Mysteries of Udolpho — Vol 03, Ch. 08, part 2

“Aye, and for that matter, carousing too,” replied the soldier, “but, since the siege, they have done nothing but make merry: and if I was they, I would settle accounts with myself, for all my hard fighting, the same way.

” They had now crossed the second court, and reached the hall door, when the soldier, bidding them good night, hastened back to his post; and, while they waited for admittance, Emily considered how she might avoid seeing Montoni, and retire unnoticed to her former apartment, for she shrunk from the thought of encountering either him, or any of his party, at this hour.

The uproar within the castle was now so loud, that, though Ugo knocked repeatedly at the hall door, he was not heard by any of the servants, a circumstance, which increased Emily’s alarm, while it allowed her time to deliberate on the means of retiring unobserved; for, though she might, perhaps, pass up the great staircase unseen, it was impossible she could find the way to her chamber, without a light, the difficulty of procuring which, and the danger of wandering about the castle, without one, immediately struck her.

Bertrand had only a torch, and she knew, that the servants never brought a taper to the door, for the hall was sufficiently lighted by the large tripod lamp, which hung in the vaulted roof; and, while she should wait till Annette could bring a taper, Montoni, or some of his companions, might discover her.

The door was now opened by Carlo; and Emily, having requested him to send Annette immediately with a light to the great gallery, where she determined to await her, passed on with hasty steps towards the staircase; while Bertrand and Ugo, with the torch, followed old Carlo to the servants’ hall, impatient for supper and the warm blaze of a wood fire.

Emily, lighted only by the feeble rays, which the lamp above threw between the arches of this extensive hall, endeavoured to find her way to the staircase, now hid in obscurity; while the shouts of merriment, that burst from a remote apartment, served, by heightening her terror, to increase her perplexity, and she expected, every instant, to see the door of that room open, and Montoni and his companions issue forth.

Having, at length, reached the staircase, and found her way to the top, she seated herself on the last stair, to await the arrival of Annette; for the profound darkness of the gallery deterred her from proceeding farther, and, while she listened for her footstep, she heard only distant sounds of revelry, which rose in sullen echoes from among the arcades below.

Once she thought she heard a low sound from the dark gallery behind her; and, turning her eyes, fancied she saw something luminous move in it; and, since she could not, at this moment, subdue the weakness that caused her fears, she quitted her seat, and crept softly down a few stairs lower.

Annette not yet appearing, Emily now concluded, that she was gone to bed, and that nobody chose to call her up; and the prospect, that presented itself, of passing the night in darkness, in this place, or in some other equally forlorn (for she knew it would be impracticable to find her way through the intricacies of the galleries to her chamber), drew tears of mingled terror and despondency from her eyes.

While thus she sat, she fancied she heard again an odd sound from the gallery, and she listened, scarcely daring to breathe, but the increasing voices below overcame every other sound.

Soon after, she heard Montoni and his companions burst into the hall, who spoke, as if they were much intoxicated, and seemed to be advancing towards the staircase.

She now remembered, that they must come this way to their chambers, and, forgetting all the terrors of the gallery, hurried towards it with an intention of secreting herself in some of the passages, that opened beyond, and of endeavouring, when the Signors were retired, to find her way to her own room, or to that of Annette, which was in a remote part of the castle.

With extended arms, she crept along the gallery, still hearing the voices of persons below, who seemed to stop in conversation at the foot of the staircase, and then pausing for a moment to listen, half fearful of going further into the darkness of the gallery, where she still imagined, from the noise she had heard, that some person was lurking, “They are already informed of my arrival,” said she, “and Montoni is coming himself to seek me!

In the present state of his mind, his purpose must be desperate.

” Then, recollecting the scene, that had passed in the corridor, on the night preceding her departure from the castle, “O Valancourt!

” said she, “I must then resign you for ever.

To brave any longer the injustice of Montoni, would not be fortitude, but rashness.

” Still the voices below did not draw nearer, but they became louder, and she distinguished those of Verezzi and Bertolini above the rest, while the few words she caught made her listen more anxiously for others.

The conversation seemed to concern herself; and, having ventured to step a few paces nearer to the staircase, she discovered, that they were disputing about her, each seeming to claim some former promise of Montoni, who appeared, at first, inclined to appease and to persuade them to return to their wine, but afterwards to be weary of the dispute, and, saying that he left them to settle it as they could, was returning with the rest of the party to the apartment he had just quitted.

Verezzi then stopped him.

“Where is she?

Signor,” said he, in a voice of impatience: “tell us where she is.

” “I have already told you that I do not know,” replied Montoni, who seemed to be somewhat overcome with wine; “but she is most probably gone to her apartment.

