THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO

A Romance

Interspersed With Some Pieces of Poetry

By Ann Radcliffe

 Fate sits on these dark battlements, and frowns, And, as the portals open to receive me, Her voice, in sullen echoes through the courts, Tells of a nameless deed. 

VOLUME 1

CHAPTER I

 home is the resort Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where, Supporting and supported, polish'd friends And dear relations mingle into bliss. * *Thomson

On the pleasant banks of the Garonne, in the province of Gascony, stood, in the year 1584, the chateau of Monsieur St. Aubert. From its windowswere seen the pastoral landscapes of Guienne and Gascony stretchingalong the river, gay with luxuriant woods and vine, and plantations ofolives. To the south, the view was bounded by the majestic Pyrenees, whose summits, veiled in clouds, or exhibiting awful forms, seen, andlost again, as the partial vapours rolled along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and sometimes frownedwith forests of gloomy pine, that swept downward to their base. Thesetremendous precipices were contrasted by the soft green of the pasturesand woods that hung upon their skirts; among whose flocks, and herds, and simple cottages, the eye, after having scaled the cliffs above, delighted to repose. To the north, and to the east, the plains ofGuienne and Languedoc were lost in the mist of distance; on the west, Gascony was bounded by the waters of Biscay. 

M. St. Aubert loved to wander, with his wife and daughter, on the marginof the Garonne, and to listen to the music that floated on its waves. Hehad known life in other forms than those of pastoral simplicity, having mingled in the gay and in the busy scenes of the world; but theflattering portrait of mankind, which his heart had delineated in earlyyouth, his experience had too sorrowfully corrected. Yet, amidstthe changing visions of life, his principles remained unshaken, hisbenevolence unchilled; and he retired from the multitude 'more in PITYthan in anger, ' to scenes of simple nature, to the pure delights ofliterature, and to the exercise of domestic virtues. 

He was a descendant from the younger branch of an illustrious family, and it was designed, that the deficiency of his patrimonial wealthshould be supplied either by a splendid alliance in marriage, or bysuccess in the intrigues of public affairs. But St. Aubert had too nicea sense of honour to fulfil the latter hope, and too small a portionof ambition to sacrifice what he called happiness, to the attainment ofwealth. After the death of his father he married a very amiable woman, his equal in birth, and not his superior in fortune. The late MonsieurSt. Aubert's liberality, or extravagance, had so much involved hisaffairs, that his son found it necessary to dispose of a part ofthe family domain, and, some years after his marriage, he sold it toMonsieur Quesnel, the brother of his wife, and retired to a small estatein Gascony, where conjugal felicity, and parental duties, divided hisattention with the treasures of knowledge and the illuminations ofgenius. 

To this spot he had been attached from his infancy. He had often madeexcursions to it when a boy, and the impressions of delight given to hismind by the homely kindness of the grey-headed peasant, to whom itwas intrusted, and whose fruit and cream never failed, had not beenobliterated by succeeding circumstances. The green pastures alongwhich he had so often bounded in the exultation of health, and youthfulfreedom--the woods, under whose refreshing shade he had first indulgedthat pensive melancholy, which afterwards made a strong feature of hischaracter--the wild walks of the mountains, the river, on whose waves hehad floated, and the distant plains, which seemed boundless as his earlyhopes--were never after remembered by St. Aubert but with enthusiasmand regret. At length he disengaged himself from the world, and retiredhither, to realize the wishes of many years. 

The building, as it then stood, was merely a summer cottage, renderedinteresting to a stranger by its neat simplicity, or the beauty of thesurrounding scene; and considerable additions were necessary to make ita comfortable family residence. St. Aubert felt a kind of affection forevery part of the fabric, which he remembered in his youth, and wouldnot suffer a stone of it to be removed, so that the new building, adapted to the style of the old one, formed with it only a simple andelegant residence. The taste of Madame St. Aubert was conspicuous in itsinternal finishing, where the same chaste simplicity was observablein the furniture, and in the few ornaments of the apartments, thatcharacterized the manners of its inhabitants. 

