young friend Blanche, as to a sister, whosekindness and simplicity compensated for the want of more brilliantqualities. It was long before she could sufficiently abstract hermind from Valancourt to listen to the story, promised by old Dorothee,concerning which her curiosity had once been so deeply interested; butDorothee, at length, reminded her of it, and Emily desired, that shewould come, that night, to her chamber.
Still her thoughts were employed by considerations, which weakened hercuriosity, and Dorothee's tap at the door, soon after twelve, surprisedher almost as much as if it had not been appointed. 'I am come, atlast, lady,' said she; 'I wonder what it is makes my old limbs shakeso, to-night. I thought, once or twice, I should have dropped, as Iwas a-coming.' Emily seated her in a chair, and desired, that she wouldcompose her spirits, before she entered upon the subject, that hadbrought her thither. 'Alas,' said Dorothee, 'it is thinking of that, Ibelieve, which has disturbed me so. In my way hither too, I passedthe chamber, where my dear lady died, and every thing was so still andgloomy about me, that I almost fancied I saw her, as she appeared uponher death-bed.'
Emily now drew her chair near to Dorothee, who went on. 'It is abouttwenty years since my lady Marchioness came a bride to the chateau. O!I well remember how she looked, when she came into the great hall, wherewe servants were all assembled to welcome her, and how happy my lord theMarquis seemed. Ah! who would have thought then!--But, as I was saying,ma'amselle, I thought the Marchioness, with all her sweet looks, did notlook happy at heart, and so I told my husband, and he said it was allfancy; so I said no more, but I made my remarks, for all that. My ladyMarchioness was then about your age, and, as I have often thought, verylike you. Well! my lord the Marquis kept open house, for a long time,and gave such entertainments and there were such gay doings as havenever been in the chateau since. I was younger, ma'amselle, then, thanI am now, and was as gay at the best of them. I remember I danced withPhilip, the butler, in a pink gown, with yellow ribbons, and a coif, notsuch as they wear now, but plaited high, with ribbons all about it. Itwas very becoming truly;--my lord, the Marquis, noticed me. Ah! he was agood-natured gentleman then--who would have thought that he!'--
'But the Marchioness, Dorothee,' said Emily, 'you was telling me ofher.'
'O yes, my lady Marchioness, I thought she did not seem happy at heart,and once, soon after the marriage, I caught her crying in her chamber;but, when she saw me, she dried her eyes, and pretended to smile. I didnot dare then to ask what was the matter; but, the next time I saw hercrying, I did, and she seemed displeased;--so I said no more. I foundout, some time after, how it was. Her father, it seems, had commandedher to marry my lord, the Marquis, for his money, and there was anothernobleman, or else a chevalier, that she liked better and that was veryfond of her, and she fretted for the loss of him, I fancy, but she nevertold me so. My lady always tried to conceal her tears from the Marquis,for I have often seen her, after she has been so sorrowful, look so calmand sweet, when he came into the room! But my lord, all of a sudden,grew gloomy and fretful, and very unkind sometimes to my lady. Thisafflicted her very much, as I saw, for she never complained, and sheused to try so sweetly to oblige him and to bring him into a goodhumour, that my heart has often ached to see it. But he used to bestubborn, and give her harsh answers, and then, when she found it allin vain, she would go to her own room, and cry so! I used to hear herin the anti-room, poor dear lady! but I seldom ventured to go to her.I used, sometimes, to think my lord was jealous. To be sure my lady wasgreatly admired, but she was too good to deserve suspicion. Among themany chevaliers, that visited at the chateau, there was one, that Ialways thought seemed just suited for my lady; he was so courteous, yetso spirited, and there was such a grace, as it were, in all he did, orsaid. I always observed, that, whenever he had been there, the Marquiswas more gloomy and my lady more thoughtful, and it came into my he
ad,that this was the chevalier she ought to have married, but I never couldlearn for certain.'