” Verezzi and Bertolini now desisted from their enquiries, and sprang to the staircase together, while Emily, who, during this discourse, had trembled so excessively, that she had with difficulty supported herself, seemed inspired with new strength, the moment she heard the sound of their steps, and ran along the gallery, dark as it was, with the fleetness of a fawn.

But, long before she reached its extremity, the light, which Verezzi carried, flashed upon the walls; both appeared, and, instantly perceiving Emily, pursued her.

At this moment, Bertolini, whose steps, though swift, were not steady, and whose impatience overcame what little caution he had hitherto used, stumbled, and fell at his length.

The lamp fell with him, and was presently expiring on the floor; but Verezzi, regardless of saving it, seized the advantage this accident gave him over his rival, and followed Emily, to whom, however, the light had shown one of the passages that branched from the gallery, and she instantly turned into it.

Verezzi could just discern the way she had taken, and this he pursued; but the sound of her steps soon sunk in distance, while he, less acquainted with the passage, was obliged to proceed through the dark, with caution, lest he should fall down a flight of steps, such as in this extensive old castle frequently terminated an avenue.

This passage at length brought Emily to the corridor, into which her own chamber opened, and, not hearing any footstep, she paused to take breath, and consider what was the safest design to be adopted.

She had followed this passage, merely because it was the first that appeared, and now that she had reached the end of it, was as perplexed as before.

Whither to go, or how further to find her way in the dark, she knew not; she was aware only that she must not seek her apartment, for there she would certainly be sought, and her danger increased every instant, while she remained near it.

Her spirits and her breath, however, were so much exhausted, that she was compelled to rest, for a few minutes, at the end of the passage, and still she heard no steps approaching.

As thus she stood, light glimmered under an opposite door of the gallery, and, from its situation, she knew, that it was the door of that mysterious chamber, where she had made a discovery so shocking, that she never remembered it but with the utmost horror.

That there should be light in this chamber, and at this hour, excited her strong surprise, and she felt a momentary terror concerning it, which did not permit her to look again, for her spirits were now in such a state of weakness, that she almost expected to see the door slowly open, and some horrible object appear at it.

Still she listened for a step along the passage, and looked up it, where, not a ray of light appearing, she concluded, that Verezzi had gone back for the lamp; and, believing that he would shortly be there, she again considered which way she should go, or rather which way she could find in the dark.

A faint ray still glimmered under the opposite door, but so great, and, perhaps, so just was her horror of that chamber, that she would not again have tempted its secrets, though she had been certain of obtaining the light so important to her safety.

She was still breathing with difficulty, and resting at the end of the passage, when she heard a rustling sound, and then a low voice, so very near her, that it seemed close to her ear; but she had presence of mind to check her emotions, and to remain quite still; in the next moment, she perceived it to be the voice of Verezzi, who did not appear to know, that she was there, but to have spoken to himself.

“The air is fresher here,” said he: “this should be the corridor.

” Perhaps, he was one of those heroes, whose courage can defy an enemy better than darkness, and he tried to rally his spirits with the sound of his own voice.

However this might be, he turned to the right, and proceeded, with the same stealing steps, towards Emily’s apartment, apparently forgetting, that, in darkness, she could easily elude his search, even in her chamber; and, like an intoxicated person, he followed pertinaciously the one idea, that had possessed his imagination.

The moment she heard his steps steal away, she left her station and moved softly to the other end of the corridor, determined to trust again to chance, and to quit it by the first avenue she could find;

but, before she could effect this, light broke upon the walls of the gallery, and, looking back, she saw Verezzi crossing it towards her chamber.

She now glided into a passage, that opened on the left, without, as she thought, being perceived; but, in the next instant, another light, glimmering at the further end of this passage, threw her into new terror.

While she stopped and hesitated which way to go, the pause allowed her to perceive, that it was Annette, who advanced, and she hurried to meet her: but her imprudence again alarmed Emily, on perceiving whom, she burst into a scream of joy, and it was some minutes, before she could be prevailed with to be silent, or to release her mistress from the ardent clasp, in which she held her.

When, at length, Emily made Annette comprehend her danger, they hurried towards Annette’s room, which was in a distant part of the castle.

No apprehensions, however, could yet silence the latter.

“Oh dear ma’amselle,” said she, as they passed along, “what a terrified time have I had of it!

Oh!

I thought I should have died a hundred times!

I

never thought I should live to see you again!

and I never was so glad to see anybody in my whole life, as I am to see you now.

” “Hark!

” cried Emily, “we are pursued; that was the echo of steps!

” “No, ma’amselle,” said Annette, “it was only the echo of a door shutting; sound runs along these vaulted passages so, that one is continually deceived by it; if one does but speak, or cough, it makes a noise as loud as a cannon.