The library occupied the west side of the chateau, and was enriched bya collection of the best books in the ancient and modern languages. Thisroom opened upon a grove, which stood on the brow of a gentle declivity, that fell towards the river, and the tall trees gave it a melancholyand pleasing shade; while from the windows the eye caught, beneath thespreading branches, the gay and luxuriant landscape stretching to thewest, and overlooked on the left by the bold precipices of the Pyrenees. Adjoining the library was a green-house, stored with scarce andbeautiful plants; for one of the amusements of St. Aubert was thestudy of botany, and among the neighbouring mountains, which afforded aluxurious feast to the mind of the naturalist, he often passed the dayin the pursuit of his favourite science. He was sometimes accompaniedin these little excursions by Madame St. Aubert, and frequently by hisdaughter; when, with a small osier basket to receive plants, and anotherfilled with cold refreshments, such as the cabin of the shepherd didnot afford, they wandered away among the most romantic and magnificentscenes, nor suffered the charms of Nature's lowly children to abstractthem from the observance of her stupendous works. When weary ofsauntering among cliffs that seemed scarcely accessible but to the stepsof the enthusiast, and where no track appeared on the vegetation, butwhat the foot of the izard had left; they would seek one of those greenrecesses, which so beautifully adorn the bosom of these mountains, where, under the shade of the lofty larch, or cedar, they enjoyed theirsimple repast, made sweeter by the waters of the cool stream, that creptalong the turf, and by the breath of wild flowers and aromatic plants, that fringed the rocks, and inlaid the grass. 

Adjoining the eastern side of the green-house, looking towards theplains of Languedoc, was a room, which Emily called hers, and whichcontained her books, her drawings, her musical instruments, with somefavourite birds and plants. Here she usually exercised herself inelegant arts, cultivated only because they were congenial to her taste, and in which native genius, assisted by the instructions of Monsieurand Madame St. Aubert, made her an early proficient. The windows ofthis room were particularly pleasant; they descended to the floor, and, opening upon the little lawn that surrounded the house, the eye was ledbetween groves of almond, palm-trees, flowering-ash, and myrtle, to thedistant landscape, where the Garonne wandered. 

The peasants of this gay climate were often seen on an evening, whenthe day's labour was done, dancing in groups on the margin of the river. Their sprightly melodies, debonnaire steps, the fanciful figure oftheir dances, with the tasteful and capricious manner in which the girlsadjusted their simple dress, gave a character to the scene entirelyFrench. 

The front of the chateau, which, having a southern aspect, opened uponthe grandeur of the mountains, was occupied on the ground floor by arustic hall, and two excellent sitting rooms. The first floor, for thecottage had no second story, was laid out in bed-chambers, except oneapartment that opened to a balcony, and which was generally used for abreakfast-room. 

In the surrounding ground, St. Aubert had made very tastefulimprovements; yet, such was his attachment to objects he had rememberedfrom his boyish days, that he had in some instances sacrificed tasteto sentiment. There were two old larches that shaded the building, andinterrupted the prospect; St. Aubert had sometimes declared that hebelieved he should have been weak enough to have wept at their fall. Inaddition to these larches he planted a little grove of beech, pine, andmountain-ash. On a lofty terrace, formed by the swelling bank of theriver, rose a plantation of orange, lemon, and palm-trees, whose fruit, in the coolness of evening, breathed delicious fragrance. With thesewere mingled a few trees of other species. Here, under the ample shadeof a plane-tree, that spread its majestic canopy towards the river, St. Aubert loved to sit in the fine evenings of summer, with his wife andchildren, watching, beneath its foliage, the setting sun, the mildsplendour of its light fading from the distant landscape, till theshadows of twilight melted its various features into one tint of sobergrey. Here, too, he loved to read, and to converse with Madame St. Aubert; or to play with his children, resigning himself to the influenceof those sweet affections, which are ever attendant on simplicity andnature. He has often said, while tears of pleasure trembled in his eyes, that these were moments infinitely more delightful than any passed amidthe brilliant and tumultuous scenes that are courted by the world. Hisheart was occupied; it had, what can be so rarely said, no wish for ahappiness beyond what it experienced. The consciousness of acting rightdiffused a serenity over his manners, which nothing else could impartto a man of moral perceptions like his, and which refined his sense ofevery surrounding blessing. 

The deepest shade of twilight did not send him from his favouriteplane-tree. He loved the soothing hour, when the last tints of lightdie away; when the stars, one by one, tremble through aether, and arereflected on the dark mirror of the waters; that hour, which, of allothers, inspires the mind with pensive tenderness, and often elevatesit to sublime contemplation. When the moon shed her soft rays among thefoliage, he still lingered, and his pastoral supper of cream and fruitswas often spread beneath it. Then, on the stillness of night, came thesong of the nightingale, breathing sweetness, and awakening melancholy. 