'What was the chevalier's name, Dorothee?' said Emily.
'Why that I will not tell even to you, ma'amselle, for evil may come ofit. I once heard from a person, who is since dead, that the Marchionesswas not in law the wife of the Marquis, for that she had before beenprivately married to the gentleman she was so much attached to, and wasafterwards afraid to own it to her father, who was a very stern man; butthis seems very unlikely, and I never gave much faith to it. As I wassaying, the Marquis was most out of humour, as I thought, when thechevalier I spoke of had been at the chateau, and, at last, his illtreatment of my lady made her quite miserable. He would see hardly anyvisitors at the castle, and made her live almost by herself. I washer constant attendant, and saw all she suffered, but still she nevercomplained.
'After matters had gone on thus, for near a year, my lady was taken ill,and I thought her long fretting had made her so,--but, alas! I fear itwas worse than that.'
'Worse! Dorothee,' said Emily, 'can that be possible?'
'I fear it was so, madam, there were strange appearances. But I willonly tell what happened. My lord, the Marquis--'
'Hush, Dorothee, what sounds were those?' said Emily.
Dorothee changed countenance, and, while they both listened, they heard,on the stillness of the night, music of uncommon sweetness.
'I have surely heard that voice before!' said Emily, at length.
'I have often heard it, and at this same hour,' said Dorothee, solemnly,'and, if spirits ever bring music--that is surely the music of one!'
Emily, as the sounds drew nearer, knew them to be the same she hadformerly heard at the time of her father's death, and, whether it wasthe remembrance they now revived of that melancholy event, or thatshe was struck with superstitious awe, it is certain she was so muchaffected, that she had nearly fainted.
'I think I once told you, madam,' said Dorothee, 'that I first heardthis music, soon after my lady's death! I well remember the night!'--'Hark! it comes again!' said Emily, 'let us open the window, andlisten.'
They did so; but, soon, the sounds floated gradually away into distance,and all was again still; they seemed to have sunk among the woods,whose tufted tops were visible upon the clear horizon, while every otherfeature of the scene was involved in the night-shade, which, however,allowed the eye an indistinct view of some objects in the garden below.
As Emily leaned on the window, gazing with a kind of thrilling aweupon the obscurity beneath, and then upon the cloudless arch above,enlightened only by the stars, Dorothee, in a low voice, resumed hernarrative.
'I was saying, ma'amselle, that I well remember when first I heard thatmusic. It was one night, soon after my lady's death, that I had sat uplater than usual, and I don't know how it was, but I had been thinkinga great deal about my poor mistress, and of the sad scene I had latelywitnessed. The chateau was quite still, and I was in the chamber at agood distance from the rest of the servants, and this, with the mournfulthings I had been thinking of, I suppose, made me low spirited, for Ifelt very lonely and forlorn, as it were, and listened often, wishing tohear a sound in the chateau, for you know, ma'amselle, when one can hearpeople moving, one does not so much mind, about one's fears. But all theservants were gone to bed, and I sat, thinking and thinking, till I wasalmost afraid to look round the room, and my poor lady's countenanceoften came to my mind, such as I had seen her when she was dying, and,once or twice, I almost thought I saw her before me,--when suddenly Iheard such sweet music! It seemed just at my window, and I shall neverforget what I felt. I had not power to move from my chair, but then,when I thought it was my dear lady's voice, the tears came to my eyes.I had often heard her sing, in her life-time, and to be sure she had avery fine voice; it had made me cry to hear her, many a time, when shehas sat in her oriel, of an evening, playing upon her lute such sadsongs, and singing so. O! it went to one's heart! I have listened inthe anti-chamber, for the hour together, and she would sometimes sitplaying, with the window open, when it was summer time, till it wasquite dark, and when I have gone in, to shut it, she has hardly seemedto know what hour it was. But, as I said, madam,' continued Dorothee,'when first I heard the music, that came just now, I thought it was mylate lady's, and I have often thought so again, when I have heard it, asI have done at intervals, ever since. Sometimes, many months have goneby, but still it has returned.'