” “Then there is the greater necessity for us to be silent,” said Emily: “pr’ythee say no more, till we reach your chamber.

” Here, at length, they arrived, without interruption, and, Annette having fastened the door, Emily sat down on her little bed, to recover breath and composure.

To her enquiry, whether Valancourt was among the prisoners in the castle, Annette replied, that she had not been able to hear, but that she knew there were several persons confined.

She then proceeded, in her tedious way, to give an account of the siege, or rather a detail of her terrors and various sufferings, during the attack.

“But,” added she, “when I heard the shouts of victory from the ramparts, I thought we were all taken, and gave myself up for lost, instead of which, _we_ had driven the enemy away.

I went then to the north gallery, and saw a great many of them scampering away among the mountains; but the rampart walls were all in ruins, as one may say, and there was a dismal sight to see down among the woods below, where the poor fellows were lying in heaps, but were carried off presently by their comrades.

While the siege was going on, the Signor was here, and there, and everywhere, at the same time, as Ludovico told me, for he would not let me see anything hardly, and locked me up, as he has often done before, in a room in the middle of the castle, and used to bring me food, and come and talk with me as often as he could; and I must say, if it had not been for Ludovico, I should have died outright.

” “Well, Annette,” said Emily, “and how have affairs gone on, since the siege?

” “O!

sad hurly-burly doings, ma’amselle,” replied Annette; “the Signors have done nothing but sit and drink and game, ever since.

They sit up, all night, and play among themselves, for all those riches and fine things, they brought in, some time since, when they used to go out a-robbing, or as good, for days together; and then they have dreadful quarrels about who loses, and who wins.

That fierce Signor Verezzi is always losing, as they tell me, and Signor Orsino wins from him, and this makes him very wroth, and they have had several hard set-to’s about it.

Then, all those fine ladies are at the castle still; and I declare I am frighted, whenever I meet any of them in the passages—” “Surely, Annette,” said Emily starting, “I heard a noise: listen.

” After a long pause, “No, ma’amselle,” said Annette, “it was only the wind in the gallery; I often hear it, when it shakes the old doors, at the other end.

But won’t you go to bed, ma’amselle?

you surely will not sit up starving, all night.

” Emily now laid herself down on the mattress, and desired Annette to leave the lamp burning on the hearth;

having done which, the latter placed herself beside Emily, who, however, was not suffered to sleep, for she again thought she heard a noise from the passage; and Annette was again trying to convince her, that it was only the wind, when footsteps were distinctly heard near the door.

Annette was now starting from the bed, but Emily prevailed with her to remain there, and listened with her in a state of terrible expectation.

The steps still loitered at the door, when presently an attempt was made on the lock, and, in the next instant, a voice called.

“For heaven’s sake, Annette, do not answer,” said Emily softly, “remain quite still; but I fear we must extinguish the lamp, or its glare will betray us.

” “Holy Virgin!

” exclaimed Annette, forgetting her discretion, “I would not be in darkness now for the whole world.

” While she spoke, the voice became louder than before, and repeated Annette’s name; “Blessed Virgin!

” cried she suddenly, “it is only Ludovico.

” She rose to open the door, but Emily prevented her, till they should be more certain, that it was he alone; with whom Annette, at length, talked for some time, and learned, that he was come to enquire after herself, whom he had let out of her room to go to Emily, and that he was now returned to lock her in again.

Emily, fearful of being overheard, if they conversed any longer through the door, consented that it should be opened, and a young man appeared, whose open countenance confirmed the favourable opinion of him, which his care of Annette had already prompted her to form.

She entreated his protection, should Verezzi make this requisite; and Ludovico offered to pass the night in an old chamber, adjoining, that opened from the gallery, and, on the first alarm, to come to their defence.

Emily was much soothed by this proposal; and Ludovico, having lighted his lamp, went to his station, while she, once more, endeavoured to repose on her mattress.

But a variety of interests pressed upon her attention, and prevented sleep.

She thought much on what Annette had told her of the dissolute manners of Montoni and his associates, and more of his present conduct towards herself, and of the danger, from which she had just escaped.

From the view of her present situation she shrunk, as from a new picture of terror.

She saw herself in a castle, inhabited by vice and violence, seated beyond the reach of law or justice, and in the power of a man, whose perseverance was equal to every occasion, and in whom passions, of which revenge was not the weakest, entirely supplied the place of principles.

She was compelled, once more, to acknowledge, that it would be folly, and not fortitude, any longer to dare his power; and, resigning all hopes of future happiness with Valancourt, she determined, that, on the following morning, she would compromise with Montoni, and give up her estates, on condition, that he would permit her immediate return to France.