The first interruptions to the happiness he had known since hisretirement, were occasioned by the death of his two sons. He lost themat that age when infantine simplicity is so fascinating; and though, in consideration of Madame St. Aubert's distress, he restrained theexpression of his own, and endeavoured to bear it, as he meant, withphilosophy, he had, in truth, no philosophy that could render him calmto such losses. One daughter was now his only surviving child; and, while he watched the unfolding of her infant character, with anxiousfondness, he endeavoured, with unremitting effort, to counteractthose traits in her disposition, which might hereafter lead her fromhappiness. She had discovered in her early years uncommon delicacyof mind, warm affections, and ready benevolence; but with these wasobservable a degree of susceptibility too exquisite to admit of lastingpeace. As she advanced in youth, this sensibility gave a pensive tone toher spirits, and a softness to her manner, which added grace to beauty, and rendered her a very interesting object to persons of a congenialdisposition. But St. Aubert had too much good sense to prefer a charmto a virtue; and had penetration enough to see, that this charm was toodangerous to its possessor to be allowed the character of a blessing. Heendeavoured, therefore, to strengthen her mind; to enure her to habitsof self-command; to teach her to reject the first impulse of herfeelings, and to look, with cool examination, upon the disappointmentshe sometimes threw in her way. While he instructed her to resist firstimpressions, and to acquire that steady dignity of mind, that can alonecounterbalance the passions, and bear us, as far as is compatible withour nature, above the reach of circumstances, he taught himself alesson of fortitude; for he was often obliged to witness, with seemingindifference, the tears and struggles which his caution occasioned her. 

In person, Emily resembled her mother; having the same elegant symmetryof form, the same delicacy of features, and the same blue eyes, fullof tender sweetness. But, lovely as was her person, it was the variedexpression of her countenance, as conversation awakened the niceremotions of her mind, that threw such a captivating grace around her:

 Those tend'rer tints, that shun the careless eye, And, in the world's contagious circle, die. 

St. Aubert cultivated her understanding with the most scrupulous care. He gave her a general view of the sciences, and an exact acquaintancewith every part of elegant literature. He taught her Latin and English, chiefly that she might understand the sublimity of their best poets. Shediscovered in her early years a taste for works of genius; and it wasSt. Aubert's principle, as well as his inclination, to promote everyinnocent means of happiness. 'A well-informed mind, ' he would say, 'isthe best security against the contagion of folly and of vice. The vacantmind is ever on the watch for relief, and ready to plunge into error, toescape from the languor of idleness. Store it with ideas, teach it thepleasure of thinking; and the temptations of the world without, willbe counteracted by the gratifications derived from the world within. Thought, and cultivation, are necessary equally to the happiness of acountry and a city life; in the first they prevent the uneasy sensationsof indolence, and afford a sublime pleasure in the taste they create forthe beautiful, and the grand; in the latter, they make dissipation lessan object of necessity, and consequently of interest. '

It was one of Emily's earliest pleasures to ramble among the scenesof nature; nor was it in the soft and glowing landscape that shemost delighted; she loved more the wild wood-walks, that skirted themountain; and still more the mountain's stupendous recesses, where thesilence and grandeur of solitude impressed a sacred awe upon her heart, and lifted her thoughts to the GOD OF HEAVEN AND EARTH. In scenes likethese she would often linger along, wrapt in a melancholy charm, tillthe last gleam of day faded from the west; till the lonely sound of asheep-bell, or the distant bark of a watch-dog, were all that brokeon the stillness of the evening. Then, the gloom of the woods; thetrembling of their leaves, at intervals, in the breeze; the bat, flitting on the twilight; the cottage-lights, now seen, and nowlost--were circumstances that awakened her mind into effort, and led toenthusiasm and poetry. 

Her favourite walk was to a little fishing-house, belonging to St. Aubert, in a woody glen, on the margin of a rivulet that descended fromthe Pyrenees, and, after foaming among their rocks, wound its silentway beneath the shades it reflected. Above the woods, that screened thisglen, rose the lofty summits of the Pyrenees, which often burst boldlyon the eye through the glades below. Sometimes the shattered face ofa rock only was seen, crowned with wild shrubs; or a shepherd's cabinseated on a cliff, overshadowed by dark cypress, or waving ash. Emergingfrom the deep recesses of the woods, the glade opened to the distantlandscape, where the rich pastures and vine-covered slopes of Gasconygradually declined to the plains; and there, on the winding shores ofthe Garonne, groves, and hamlets, and villas--their outlines softened bydistance, melted from the eye into one rich harmonious tint. 

This, too, was the favourite retreat of St. Aubert, to which hefrequently withdrew from the fervour of noon, with his wife, hisdaughter, and his books; or came at the sweet evening hour to welcomethe silent dusk, or to listen for the music of the nightingale. Sometimes, too, he brought music of his own, and awakened every fairyecho with the tender accents of his oboe; and often have the tones ofEmily's voice drawn sweetness from the waves, over which they trembled. 