'It is extraordinary,' observed Emily, 'that no person has yetdiscovered the musician.'
'Aye, ma'amselle, if it had been any thing earthly it would have beendiscovered long ago, but who could have courage to follow a spirit, andif they had, what good could it do?--for spirits, YOU KNOW, ma'am, cantake any shape, or no shape, and they will be here, one minute, and, thenext perhaps, in a quite different place!'
'Pray resume your story of the Marchioness,' said Emily, 'and acquaintme with the manner of her death.'
'I will, ma'am,' said Dorothee, 'but shall we leave the window?'
'This cool air refreshes me,' replied Emily, 'and I love to hear itcreep along the woods, and to look upon this dusky landscape. You wasspeaking of my lord, the Marquis, when the music interrupted us.'
'Yes, madam, my lord, the Marquis, became more and more gloomy; andmy lady grew worse and worse, till, one night, she was taken very ill,indeed. I was called up, and, when I came to her bedside, I was shockedto see her countenance--it was so changed! She looked piteously up atme, and desired I would call the Marquis again, for he was not yet come,and tell him she had something particular to say to him. At last, hecame, and he did, to be sure, seem very sorry to see her, but he saidvery little. My lady told him she felt herself to be dying, and wishedto speak with him alone, and then I left the room, but I shall neverforget his look as I went.'
'When I returned, I ventured to remind my lord about sending for adoctor, for I supposed he had forgot to do so, in his grief; but my ladysaid it was then too late; but my lord, so far from thinking so, seemedto think light of her disorder--till she was seized with such terriblepains! O, I never shall forget her shriek! My lord then sent off a manand horse for the doctor, and walked about the room and all over thechateau in the greatest distress; and I staid by my dear lady, and didwhat I could to ease her sufferings. She had intervals of ease, and inone of these she sent for my lord again; when he came, I was going, butshe desired I would not leave her. O! I shall never forget what ascene passed--I can hardly bear to think of it now! My lord was almostdistracted, for my lady behaved with so much goodness, and took suchpains to comfort him, that, if he ever had suffered a suspicion to enterhis head, he must now have been convinced he was wrong. And to be surehe did seem to be overwhelmed with the thought of his treatment of her,and this affected her so much, that she fainted away.
'We then got my lord out of the room; he went into his library, andthrew himself on the floor, and there he staid, and would hear noreason, that was talked to him. When my lady recovered, she enquiredfor him, but, afterwards, said she could not bear to see his grief, anddesired we would let her die quietly. She died in my arms, ma'amselle,and she went off as peacefully as a child, for all the violence of herdisorder was passed.'
Dorothee paused, and wept, and Emily wept with her; for she was muchaffected by the goodness of the late Marchioness, and by the meekpatience, with which she had suffered.
'When the doctor came,' resumed Dorothee, 'alas! he came too late;he appeared greatly shocked to see her, for soon after her death afrightful blackness spread all over her face. When he had sent theattendants out of the room, he asked me several odd questions about theMarchioness, particularly concerning the manner, in which she had beenseized, and he often shook his head at my answers, and seemed to meanmore, than he chose to say. But I understood him too well. However, Ikept my remarks to myself, and only told them to my husband, who bademe hold my tongue. Some of the other servants, however, suspected whatI did, and strange reports were whispered about the neighbourhood, butnob
ody dared to make any stir about them. When my lord heard that mylady was dead, he shut himself up, and would see nobody but the doctor,who used to be with him alone, sometimes for an hour together; and,after that, the doctor never talked with me again about my lady. Whenshe was buried in the church of the convent, at a little distanceyonder, if the moon was up you might see the towers here, ma'amselle,all my lord's vassals followed the funeral, and there was not a dry eyeamong them, for she had done a deal of good among the poor. My lord, theMarquis, I never saw any body so melancholy as he was afterwards, andsometimes he would be in such fits of violence, that we almost thoughthe had lost his senses. He did not stay long at the chateau, but joinedhis regiment, and, soon after, all the servants, except my husband andI, received notice to go, for my lord went to the wars. I never saw himafter, for he would not return to the chateau, though it is such a fineplace, and never finished those fine rooms he was building on the westside of it, and it has, in a manner, been shut up ever since, till mylord the Count came here.'