Such considerations kept her waking for many hours; but, the night passed, without further alarm from Verezzi.

On the next morning, Emily had a long conversation with Ludovico, in which she heard circumstances concerning the castle, and received hints of the designs of Montoni, that considerably increased her alarms.

On expressing her surprise, that Ludovico, who seemed to be so sensible of the evils of his situation, should continue in it, he informed her, that it was not his intention to do so, and she then ventured to ask him, if he would assist her to escape from the castle.

Ludovico assured her of his readiness to attempt this, but strongly represented the difficulty of the enterprise, and the certain destruction which must ensue, should Montoni overtake them, before they had passed the mountains; he, however, promised to be watchful of every circumstance, that might contribute to the success of the attempt, and to think upon some plan of departure.

Emily now confided to him the name of Valancourt, and begged he would enquire for such a person among the prisoners in the castle; for the faint hope, which this conversation awakened, made her now recede from her resolution of an immediate compromise with Montoni.

She determined, if possible, to delay this, till she heard further from Ludovico, and, if his designs were found to be impracticable, to resign the estates at once.

Her thoughts were on this subject, when Montoni, who was now recovered from the intoxication of the preceding night, sent for her, and she immediately obeyed the summons.

He was alone.

“I find,” said he, “that you were not in your chamber, last night; where were you?

” Emily related to him some circumstances of her alarm, and entreated his protection from a repetition of them.

“You know the terms of my protection,” said he; “if you really value this, you will secure it.

” His open declaration, that he would only conditionally protect her, while she remained a prisoner in the castle, showed Emily the necessity of an immediate compliance with his terms; but she first demanded, whether he would permit her immediately to depart, if she gave up her claim to the contested estates.

In a very solemn manner he then assured her, that he would, and immediately laid before her a paper, which was to transfer the right of those estates to himself.

She was, for a considerable time, unable to sign it, and her heart was torn with contending interests, for she was about to resign the happiness of all her future years—the hope, which had sustained her in so many hours of adversity.

After hearing from Montoni a recapitulation of the conditions of her compliance, and a remonstrance, that his time was valuable, she put her hand to the paper; when she had done which, she fell back in her chair, but soon recovered, and desired, that he would give orders for her departure, and that he would allow Annette to accompany her.

Montoni smiled.

“It was necessary to deceive you,” said he,—“there was no other way of making you act reasonably; you shall go, but it must not be at present.

I must first secure these estates by possession: when that is done, you may return to France if you will.

” The deliberate villany, with which he violated the solemn engagement he had just entered into, shocked Emily as much, as the certainty, that she had made a fruitless sacrifice, and must still remain his prisoner.

She had no words to express what she felt, and knew, that it would have been useless, if she had.

As she looked piteously at Montoni, he turned away, and at the same time desired she would withdraw to her apartment;

but, unable to leave the room, she sat down in a chair near the door, and sighed heavily.

She had neither words nor tears.

“Why will you indulge this childish grief?

” said he.

“Endeavour to strengthen your mind, to bear patiently what cannot now be avoided; you have no real evil to lament; be patient, and you will be sent back to France.

At present retire to your apartment.

” “I dare not go, sir,” said she, “where I shall be liable to the intrusion of Signor Verezzi.

” “Have I not promised to protect you?

” said Montoni.

“You have promised, sir,”—replied Emily, after some hesitation.

“And is not my promise sufficient?

” added he sternly.

“You will recollect your former promise, Signor,” said Emily, trembling, “and may determine for me, whether I ought to rely upon this.

” “Will you provoke me to declare to you, that I will not protect you then?

” said Montoni, in a tone of haughty displeasure.

“If that will satisfy you, I will do it immediately.

Withdraw to your chamber, before I retract my promise; you have nothing to fear there.

” Emily left the room, and moved slowly into the hall, where the fear of meeting Verezzi, or Bertolini, made her quicken her steps, though she could scarcely support herself; and soon after she reached once more her own apartment.

Having looked fearfully round her, to examine if any person was there, and having searched every part of it, she fastened the door, and sat down by one of the casements.

Here, while she looked out for some hope to support her fainting spirits, which had been so long harassed and oppressed, that, if she had not now struggled much against misfortune, they would have left her, perhaps, for ever, she endeavoured to believe, that Montoni did really intend to permit her return to France as soon as he had secured her property, and that he would, in the mean time, protect her from insult; but her chief hope rested with Ludovico, who, she doubted not, would be zealous in her cause, though he seemed almost to despair of success in it.

One circumstance, however, she had to rejoice in.

Her prudence, or rather her fears, had saved her from mentioning the name of Valancourt to Montoni, which she was several times on the point of doing, before she signed the paper, and of stipulating for his release, if he should be really a prisoner in the castle.