It was in one of these excursions to this spot, that she observed thefollowing lines written with a pencil on a part of the wainscot:

 SONNET

 Go, pencil! faithful to thy master's sighs! Go--tell the Goddess of the fairy scene, When next her light steps wind these wood-walks green, Whence all his tears, his tender sorrows, rise; Ah! paint her form, her soul-illumin'd eyes, The sweet expression of her pensive face, The light'ning smile, the animated grace-- The portrait well the lover's voice supplies; Speaks all his heart must feel, his tongue would say: Yet ah! not all his heart must sadly feel! How oft the flow'ret's silken leaves conceal The drug that steals the vital spark away! And who that gazes on that angel-smile, Would fear its charm, or think it could beguile!

These lines were not inscribed to any person; Emily therefore could notapply them to herself, though she was undoubtedly the nymph of theseshades. Having glanced round the little circle of her acquaintancewithout being detained by a suspicion as to whom they could beaddressed, she was compelled to rest in uncertainty; an uncertaintywhich would have been more painful to an idle mind than it was to hers. She had no leisure to suffer this circumstance, trifling at first, toswell into importance by frequent remembrance. The little vanity it hadexcited (for the incertitude which forbade her to presume upon havinginspired the sonnet, forbade her also to disbelieve it) passed away, and the incident was dismissed from her thoughts amid her books, herstudies, and the exercise of social charities. 

Soon after this period, her anxiety was awakened by the indisposition ofher father, who was attacked with a fever; which, though not thought tobe of a dangerous kind, gave a severe shock to his constitution. Madame St. Aubert and Emily attended him with unremitting care; buthis recovery was very slow, and, as he advanced towards health, Madameseemed to decline. 

The first scene he visited, after he was well enough to take theair, was his favourite fishing-house. A basket of provisions was sentthither, with books, and Emily's lute; for fishing-tackle he had no use, for he never could find amusement in torturing or destroying. 

After employing himself, for about an hour, in botanizing, dinner wasserved. It was a repast, to which gratitude, for being again permittedto visit this spot, gave sweetness; and family happiness once moresmiled beneath these shades. Monsieur St. Aubert conversed with unusualcheerfulness; every object delighted his senses. The refreshing pleasurefrom the first view of nature, after the pain of illness, and theconfinement of a sick-chamber, is above the conceptions, as well asthe descriptions, of those in health. The green woods and pastures; theflowery turf; the blue concave of the heavens; the balmy air; the murmurof the limpid stream; and even the hum of every little insect of theshade, seem to revivify the soul, and make mere existence bliss. 

Madame St. Aubert, reanimated by the cheerfulness and recovery of herhusband, was no longer sensible of the indisposition which had latelyoppressed her; and, as she sauntered along the wood-walks of thisromantic glen, and conversed with him, and with her daughter, she oftenlooked at them alternately with a degree of tenderness, that filled hereyes with tears. St. Aubert observed this more than once, and gentlyreproved her for the emotion; but she could only smile, clasp his hand, and that of Emily, and weep the more. He felt the tender enthusiasmstealing upon himself in a degree that became almost painful; hisfeatures assumed a serious air, and he could not forbear secretlysighing--'Perhaps I shall some time look back to these moments, as tothe summit of my happiness, with hopeless regret. But let me not misusethem by useless anticipation; let me hope I shall not live to mourn theloss of those who are dearer to me than life. '

To relieve, or perhaps to indulge, the pensive temper of his mind, hebade Emily fetch the lute she knew how to touch with such sweet pathos. As she drew near the fishing-house, she was surprised to hear the tonesof the instrument, which were awakened by the hand of taste, and uttereda plaintive air, whose exquisite melody engaged all her attention. Shelistened in profound silence, afraid to move from the spot, lest thesound of her steps should occasion her to lose a note of the music, orshould disturb the musician. Every thing without the building was still, and no person appeared. She continued to listen, till timidity succeededto surprise and delight; a timidity, increased by a remembrance of thepencilled lines she had formerly seen, and she hesitated whether toproceed, or to return. 

While she paused, the music ceased; and, after a momentary hesitation, she re-collected courage to advance to the fishing-house, which sheentered with faltering steps, and found unoccupied! Her lute lay on thetable; every thing seemed undisturbed, and she began to believe it wasanother instrument she had heard, till she remembered, that, when shefollowed M. And Madame St. Aubert from this spot, her lute was left ona window seat. She felt alarmed, yet knew not wherefore; the melancholygloom of evening, and the profound stillness of the place, interruptedonly by the light trembling of leaves, heightened her fancifulapprehensions, and she was desirous of quitting the building, butperceived herself grow faint, and sat down. As she tried to recoverherself, the pencilled lines on the wainscot met her eye; she started, as if she had seen a stranger; but, endeavouring to conquer the tremorof her spirits, rose, and went to the window. To the lines beforenoticed she now perceived that others were added, in which her nameappeared. 

