The Mysteries of Udolpho

  CHAPTER VII

  Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber; Thou hast no figures, nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound. SHAKESPEARE

  The Count, who had slept little during the night, rose early, and,anxious to speak with Ludovico, went to the north apartment; but, theouter door having been fastened, on the preceding night, he was obligedto knock loudly for admittance. Neither the knocking, or his voice washeard; but, considering the distance of this door from the bed-room, andthat Ludovico, wearied with watching, had probably fallen into a deepsleep, the Count was not surprised on receiving no answer, and, leavingthe door, he went down to walk in his grounds.

  It was a gray autumnal morning. The sun, rising over Provence, gave onlya feeble light, as his rays struggled through the vapours that ascendedfrom the sea, and floated heavily over the wood-tops, which were nowvaried with many a mellow tint of autumn. The storm was passed, but thewaves were yet violently agitated, and their course was traced by longlines of foam, while not a breeze fluttered in the sails of the vessels,near the shore, that were weighing anchor to depart. The still gloom ofthe hour was pleasing to the Count, and he pursued his way through thewoods, sunk in deep thought.

  Emily also rose at an early hour, and took her customary walk along thebrow of the promontory, that overhung the Mediterranean. Her mind wasnow not occupied with the occurrences of the chateau, and Valancourtwas the subject of her mournful thoughts; whom she had not yet taughtherself to consider with indifference, though her judgment constantlyreproached her for the affection, that lingered in her heart, after heresteem for him was departed. Remembrance frequently gave her his partinglook and the tones of his voice, when he had bade her a last farewel;and, some accidental associations now recalling these circumstancesto her fancy, with peculiar energy, she shed bitter tears to therecollection.

  Having reached the watch-tower, she seated herself on the broken steps,and, in melancholy dejection, watched the waves, half hid in vapour,as they came rolling towards the shore, and threw up their light sprayround the rocks below. Their hollow murmur and the obscuring mists, thatcame in wreaths up the cliffs, gave a solemnity to the scene, which wasin harmony with the temper of her mind, and she sat, given up tothe remembrance of past times, till this became too painful, andshe abruptly quitted the place. On passing the little gate of thewatch-tower, she observed letters, engraved on the stone postern, whichshe paused to examine, and, though they appeared to have been rudelycut with a pen-knife, the characters were familiar to her; at length,recognizing the hand-writing of Valancourt, she read, with tremblinganxiety the following lines, entitled

  SHIPWRECK

  'Til solemn midnight! On this lonely steep, Beneath this watch-tow'r's desolated wall, Where mystic shapes the wonderer appall, I rest; and view below the desert deep, As through tempestuous clouds the moon's cold light Gleams on the wave. Viewless, the winds of night With loud mysterious force the billows sweep, And sullen roar the surges, far below. In the still pauses of the gust I hear The voice of spirits, rising sweet and slow, And oft among the clouds their forms appear. But hark! what shriek of death comes in the gale, And in the distant ray what glimmering sail Bends to the storm?--Now sinks the note of fear! Ah! wretched mariners!--no more shall day Unclose his cheering eye to light ye on your way!

  From these lines it appeared, that Valancourt had visited the tower;that he had probably been here on the preceding night, for it was suchan one as they described, and that he had left the building very lately,since it had not long been light, and without light it was impossiblethese letters could have been cut. It was thus even probable, that hemight be yet in the gardens.