Had she done this, Montoni’s jealous fears would now probably have loaded Valancourt with new severities, and have suggested the advantage of holding him a captive for life.

Thus passed the melancholy day, as she had before passed many in this same chamber.

When night drew on, she would have withdrawn herself to Annette’s bed, had not a particular interest inclined her to remain in this chamber, in spite of her fears; for, when the castle should be still, and the customary hour arrived, she determined to watch for the music, which she had formerly heard.

Though its sounds might not enable her positively to determine, whether Valancourt was there, they would perhaps strengthen her opinion that he was, and impart the comfort, so necessary to her present support.

But, on the other hand, if all should be silent!

She hardly dared to suffer her thoughts to glance that way, but waited, with impatient expectation, the approaching hour.

The night was stormy; the battlements of the castle appeared to rock in the wind, and, at intervals, long groans seemed to pass on the air, such as those, which often deceive the melancholy mind, in tempests, and amidst scenes of desolation.

Emily heard, as formerly, the sentinels pass along the terrace to their posts, and, looking out from her casement, observed, that the watch was doubled; a precaution, which appeared necessary enough, when she threw her eyes on the walls, and saw their shattered condition.

The well-known sounds of the soldiers’ march, and of their distant voices, which passed her in the wind, and were lost again, recalled to her memory the melancholy sensation she had suffered, when she formerly heard the same sounds; and occasioned almost involuntary comparisons between her present, and her late situation.

But this was no subject for congratulations, and she wisely checked the course of her thoughts, while, as the hour was not yet come, in which she had been accustomed to hear the music, she closed the casement, and endeavoured to await it in patience.

The door of the staircase she tried to secure, as usual, with some of the furniture of the room; but this expedient her fears now represented to her to be very inadequate to the power and perseverance of Verezzi; and she often looked at a large and heavy chest, that stood in the chamber, with wishes that she and Annette had strength enough to move it.

While she blamed the long stay of this girl, who was still with Ludovico and some other of the servants, she trimmed her wood fire, to make the room appear less desolate, and sat down beside it with a book, which her eyes perused, while her thoughts wandered to Valancourt, and her own misfortunes.

As she sat thus, she thought, in a pause of the wind, she distinguished music, and went to the casement to listen, but the loud swell of the gust overcame every other sound.

When the wind sunk again, she heard distinctly, in the deep pause that succeeded, the sweet strings of a lute; but again the rising tempest bore away the notes, and again was succeeded by a solemn pause.

Emily, trembling with hope and fear, opened her casement to listen, and to try whether her own voice could be heard by the musician; for to endure any longer this state of torturing suspense concerning Valancourt, seemed to be utterly impossible.

There was a kind of breathless stillness in the chambers, that permitted her to distinguish from below the tender notes of the very lute she had formerly heard, and with it, a plaintive voice, made sweeter by the low rustling sound, that now began to creep along the wood-tops, till it was lost in the rising wind.

Their tall heads then began to wave, while, through a forest of pine, on the left, the wind, groaning heavily, rolled onward over the woods below, bending them almost to their roots; and, as the long-resounding gale swept away, other woods, on the right, seemed to answer the “loud lament;” then, others, further still, softened it into a murmur, that died into silence.

Emily listened, with mingled awe and expectation, hope and fear; and again the melting sweetness of the lute was heard, and the same solemn-breathing voice.

Convinced that these came from an apartment underneath, she leaned far out of her window, that she might discover whether any light was there; but the casements below, as well as those above, were sunk so deep in the thick walls of the castle, that she could not see them, or even the faint ray, that probably glimmered through their bars.

She then ventured to call; but the wind bore her voice to the other end of the terrace, and then the music was heard as before, in the pause of the gust.

Suddenly, she thought she heard a noise in her chamber, and she drew herself within the casement;

but, in a moment after, distinguishing Annette’s voice at the door, she concluded it was her she had heard before, and she let her in.

“Move softly, Annette, to the casement,” said she, “and listen with me; the music is returned.

” They were silent till, the measure changing, Annette exclaimed, “Holy Virgin!

I know that song well; it is a French song, one of the favourite songs of my dear country.

” This was the ballad Emily had heard on a former night, though not the one she had first listened to from the fishing-house in Gascony.

“O!

it is a Frenchman, that sings,” said Annette: “it must be Monsieur Valancourt.

” “Hark!

Annette, do not speak so loud,” said Emily, “we may be overheard.

” “What!

by the Chevalier?

” said Annette.

“No,” replied Emily mournfully, “but by somebody, who may report us to the Signor.

What reason have you to think it is Monsieur Valancourt, who sings?

But hark!

now the voice swells louder!