Though no longer suffered to doubt that they were addressed to herself, she was as ignorant, as before, by whom they could be written. While shemused, she thought she heard the sound of a step without the building, and again alarmed, she caught up her lute, and hurried away. Monsieurand Madame St. Aubert she found in a little path that wound along thesides of the glen. 

Having reached a green summit, shadowed by palm-trees, and overlookingthe vallies and plains of Gascony, they seated themselves on the turf;and while their eyes wandered over the glorious scene, and they inhaledthe sweet breath of flowers and herbs that enriched the grass, Emilyplayed and sung several of their favourite airs, with the delicacy ofexpression in which she so much excelled. 

Music and conversation detained them in this enchanting spot, till thesun's last light slept upon the plains; till the white sails that glidedbeneath the mountains, where the Garonne wandered, became dim, and thegloom of evening stole over the landscape. It was a melancholy but notunpleasing gloom. St. Aubert and his family rose, and left the placewith regret; alas! Madame St. Aubert knew not that she left it for ever. 

When they reached the fishing-house she missed her bracelet, andrecollected that she had taken it from her arm after dinner, and hadleft it on the table when she went to walk. After a long search, inwhich Emily was very active, she was compelled to resign herself to theloss of it. What made this bracelet valuable to her was a miniature ofher daughter to which it was attached, esteemed a striking resemblance, and which had been painted only a few months before. When Emily wasconvinced that the bracelet was really gone, she blushed, and becamethoughtful. That some stranger had been in the fishing-house, duringher absence, her lute, and the additional lines of a pencil, had alreadyinformed her: from the purport of these lines it was not unreasonableto believe, that the poet, the musician, and the thief were the sameperson. But though the music she had heard, the written lines she hadseen, and the disappearance of the picture, formed a combination ofcircumstances very remarkable, she was irresistibly restrained frommentioning them; secretly determining, however, never again to visit thefishing-house without Monsieur or Madame St. Aubert. 

They returned pensively to the chateau, Emily musing on the incidentwhich had just occurred; St. Aubert reflecting, with placid gratitude, on the blessings he possessed; and Madame St. Aubert somewhat disturbed, and perplexed, by the loss of her daughter's picture. As they drew nearthe house, they observed an unusual bustle about it; the sound of voiceswas distinctly heard, servants and horses were seen passing between thetrees, and, at length, the wheels of a carriage rolled along. Havingcome within view of the front of the chateau, a landau, with smokinghorses, appeared on the little lawn before it. St. Aubert perceived theliveries of his brother-in-law, and in the parlour he found Monsieur andMadame Quesnel already entered. They had left Paris some days before, and were on the way to their estate, only ten leagues distant from LaVallee, and which Monsieur Quesnel had purchased several years beforeof St. Aubert. This gentleman was the only brother of Madame St. Aubert; but the ties of relationship having never been strengthened bycongeniality of character, the intercourse between them had not beenfrequent. M. Quesnel had lived altogether in the world; his aim had beenconsequence; splendour was the object of his taste; and his addressand knowledge of character had carried him forward to the attainment ofalmost all that he had courted. By a man of such a disposition, it isnot surprising that the virtues of St. Aubert should be overlooked; orthat his pure taste, simplicity, and moderated wishes, were consideredas marks of a weak intellect, and of confined views. The marriage of hissister with St. Aubert had been mortifying to his ambition, for he haddesigned that the matrimonial connection she formed should assist himto attain the consequence which he so much desired; and some offers weremade her by persons whose rank and fortune flattered his warmest hope. But his sister, who was then addressed also by St. Aubert, perceived, orthought she perceived, that happiness and splendour were not the same, and she did not hesitate to forego the last for the attainment of theformer. Whether Monsieur Quesnel thought them the same, or not, he wouldreadily have sacrificed his sister's peace to the gratification of hisown ambition; and, on her marriage with St. Aubert, expressed in privatehis contempt of her spiritless conduct, and of the connection which itpermitted. Madame St. Aubert, though she concealed this insult from herhusband, felt, perhaps, for the first time, resentment lighted inher heart; and, though a regard for her own dignity, united withconsiderations of prudence, restrained her expression of thisresentment, there was ever after a mild reserve in her manner towards M. Quesnel, which he both understood and felt. 