  As these reflections passed rapidly over the mind of Emily, they calledup a variety of contending emotions, that almost overcame her spirits;but her first impulse was to avoid him, and, immediately leaving thetower, she returned, with hasty steps, towards the chateau. As shepassed along, she remembered the music she had lately heard near thetower, with the figure, which had appeared, and, in this moment ofagitation, she was inclined to believe, that she had then heard and seenValancourt; but other recollections soon convinced her of her error.On turning into a thicker part of the woods, she perceived a person,walking slowly in the gloom at some little distance, and, her mindengaged by the idea of him, she started and paused, imagining this tobe Valancourt. The person advanced with quicker steps, and, before shecould recover recollection enough to avoid him, he spoke, and she thenknew the voice of the Count, who expressed some surprise, on finding herwalking at so early an hour, and made a feeble effort to rally her onher love of solitude. But he soon perceived this to be more a subject ofconcern than of light laughter, and, changing his manner, affectionatelyexpostulated with Emily, on thus indulging unavailing regret; who,though she acknowledged the justness of all he said, could not restrainher tears, while she did so, and he presently quitted the topic.Expressing surprise at not having yet heard from his friend, theAdvocate at Avignon, in answer to the questions proposed to him,respecting the estates of the late Madame Montoni, he, with friendlyzeal, endeavoured to cheer Emily with hopes of establishing her claimto them; while she felt, that the estates could now contribute little tothe happiness of a life, in which Valancourt had no longer an interest.

  When they returned to the chateau, Emily retired to her apartment, andCount De Villefort to the door of the north chambers. This was stillfastened, but, being now determined to arouse Ludovico, he renewed hiscalls more loudly than before, after which a total silence ensued, andthe Count, finding all his efforts to be heard ineffectual, at lengthbegan to fear, that some accident had befallen Ludovico, whom terrorof an imaginary being might have deprived of his senses. He, therefore,left the door with an intention of summoning his servants to force itopen, some of whom he now heard moving in the lower part of the chateau.

  To the Count's enquiries, whether they had seen or heard Ludovico, theyreplied in affright, that not one of them had ventured on the north sideof the chateau, since the preceding night.

  'He sleeps soundly then,' said the Count, 'and is at such a distancefrom the outer door, which is fastened, that to gain admittance to thechambers it will be necessary to force it. Bring an instrument, andfollow me.'

  The servants stood mute and dejected, and it was not till nearly all thehousehold were assembled, that the Count's orders were obeyed. In themean time, Dorothee was telling of a door, that opened from a gallery,leading from the great stair-case into the last anti-room of the saloon,and, this being much nearer to the bed-chamber, it appeared probable,that Ludovico might be easily awakened by an attempt to open it.Thither, therefore, the Count went, but his voice was as ineffectualat this door as it had proved at the remoter one; and now, seriouslyinterested for Ludovico, he was himself going to strike upon the doorwith the instrument, when he observed its singular beauty, and with-heldthe blow. It appeared, on the first glance, to be of ebony, so dark andclose was its grain and so high its polish; but it proved to be only oflarch wood, of the growth of Provence, then famous for its forestsof larch. The beauty of its polished hue and of its delicate carvingsdetermined the Count to spare this door, and he returned to that leadingfrom the back stair-case, which being, at length, forced, he entered thefirst anti-room, followed by Henri and a few of the most courageous ofhis servants, the rest awaiting the event of the enquiry on the stairsand landing-place.

  All was silent in the chambers, through which the Count passed, and,having reached the saloon, he called loudly upon Ludovico; after which,still receiving no answer, he threw open the door of the bed-room, andentered.

  The profound stillness within confirmed his apprehensions for Ludovico,for not even the breathings of a person in sleep were heard; and hisuncertainty was not soon terminated, since the shutters being allclosed, the chamber was too dark for any object to be distinguished init.

  The Count bade a servant open them, who, as he crossed the room todo so, stumbled over something, and fe
ll to the floor, when his cryoccasioned such panic among the few of his fellows, who had venturedthus far, that they instantly fled, and the Count and Henri were left tofinish the adventure.

  Henri then sprung across the room, and, opening a window-shutter, theyperceived, that the man had fallen over a chair near the hearth, inwhich Ludovico had been sitting;--for he sat there no longer, nor couldany where be seen by the imperfect light, that was admitted into theapartment. The Count, seriously alarmed, now opened other shutters, thathe might be enabled to examine further, and, Ludovico not yet appearing,he stood for a moment, suspended in astonishment and scarcely trustinghis senses, till, his eyes glancing on the bed, he advanced to examinewhether he was there asleep. No person, however, was in it, and heproceeded to the oriel, where every thing remained as on the precedingnight, but Ludovico was no where to be found.