Do you recollect those tones?

I fear to trust my own judgment.

” “I never happened to hear the Chevalier sing, Mademoiselle,” replied Annette, who, as Emily was disappointed to perceive, had no stronger reason for concluding this to be Valancourt, than that the musician must be a Frenchman.

Soon after, she heard the song of the fishing-house, and distinguished her own name, which was repeated so distinctly, that Annette had heard it also.

She trembled, sunk into a chair by the window, and Annette called aloud, “Monsieur Valancourt!

Monsieur Valancourt!

” while Emily endeavoured to check her, but she repeated the call more loudly than before, and the lute and the voice suddenly stopped.

Emily listened, for some time, in a state of intolerable suspense; but, no answer being returned, “It does not signify, Mademoiselle,” said Annette; “it is the Chevalier, and I will speak to him.

” “No, Annette,” said Emily, “I think I will speak myself;

if it is he, he will know my voice, and speak again.

” “Who is it,” said she, “that sings at this late hour?

” A long silence ensued, and, having repeated the question, she perceived some faint accents, mingling in the blast, that swept by; but the sounds were so distant, and passed so suddenly, that she could scarcely hear them, much less distinguish the words they uttered, or recognise the voice.

After another pause, Emily called again; and again they heard a voice, but as faintly as before; and they perceived, that there were other circumstances, besides the strength, and direction of the wind, to content with; for the great depth, at which the casements were fixed in the castle walls, contributed, still more than the distance, to prevent articulated sounds from being understood, though general ones were easily heard.

Emily, however, ventured to believe, from the circumstance of her voice alone having been answered, that the stranger was Valancourt, as well as that he knew her, and she gave herself up to speechless joy.

Annette, however, was not speechless.

She renewed her calls, but received no answer; and Emily, fearing, that a further attempt, which certainly was, as present, highly dangerous, might expose them to the guards of the castle, while it could not perhaps terminate her suspense, insisted on Annette’s dropping the enquiry for this night; though she determined herself to question Ludovico, on the subject, in the morning, more urgently than she had yet done.

She was now enabled to say, that the stranger, whom she had formerly heard, was still in the castle, and to direct Ludovico to that part of it, in which he was confined.

Emily, attended by Annette, continued at the casement, for some time, but all remained still; they heard neither lute nor voice again, and Emily was now as much oppressed by anxious joy, as she lately was by a sense of her misfortunes.

With hasty steps she paced the room, now half calling on Valancourt’s name, then suddenly stopping, and now going to the casement and listening, where, however, she heard nothing but the solemn waving of the woods.

Sometimes her impatience to speak to Ludovico prompted her to send Annette to call him; but a sense of the impropriety of this at midnight restrained her.

Annette, meanwhile, as impatient as her mistress, went as often to the casement to listen, and returned almost as much disappointed.

She, at length, mentioned Signor Verezzi, and her fear, lest he should enter the chamber by the staircase, door.

“But the night is now almost past, Mademoiselle,” said she, recollecting herself; “there is the morning light, beginning to peep over those mountains yonder in the east.

” Emily had forgotten, till this moment, that such a person existed as Verezzi, and all the danger that had appeared to threaten her; but the mention of his name renewed her alarm, and she remembered the old chest, that she had wished to place against the door, which she now, with Annette, attempted to move, but it was so heavy, that they could not lift it from the floor.

“What is in this great old chest, Mademoiselle,” said Annette, “that makes it so weighty?

” Emily having replied, “that she found it in the chamber, when she first came to the castle, and had never examined it.

”—“Then I will, ma’amselle,” said Annette, and she tried to lift the lid; but this was held by a lock, for which she had no key, and which, indeed, appeared, from its peculiar construction, to open with a spring.

The morning now glimmered through the casements, and the wind had sunk into a calm.

Emily looked out upon the dusky woods, and on the twilight mountains, just stealing in the eye, and saw the whole scene, after the storm, lying in profound stillness, the woods motionless, and the clouds above, through which the dawn trembled, scarcely appearing to move along the heavens.

One soldier was pacing the terrace beneath, with measured steps; and two, more distant, were sunk asleep on the walls, wearied with the night’s watch.

Having inhaled, for a while, the pure spirit of the air, and of vegetation, which the late rains had called forth; and having listened, once more, for a note of music, she now closed the casement, and retired to rest.

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 flowers 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 Ludovico could only learn from the soldiers, that there was a prisoner in the apartment, described to him by Emily, and that he was a Frenchman, whom they had taken in one of their skirmishes, with a party of his countrymen.

During this interval, Emily escaped the persecutions of Bertolini, and Verezzi, by confining herself to her apartment; except that sometimes, in an evening, she ventured to walk in the adjoining corridor.