In his own marriage he did not follow his sister's example. His lady wasan Italian, and an heiress by birth; and, by nature and education, was avain and frivolous woman. 

They now determined to pass the night with St. Aubert; and as thechateau was not large enough to accommodate their servants, the latterwere dismissed to the neighbouring village. When the first complimentswere over, and the arrangements for the night made M. Quesnel began thedisplay of his intelligence and his connections; while St. Aubert, whohad been long enough in retirement to find these topics recommended bytheir novelty, listened, with a degree of patience and attention, which his guest mistook for the humility of wonder. The latter, indeed, described the few festivities which the turbulence of that periodpermitted to the court of Henry the Third, with a minuteness, thatsomewhat recompensed for his ostentation; but, when he came to speak ofthe character of the Duke de Joyeuse, of a secret treaty, which he knewto be negotiating with the Porte, and of the light in which Henry ofNavarre was received, M. St. Aubert recollected enough of his formerexperience to be assured, that his guest could be only of an inferiorclass of politicians; and that, from the importance of the subjectsupon which he committed himself, he could not be of the rank to which hepretended to belong. The opinions delivered by M. Quesnel, were such asSt. Aubert forebore to reply to, for he knew that his guest had neitherhumanity to feel, nor discernment to perceive, what is just. 

Madame Quesnel, meanwhile, was expressing to Madame St. Aubert herastonishment, that she could bear to pass her life in this remote cornerof the world, as she called it, and describing, from a wish, probably, of exciting envy, the splendour of the balls, banquets, and processionswhich had just been given by the court, in honour of the nuptials of theDuke de Joyeuse with Margaretta of Lorrain, the sister of the Queen. Shedescribed with equal minuteness the magnificence she had seen, and thatfrom which she had been excluded; while Emily's vivid fancy, as shelistened with the ardent curiosity of youth, heightened the scenes sheheard of; and Madame St. Aubert, looking on her family, felt, as a tearstole to her eye, that though splendour may grace happiness, virtue onlycan bestow it. 

'It is now twelve years, St. Aubert, ' said M. Quesnel, 'since Ipurchased your family estate. '--'Somewhere thereabout, ' replied St. Aubert, suppressing a sigh. 'It is near five years since I have beenthere, ' resumed Quesnel; 'for Paris and its neighbourhood is the onlyplace in the world to live in, and I am so immersed in politics, andhave so many affairs of moment on my hands, that I find it difficultto steal away even for a month or two. ' St. Aubert remaining silent, M. Quesnel proceeded: 'I have sometimes wondered how you, who have livedin the capital, and have been accustomed to company, can existelsewhere;--especially in so remote a country as this, where you canneither hear nor see any thing, and can in short be scarcely consciousof life. '

'I live for my family and myself, ' said St. Aubert; 'I am now contentedto know only happiness;--formerly I knew life. '

'I mean to expend thirty or forty thousand livres on improvements, ' saidM. Quesnel, without seeming to notice the words of St. Aubert; 'for Idesign, next summer, to bring here my friends, the Duke de Durefort andthe Marquis Ramont, to pass a month or two with me. ' To St. Aubert'senquiry, as to these intended improvements, he replied, that he shouldtake down the whole east wing of the chateau, and raise upon the sitea set of stables. 'Then I shall build, ' said he, 'a SALLE A MANGER, aSALON, a SALLE AU COMMUNE, and a number of rooms for servants; for atpresent there is not accommodation for a third part of my own people. '

'It accommodated our father's household, ' said St. Aubert, grieved thatthe old mansion was to be thus improved, 'and that was not a small one. '

'Our notions are somewhat enlarged since those days, ' said M. Quesnel;--'what was then thought a decent style of living would not nowbe endured. ' Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words, buthis anger soon yielded to contempt. 'The ground about the chateau isencumbered with trees; I mean to cut some of them down. '

'Cut down the trees too!' said St. Aubert. 

'Certainly. Why should I not? they interrupt my prospects. There is achesnut which spreads its branches before the whole south side of thechateau, and which is so ancient that they tell me the hollow of itstrunk will hold a dozen men. Your enthusiasm will scarcely contend thatthere can be either use, or beauty, in such a sapless old tree as this. '

'Good God!' exclaimed St. Aubert, 'you surely will not destroy thatnoble chesnut, which has flourished for centuries, the glory of theestate! It was in its maturity when the present mansion was built. Howoften, in my youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and satembowered amidst a world of leaves, while the heavy shower has patteredabove, and not a rain drop reached me! How often I have sat with a bookin my hand, sometimes reading, and sometimes looking out between thebranches upon the wide landscape, and the setting sun, till twilightcame, and brought the birds home to their little nests among the leaves!How often--but pardon me, ' added St. Aubert, recollecting that he wasspeaking to a man who could neither comprehend, nor allow his feelings, 'I am talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned as the taste thatwould spare that venerable tree. '