  The Count now checked his amazement, considering, that Ludovico mighthave left the chambers, during the night, overcome by the terrors, whichtheir lonely desolation and the recollected reports, concerning them,had inspired. Yet, if this had been the fact, the man would naturallyhave sought society, and his fellow servants had all declared they hadnot seen him; the door of the outer room also had been found fastened,with the key on the inside; it was impossible, therefore, for him tohave passed through that, and all the outer doors of this suite werefound, on examination, to be bolted and locked, with the keys alsowithin them. The Count, being then compelled to believe, that the ladhad escaped through the casements, next examined them, but such asopened wide enough to admit the body of a man were found to be carefullysecured either by iron bars, or by shutters, and no vestige appeared ofany person having attempted to pass them; neither was it probable, thatLudovico would have incurred the risque of breaking his neck, by leapingfrom a window, when he might have walked safely through a door.

  The Count's amazement did not admit of words; but he returned once moreto examine the bed-room, where was no appearance of disorder, exceptthat occasioned by the late overthrow of the chair, near which had stooda small table, and on this Ludovico's sword, his lamp, the book he hadbeen reading, and the remnant of his flask of wine still remained.At the foot of the table, too, was the basket with some fragments ofprovision and wood.

  Henri and the servant now uttered their astonishment without reserve,and, though the Count said little, there was a seriousness in hismanner, that expressed much. It appeared, that Ludovico must havequitted these rooms by some concealed passage, for the Count could notbelieve, that any supernatural means had occasioned this event, yet, ifthere was any such passage, it seemed inexplicable why he should retreatthrough it, and it was equally surprising, that not even the smallestvestige should appear, by which his progress could be traced. In therooms every thing remained as much in order as if he had just walked outby the common way.

  The Count himself assisted in lifting the arras, with which thebed-chamber, saloon and one of the anti-rooms were hung, that hemight discover if any door had been concealed behind it; but, aftera laborious search, none was found, and he, at length, quitted theapartments, having secured the door of the last anti-chamber, the key ofwhich he took into his own possession. He then gave orders, that strictsearch should be made for Ludovico not only in the chateau, but in theneighbourhood, and, retiring with Henri to his closet, they remainedthere in conversation for a considerable time, and whatever was thesubject of it, Henri from this hour lost much of his vivacity, and hismanners were particularly grave and reserved, whenever the topic, whichnow agitated the Count's family with wonder and alarm, was introduced.

  On the disappearing of Ludovico, Baron St. Foix seemed strengthenedin all his former opinions concerning the probability of apparitions,though it was difficult to discover what connection there could possiblybe between the two subjects, or to account for this effect otherwisethan by supposing, that the mystery attending Ludovico, by excitingawe and curiosity, reduced the mind to a state of sensibility, whichrendered it more liable to the influence of superstition in general. Itis, however, certain, that from this period the Baron and his adherentsbecame more bigoted to their own systems than before, while the terrorsof the Count's servants increased to an excess, that occasioned many ofthem to quit the mansion immediately, and the rest remained only tillothers could be procured to supply their places.

  The most strenuous search after Ludovico proved unsuccessful, and, afterseveral days of indefatigable enquiry, poor Annette gave herself up todespair, and the other inhabitants of the chateau to amazement.