Montoni appeared to respect his last promise, though he had prophaned his first; for to his protection only could she attribute her present repose; and in this she was now so secure, that she did not wish to leave the castle, till she could obtain some certainty concerning Valancourt; for which she waited, indeed, without any sacrifice of her own comfort, since no circumstance had occurred to make her escape probable.

On the fourth day, Ludovico informed her, that he had hopes of being admitted to the presence of the prisoner; it being the turn of a soldier, with whom he had been for some time familiar, to attend him on the following night.

He was not deceived in his hope; for, under pretence of carrying in a pitcher of water, he entered the prison, though, his prudence having prevented him from telling the sentinel the real motive of his visit, he was obliged to make his conference with the prisoner a very short one.

Emily awaited the result in her own apartment, Ludovico having promised to accompany Annette to the corridor, in the evening; where, after several hours impatiently counted, he arrived.

Emily, having then uttered the name of Valancourt, could articulate no more, but hesitated in trembling expectation.

“The Chevalier would not entrust me with his name, Signora,” replied Ludovico; “but, when I just mentioned yours, he seemed overwhelmed with joy, though he was not so much surprised as I expected.

” “Does he then remember me?

” she exclaimed.

“O!

it is Mons.

Valancourt,” said Annette, and looked impatiently at Ludovico, who understood her look, and replied to Emily: “Yes, lady, the Chevalier does, indeed, remember you, and, I am sure, has a very great regard for you, and I made bold to say you had for him.

He then enquired how you came to know he was in the castle, and whether you ordered me to speak to him.

The first question I could not answer, but the second I did; and then he went off into his ecstasies again.

I was afraid his joy would have betrayed him to the sentinel at the door.

” “But how does he look, Ludovico?

” interrupted Emily: “is he not melancholy and ill with this long confinement?

”—“Why, as to melancholy, I saw no symptom of that, lady, while I was with him, for he seemed in the finest spirits I ever saw anybody in, in all my life.

His countenance was all joy, and, if one may judge from that, he was very well; but I did not ask him.

” “Did he send me no message?

” said Emily.

“O yes, Signora, and something besides,” replied Ludovico, who searched his pockets.

“Surely, I have not lost it,” added he.

“The Chevalier said, he would have written, madam, if he had had pen and ink, and was going to have sent a very long message, when the sentinel entered the room, but not before he had give me this.

” Ludovico then drew forth a miniature from his bosom, which Emily received with a trembling hand, and perceived to be a portrait of herself—the very picture, which her mother had lost so strangely in the fishing-house at La Vallée. Tears of mingled joy and tenderness flowed to her eyes, while Ludovico proceeded—“‘Tell your lady,’ said the Chevalier, as he gave me the picture, ‘that this has been my companion, and only solace in all my misfortunes.

Tell her, that I have worn it next my heart, and that I sent it her as the pledge of an affection, which can never die; that I would not part with it, but to her, for the wealth of worlds, and that I now 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 Chevalier said no more; but he had before asked me to contrive an interview for him with you; and when I told him, how little hope I had of prevailing with the guard to assist me, he said, that was not, perhaps, of so much consequence as I imagined, and bade me contrive to bring back your answer, and he would inform me of more than he chose to do then.

So this, 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 Chevalier again?

” “That is uncertain, Signora,” replied he.

“It depends upon who stands guard next: there are not more than one or two among them, from whom I would dare to ask admittance to the prison-chamber.

” “I need not bid you remember, Ludovico,” resumed Emily, “how very much interested 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 he wished.

Tell him I have suffered much, and still suffer—” She paused.

“But shall I tell him you will see him, lady?

” said Ludovico.

“Most certainly I will,” replied Emily.

“But when, Signora, and where?

” “That must depend upon circumstances,” returned Emily.

“The place, and the hour, must be regulated by his opportunities.

” “As to the place, mademoiselle,” said Annette, “there is no other place in 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 are asleep, if that ever happens!

” “You may mention these circumstances to the Chevalier, Ludovico,” said she, checking the flippancy of Annette, “and leave them to his judgment and opportunity.

Tell him, my heart is unchanged.

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 anxiously look for you.

” Having then wished her good night, Ludovico descended the staircase, and Emily retired to rest, but not to sleep, for joy now rendered her as wakeful, as she had ever been from grief.

Montoni and his castle had all vanished from her mind, like the frightful vision of a necromancer, and she wandered, once more, in fairy scenes of unfading happiness: 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 the sentinels, during that period, were men, in whom he could not confide, and he feared to awaken curiosity, by asking to see their prisoner.