'It will certainly come down, ' said M. Quesnel; 'I believe I shall plantsome Lombardy poplars among the clumps of chesnut, that I shall leaveof the avenue; Madame Quesnel is partial to the poplar, and tells me howmuch it adorns a villa of her uncle, not far from Venice. '

'On the banks of the Brenta, indeed, ' continued St. Aubert, 'where itsspiry form is intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and whereit plays over light and elegant porticos and colonnades, it, unquestionably, adorns the scene; but among the giants of the forest, and near a heavy gothic mansion--'

'Well, my good sir, ' said M. Quesnel, 'I will not dispute with you. Youmust return to Paris before our ideas can at all agree. But A-PROPOS ofVenice, I have some thoughts of going thither, next summer; events maycall me to take possession of that same villa, too, which they tell meis the most charming that can be imagined. In that case I shall leavethe improvements I mention to another year, and I may, perhaps, betempted to stay some time in Italy. '

Emily was somewhat surprised to hear him talk of being tempted to remainabroad, after he had mentioned his presence to be so necessary at Paris, that it was with difficulty he could steal away for a month or two; butSt. Aubert understood the self-importance of the man too well to wonderat this trait; and the possibility, that these projected improvementsmight be deferred, gave him a hope, that they might never take place. 

Before they separated for the night, M. Quesnel desired to speak withSt. Aubert alone, and they retired to another room, where they remaineda considerable time. The subject of this conversation was not known;but, whatever it might be, St. Aubert, when he returned to thesupper-room, seemed much disturbed, and a shade of sorrow sometimes fellupon his features that alarmed Madame St. Aubert. When they were aloneshe was tempted to enquire the occasion of it, but the delicacy of mind, which had ever appeared in his conduct, restrained her: she consideredthat, if St. Aubert wished her to be acquainted with the subject of hisconcern, he would not wait on her enquiries. 

On the following day, before M. Quesnel departed, he had a secondconference with St. Aubert. 

The guests, after dining at the chateau, set out in the cool of the dayfor Epourville, whither they gave him and Madame St. Aubert a pressinginvitation, prompted rather by the vanity of displaying their splendour, than by a wish to make their friends happy. 

Emily returned, with delight, to the liberty which their presence hadrestrained, to her books, her walks, and the rational conversation ofM. And Madame St. Aubert, who seemed to rejoice, no less, that they weredelivered from the shackles, which arrogance and frivolity had imposed. 

Madame St. Aubert excused herself from sharing their usual evening walk, complaining that she was not quite well, and St. Aubert and Emily wentout together. 

They chose a walk towards the mountains, intending to visit some oldpensioners of St. Aubert, which, from his very moderate income, hecontrived to support, though it is probable M. Quesnel, with his verylarge one, could not have afforded this. 

After distributing to his pensioners their weekly stipends, listeningpatiently to the complaints of some, redressing the grievances ofothers, and softening the discontents of all, by the look of sympathy, and the smile of benevolence, St. Aubert returned home through thewoods, where At fall of eve the fairy-people throng, In various games and revelry to pass The summer night, as village stories tell. * *Thomson

'The evening gloom of woods was always delightful to me, ' said St. Aubert, whose mind now experienced the sweet calm, which results fromthe consciousness of having done a beneficent action, and which disposesit to receive pleasure from every surrounding object. 'I remember thatin my youth this gloom used to call forth to my fancy a thousand fairyvisions, and romantic images; and, I own, I am not yet wholly insensibleof that high enthusiasm, which wakes the poet's dream: I can linger, with solemn steps, under the deep shades, send forward a transformingeye into the distant obscurity, and listen with thrilling delight to themystic murmuring of the woods. '

'O my dear father, ' said Emily, while a sudden tear started to her eye, 'how exactly you describe what I have felt so often, and which I thoughtnobody had ever felt but myself! But hark! here comes the sweeping soundover the wood-tops;--now it dies away;--how solemn the stillness thatsucceeds! Now the breeze swells again. It is like the voice of somesupernatural being--the voice of the spirit of the woods, that watchesover them by night. Ah! what light is yonder? But it is gone. And now itgleams again, near the root of that large chestnut: look, sir!'

'Are you such an admirer of nature, ' said St. Aubert, 'and so littleacquainted with her appearances as not to know that for the glow-worm?But come, ' added he gaily, 'step a little further, and we shall seefairies, perhaps; they are often companions. The glow-worm lends hislight, and they in return charm him with music, and the dance. Do yousee nothing tripping yonder?'