  Emily, whose mind had been deeply affected by the disastrous fate of thelate Marchioness and with the mysterious connection, which she fanciedhad existed between her and St. Aubert, was particularly impressedby the late extraordinary event, and much concerned for the loss ofLudovico, whose integrity and faithful services claimed both heresteem and gratitude. She was now very desirous to return to the quietretirement of her convent, but every hint of this was received with realsorrow by the Lady Blanche, and affectionately set aside by the Count,for whom she felt much of the respectful love and admiration of adaughter, and to whom, by Dorothee's consent, she, at length, mentionedthe appearance, which they had witnessed in the chamber of the deceasedMarchioness. At any other period, he would have smiled at such arelation, and have believed, that its object had existed only in thedistempered fancy of the relater; but he now attended to Emily withseriousness, and, when she concluded, requested of her a promise, thatthis occurrence should rest in silence. 'Whatever may be the cause andthe import of these extraordinary occurrences,' added the Count, 'timeonly can explain them. I shall keep a wary eye upon all that passes inthe chateau, and shall pursue every possible means of discovering thefate of Ludovico. Meanwhile, we must be prudent and be silent. I willmyself watch in the north chambers, but of this we will say nothing,till the night arrives, when I purpose doing so.'

  The Count then sent for Dorothee, and required of her also a promise ofsilence, concerning what she had already, or might in future witness ofan extraordinary nature; and this ancient servant now related to him theparticulars of the Marchioness de Villeroi's death, with some of whichhe appeared to be already acquainted, while by others he was evidentlysurprised and agitated. After listening to this narrative, the Countretired to his closet, where he remained alone for several hours;and, when he again appeared, the solemnity of his manner surprised andalarmed Emily, but she gave no utterance to her thoughts.

  On the week following the disappearance of Ludovico, all the Count'sguests took leave of him, except the Baron, his son Mons. St. Foix, andEmily; the latter of whom was soon after embarrassed and distressed bythe arrival of another visitor, Mons. Du Pont, which made her determineupon withdrawing to her convent immediately. The delight, that appearedin his countenance, when he met her, told that he brought back thesame ardour of passion, which had formerly banished him fromChateau-le-Blanc. He was received with reserve by Emily, and withpleasure by the Count, who presented him to her with a smile, thatseemed intended to plead his cause, and who did not hope the less forhis friend, from the embarrassment she betrayed.

  But M. Du Pont, with truer sympathy, seemed to understand her manner,and his countenance quickly lost its vivacity, and sunk into the languorof despondency.

  On the following day, however, he sought an opportunity of declaringthe purport of his visit, and renewed his suit; a declaration, which wasreceived with real concern by Emily, who endeavoured to lessen the painshe might inflict by a second rejection, with assurances of esteemand friendship; yet she left him in a state of mind, that claimed andexcited her tenderest compassion; and, being more sensible than everof the impropriety of remaining longer at the chateau, she immediatelysought the Count, and communicated to him her intention of returning tothe convent.

  'My dear Emily,' said he 'I observe, with extreme concern, the illusionyou are encouraging--an illusion common to young and sensible minds.Your heart has received a severe shock; you believe you can neverentirely recover it, and you will enc
ourage this belief, till the habitof indulging sorrow will subdue the strength of your mind, and discolouryour future views with melancholy and regret. Let me dissipate thisillusion, and awaken you to a sense of your danger.'

  Emily smiled mournfully, 'I know what you would say, my dear sir,' saidshe, 'and am prepared to answer you. I feel, that my heart can neverknow a second affection; and that I must never hope even to recover itstranquillity--if I suffer myself to enter into a second engagement.'

  'I know, that you feel all this,' replied the Count; 'and I know, also,that time will overcome these feelings, unless you cherish them insolitude, and, pardon me, with romantic tenderness. Then, indeed, timewill only confirm habit. I am particularly empowered to speak on thissubject, and to sympathize in your sufferings,' added the Count, withan air of solemnity, 'for I have known what it is to love, and to lamentthe object of my love. Yes,' continued he, while his eyes filled withtears, 'I have suffered!--but those times have passed away--long passed!and I can now look back upon them without emotion.'

  'My dear sir,' said Emily, timidly, 'what mean those tears?--they speak,I fear, another language--they plead for me.'