'The death of the Marchioness appears extraordinary,' said Emily, whowas anxious to know more than she dared to ask.
'Yes, madam,' replied Dorothee, 'it was extraordinary; I have told youall I saw, and you may easily guess what I think, I cannot say more,because I would not spread reports, that might offend my lord theCount.'
'You are very right,' said Emily;--'where did the Marquis die?'--'In thenorth of France, I believe, ma'amselle,' replied Dorothee. 'I was veryglad, when I heard my lord the Count was coming, for this had been asad desolate place, these many years, and we heard such strange noises,sometimes, after my lady's death, that, as I told you before, my husbandand I left it for a neighbouring cottage. And now, lady, I have told youall this sad history, and all my thoughts, and you have promised, youknow, never to give the least hint about it.'--'I have,' said Emily,'and I will be faithful to my promise, Dorothee;--what you have toldhas interested me more than you can imagine. I only wish I couldprevail upon you to tell the name of the chevalier, whom you thought sodeserving of the Marchioness.'
Dorothee, however, steadily refused to do this, and then returned to thenotice of Emily's likeness to the late Marchioness. 'There is anotherpicture of her,' added she, 'hanging in a room of the suite, which wasshut up. It was drawn, as I have heard, before she was married, and ismuch more like you than the miniature.' When Emily expressed a strongdesire to see this, Dorothee replied, that she did not like to openthose rooms; but Emily reminded her, that the Count had talked the otherday of ordering them to be opened; of which Dorothee seemed to considermuch, and then she owned, that she should feel less, if she went intothem with Emily first, than otherwise, and at length promised to shewthe picture.
The night was too far advanced and Emily was too much affected by thenarrative of the scenes, which had passed in those apartments, to wishto visit them at this hour, but she requested that Dorothee would returnon the following night, when they were not likely to be observed, andconduct her thither. Besides her wish to examine the portrait, she felta thrilling curiosity to see the chamber, in which the Marchioness haddied, and which Dorothee had said remained, with the bed and furniture,just as when the corpse was removed for interment. The solemn emotions,which the expectation of viewing such a scene had awakened, werein unison with the present tone of her mind, depressed by severedisappointment. Cheerful objects rather added to, than removed thisdepression; but, perhaps, she yielded too much to her melancholyinclination, and imprudently lamented the misfortune, which no virtue ofher own could have taught her to avoid, though no effort of reason couldmake her look unmoved upon the self-degradation of him, whom she hadonce esteemed and loved.
Dorothee promised to return, on the following night, with the keys ofthe chambers, and then wished Emily good repose, and departed. Emily,however, continued at the window, musing upon the melancholy fate ofthe Marchioness and listening, in awful expectation, for a return of themusic. But the stillness of the night remained long unbroken, except bythe murmuring sounds of the woods, as they waved in the breeze, and thenby the distant bell of the convent, striking one. She now withdrewfrom the window, and, as she sat at her bed-side, indulging melancholyreveries, which the loneliness of the hour assisted, the stillness wassuddenly interrupted not by music, but by very uncommon sounds, thatseemed to come either from the room, adjoining her own, or from onebelow. The terrible catastrophe, that had been related to her, togetherwith the mysterious circumstances, said to have since occurred in thechateau, had so much shocked her spirits, that she now sunk, for amoment, under the weakness of superstition. The sounds, however, did notreturn, and she retired, to forget in sleep the disastrous story she hadheard.