In this interval, he communicated to Emily terrific reports of what was passing in the castle; of riots, quarrels, and of carousals more alarming than either; while from some circumstances, which he mentioned, she not only doubted, whether Montoni meant ever to release her, but greatly feared, that he had designs, concerning her,—such as she had formerly dreaded.

Her name was frequently mentioned in the conversations, which Bertolini and Verezzi held together, and, at those times, they were frequently in contention.

Montoni had lost large sums to Verezzi, so that there was a dreadful possibility of his designing her to be a substitute for the debt; but, as she was ignorant, that he had formerly encouraged the hopes of Bertolini also, concerning herself, after the latter had done him some signal service, she knew not how to account for these contentions between Bertolini and Verezzi.

The cause of them, however, appeared to be of little consequence, for she thought she saw destruction approaching in many forms, and her entreaties to Ludovico to contrive an escape and to see the prisoner again, were more urgent than ever.

At length, he informed her, that he had again visited the Chevalier, who had directed him to confide in the guard of the prison, from whom he had already received some instances of kindness, and who had promised to permit 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 he runs no risk in letting the Chevalier out, for, if he can get beyond the bars and iron doors of the castle, he must be cunning indeed.

But the Chevalier desired me, Signora, to go to you immediately, and to beg you would allow him to visit you, this night, if it was only for a moment, for that he could no longer live under the same roof, without seeing you; the hour, he said, he could not mention, for it must depend on circumstances (just as you said, Signora); and the place he desired you would appoint, as knowing which was best for your own safety.

” Emily was now so much agitated by the near prospect of meeting Valancourt, that it was some time, before she could give any answer to Ludovico, or consider of the place of meeting; when she did, she saw none, that promised so much security, as the corridor, near her own apartment, which she was checked from leaving, by the apprehension of meeting any of Montoni’s guests, on their way to their rooms; and she dismissed the scruples, which delicacy opposed, now that a serious danger was to be avoided by encountering them.

It was settled, therefore, that the Chevalier should meet her in the corridor, at that hour of the night, which Ludovico, who was to be upon the watch, should judge safest: and Emily, as may be imagined, passed this interval in a tumult of hope and joy, anxiety and impatience.

Never, since her residence in the castle, had she watched, with so much pleasure, the sun set behind the mountains, and twilight shade, and darkness veil the scene, as on this evening.

She counted the notes of the great clock, and listened 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 I thought 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, not sink beneath this joy!

” These were moments, when it was impossible for her to feel emotions of regret, or melancholy, for any ordinary interests;—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 of Valancourt, and that she should see him so soon, alone occupied her heart.

At length the clock struck twelve; she opened the door to listen, if any noise was in the castle, and heard only distant shouts of riot and laughter, echoed feebly along the gallery.

She guessed, that the Signor and his guests were at the banquet.

“They are now engaged for the night,” said she; “and Valancourt will soon be here.

” Having softly closed the door, she paced the room with impatient steps, and often went to the casement to listen for the lute; but all was silent, and, her agitation every moment increasing, she was at length unable to support herself, and sat down by the window.

Annette, whom she detained, was, in the meantime, as loquacious as usual; but Emily heard scarcely anything she said, and having at length risen to the casement, she distinguished the chords of the lute, struck with an expressive hand, and then the voice, 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 a 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 the prison.

Soon after, she heard steps in the corridor;—they were the light, quick steps of hope; she could scarcely support herself, as they approached, but opening the door of the apartment, she advanced to meet Valancourt, and, in the next moment, sunk in the arms of a stranger.

His voice—his countenance instantly convinced her, and she fainted away.

On reviving, she found herself supported by the stranger, who was watching over her recovery, with a countenance of ineffable tenderness and anxiety.

She had no spirits for reply, or enquiry; she asked no questions, but burst into tears, and disengaged herself from his arms;

when the expression of his countenance changed to surprise and disappointment, and he turned to Ludovico, for an explanation; Annette soon gave the information, which Ludovico could not.

“O, sir!

” said she, in a voice, interrupted with sobs; “O, sir!

you are not the other Chevalier.

We expected Monsieur Valancourt, but you are not he!

O

Ludovico!

how could you deceive us so?

my poor lady will never recover it—never!

” The stranger, who now appeared much agitated, attempted to speak, but his words faltered; and then striking his hand against his forehead, as if in sudden despair, he walked abruptly to the other end of the corridor.

Suddenly, Annette dried her tears, and spoke to Ludovico.

“But, perhaps,” said she, “after all, the other Chevalier is not this: perhaps the Chevalier Valancourt is still below.

” Emily raised her head.

“No,” replied Ludovico, “Monsieur Valancourt never was below, if this gentleman is not he.

” “If you, sir,” said Ludovico, addressing the stranger, “would but have had the goodness to trust me with your name, this mistake had been avoided.