  'They are weak tears, for they are useless ones,' replied the Count,drying them, 'I would have you superior to such weakness. These,however, are only faint traces of a grief, which, if it had not beenopposed by long continued effort, might have led me to the vergeof madness! Judge, then, whether I have not cause to warn you of anindulgence, which may produce so terrible an effect, and which mustcertainly, if not opposed, overcloud the years, that otherwise mightbe happy. M. Du Pont is a sensible and amiable man, who has longbeen tenderly attached to you; his family and fortune areunexceptionable;--after what I have said, it is unnecessary to add, thatI should rejoice in your felicity, and that I think M. Du Pont wouldpromote it. Do not weep, Emily,' continued the Count, taking her hand,'there IS happiness reserved for you.'

  He was silent a moment; and then added, in a firmer voice, 'I do notwish, that you should make a violent effort to overcome your feelings;all I, at present, ask, is, that you will check the thoughts, that wouldlead you to a remembrance of the past; that you will suffer your mind tobe engaged by present objects; that you will allow yourself to believeit possible you may yet be happy; and that you will sometimes thinkwith complacency of poor Du Pont, and not condemn him to the state ofdespondency, from which, my dear Emily, I am endeavouring to withdrawyou.'

  'Ah! my dear sir,' said Emily, while her tears still fell, 'do notsuffer the benevolence of your wishes to mislead Mons. Du Pont withan expectation that I can ever accept his hand. If I understand my ownheart, this never can be; your instruction I can obey in almost everyother particular, than that of adopting a contrary belief.'

  'Leave me to understand your heart,' replied the Count, with a faintsmile. 'If you pay me the compliment to be guided by my advice inother instances, I will pardon your incredulity, respecting your futureconduct towards Mons. Du Pont. I will not even press you to remainlonger at the chateau than your own satisfaction will permit; but thoughI forbear to oppose your present retirement, I shall urge the claims offriendship for your future visits.'

  Tears of gratitude mingled with those of tender regret, while Emilythanked the Count for the many instances of friendship she had receivedfrom him; promised to be directed by his advice upon every subject butone, and assured him of the pleasure, with which she should, at somefuture period, accept the invitation of the Countess and himself--IfMons. Du Pont was not at the chateau.

  The Count smiled at this condition. 'Be it so,' said he, 'meanwhile theconvent is so near the chateau, that my daughter and I shall oftenvisit you; and if, sometimes, we should dare to bring you anothervisitor--will you forgive us?'

  Emily looked distressed, and remained silent.

  'Well,' rejoined the Count, 'I will pursue this subject no further, andmust now entreat your forgiveness for having pressed it thus far. Youwill, however, do me the justice to believe, that I have been urged onlyby a sincere regard for your happiness, and that of my amiable friendMons. Du Pont.'

  Emily, when she left the Count, went to mention her intended departureto the Countess, who opposed it with polite expressions of regret; afterwhich, she sent a note to acquaint the lady abbess, that she shouldreturn to the convent; and thither she withdrew on the evening of thefollowing day. M. Du Pont, in extreme regret, saw her depart, while theCount endeavoured to cheer him with a hope, that Emily would sometimesregard him with a more favourable eye.

  She was pleased to find herself once more in the tranquil retirementof the convent, where she experienced a renewal of all the maternalkindness of the abbess, and of the sisterly attentions of the nuns. Areport of the late extraordinary occurrence at the chateau had alreadyreached them, and, after supper, on the evening of her arrival, itwas the subject of conversation in the convent parlour, where she wasrequested to mention some particulars of that unaccountable event. Emilywas guarded in her conversation on this subject, and briefly related afew circumstances concerning Ludovico, whose disappearance, her auditorsalmost unanimously agreed, had been effected by supernatural means.

  'A belief had so long prevailed,' said a nun, who was called sisterFrances, 'that the chateau was haunted, that I was surprised, when Iheard the Count had the temerity to inhabit it. Its former possessor,I fear, had some deed of conscience to atone for; let us hope, that thevirtues of its present owner will preserve him from the punishment dueto the errors of the last, if, indeed, he was a criminal.'

  'Of what crime, then, was he suspected?' said a Mademoiselle Feydeau, aboarder at the convent.

  'Let us pray for his soul!' said a nun, who had till now sat in silentattention. 'If he was criminal, his punishment in this world wassufficient.'

  There was a mixture of wildness and solemnity in her manner ofdelivering this, which struck Emily exceedingly; but Mademoisellerepeated her question, without noticing the solemn eagerness of the nun.

  'I dare not presume to say what was his crime,' replied sister Frances;'but I have heard many reports of an extraordinary nature, respectingthe late Marquis de Villeroi, and among others, that, soon after thedeath of his lady, he quitted Chateau-le-Blanc, and never afterwardsreturned to it. I was not here at the time, so I can only mention itfrom report, and so many years have passed since the Marchioness died,that few of our sisterhood, I believe, can do more.'

  'But I can,' said the nun, who had before spoke, and whom they calledsister Agnes.

  'You then,' said Mademoiselle Feydeau, 'are possibly acquainted withcircumstances, that enable you to judge, whether he was criminal or not,and what was the crime imputed to him.'

  'I am,' replied the nun; 'but who shall dare to scrutinize mythoughts--who shall dare to pluck out my opinion? God only is his judge,and to that judge he is gone!'

  Emily looked with surprise at sister Frances, who returned her asignificant glance.

  'I only requested your opinion,' said Mademoiselle Feydeau, mildly; 'ifthe subject is displeasing to you, I will drop it.'

  'Displeasing!'--said the nun, with emphasis.--'We are idle talkers;we do not weigh the meaning of the words we use; DISPLEASING is a poorword. I will go pray.' As she said this she rose from her seat, and witha profound sigh quitted the room.

  'What can be the meaning of this?' said Emily, when she was gone.

  'It is nothing extraordinary,' replied sister Frances, 'she is oftenthus; but she had no meaning in what she says. Her intellects are attimes deranged. Did you never see her thus before?'

  'Never,' said Emily. 'I have, indeed, sometimes, thought, that there wasthe melancholy of madness in her look, but never before perceived it inher speech. Poor soul, I will pray for her!'

  'Your prayers then, my daughter, will unite with ours,' observed thelady abbess, 'she has need of them.'

  'Dear lady,' said Mademoiselle Feydeau, addressing the abbess, 'what isyour opinion of the late Marquis? The strange circumstances, that haveoccurred at the chateau, have so much awakened my c
uriosity, that Ishall be pardoned the question. What was his imputed crime, and what thepunishment, to which sister Agnes alluded?'

  'We must be cautious of advancing our opinion,' said the abbess, withan air of reserve, mingled with solemnity, 'we must be cautious ofadvancing our opinion on so delicate a subject. I will not take upon meto pronounce, that the late Marquis was criminal, or to say what wasthe crime of which he was suspected; but, concerning the punishment ourdaughter Agnes hinted, I know of none he suffered. She probably alludedto the severe one, which an exasperated conscience can inflict. Beware,my children, of incurring so terrible a punishment--it is the purgatoryof this life! The late Marchioness I knew well; she was a pattern tosuch as live in the world; nay, our sacred order need not have blushedto copy her virtues! Our holy convent received her mortal part; herheavenly spirit, I doubt not, ascended to its sanctuary!'

  As the abbess spoke this, the last bell of vespers struck up, andshe rose. 'Let us go, my children,' said she, 'and intercede for thewretched; let us go and confess our sins, and endeavour to purify oursouls for the heaven, to which SHE is gone!'

  Emily was affected by the solemnity of this exhortation, and,remembering her father, 'The heaven, to which HE, too, is gone!' saidshe, faintly, as she suppressed her sighs, and followed the abbess andthe nuns to the chapel.