Emily laughed. 'Well, my dear sir, ' said she, 'since you allow of thisalliance, I may venture to own I have anticipated you; and almost dareventure to repeat some verses I made one evening in these very woods. '

'Nay, ' replied St. Aubert, 'dismiss the ALMOST, and venture quite; letus hear what vagaries fancy has been playing in your mind. If she hasgiven you one of her spells, you need not envy those of the fairies. '

'If it is strong enough to enchant your judgment, sir, ' said Emily, 'while I disclose her images, I need NOT envy them. The lines go in asort of tripping measure, which I thought might suit the subject wellenough, but I fear they are too irregular. '

 THE GLOW-WORM

 How pleasant is the green-wood's deep-matted shade On a mid-summer's eve, when the fresh rain is o'er; When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle thro' the glade, And swiftly in the thin air the light swallows soar!

 But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest, And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay Tripping through the forest-walk, where flow'rs, unprest, Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play. 

 To music's softest sounds they dance away the hour, Till moon-light steals down among the trembling leaves, And checquers all the ground, and guides them to the bow'r, The long haunted bow'r, where the nightingale grieves. 

 Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done, But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend; And often as her dying notes their pity have won, They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend. 

 When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev'ning star, And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere, How cheerless would they be, tho' they fairies are, If I, with my pale light, came not near!

 Yet cheerless tho' they'd be, they're ungrateful to my love! For, often when the traveller's benighted on his way, And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him thro' the grove, They bind me in their magic spells to lead him far astray;

 And in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out, While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground, And, afar in the woods, they raise a dismal shout, Till I shrink into my cell again for terror of the sound!

 But, see where all the tiny elves come dancing in a ring, With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the horn, And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet string; Then round about the oak they go till peeping of the morn. 

 Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun the fairy-queen, Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous is of me, That yester-eve I lighted them, along the dewy green, To seek the purple flow'r, whose juice from all her spells canfree. 

 And now, to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund band, With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the lute; If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her fairy wand, And to me the dance will cease, and the music all be mute. 

 O! had I but that purple flow'r whose leaves her charms can foil, And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it on the wind, I'd be her slave no longer, nor the traveller beguile, And help all faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind!

 But soon the VAPOUR OF THE WOODS will wander afar, And the fickle moon will fade, and the stars disappear, Then, cheerless will they be, tho' they fairies are, If I, with my pale light, come not near!

Whatever St. Aubert might think of the stanzas, he would not deny hisdaughter the pleasure of believing that he approved them; and, havinggiven his commendation, he sunk into a reverie, and they walked on insilence. 

 A faint erroneous ray Glanc'd from th' imperfect surfaces of things, Flung half an image on the straining eye; While waving woods, and villages, and streams, And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long retain The ascending gleam, are all one swimming scene, Uncertain if beheld. * *Thomson. 

St. Aubert continued silent till he reached the chateau, where his wifehad retired to her chamber. The languor and dejection, that had latelyoppressed her, and which the exertion called forth by the arrival ofher guests had suspended, now returned with increased effect. On thefollowing day, symptoms of fever appeared, and St. Aubert, having sentfor medical advice, learned, that her disorder was a fever of the samenature as that, from which he had lately recovered. She had, indeed, taken the infection, during her attendance upon him, and, herconstitution being too weak to throw out the disease immediately, it hadlurked in her veins, and occasioned the heavy languor of which she hadcomplained. St. Aubert, whose anxiety for his wife overcame every otherconsideration, detained the physician in his house. He remembered thefeelings and the reflections that had called a momentary gloom upon hismind, on the day when he had last visited the fishing-house, in companywith Madame St. Aubert, and he now admitted a presentiment, that thisillness would be a fatal one. But he effectually concealed this fromher, and from his daughter, whom he endeavoured to re-animate with hopesthat her constant assiduities would not be unavailing. The physician, when asked by St. Aubert for his opinion of the disorder, replied, that the event of it depended upon circumstances which he could notascertain. Madame St. Aubert seemed to have formed a more decided one;but her eyes only gave hints of this. She frequently fixed them upon heranxious friends with an expression of pity, and of tenderness, as if sheanticipated the sorrow that awaited them, and that seemed to say, it wasfor their sakes only, for their sufferings, that she regretted life. Onthe seventh day, the disorder was at its crisis. The physician assumeda graver manner, which she observed, and took occasion, when her familyhad once quitted the chamber, to tell him, that she perceived her deathwas approaching. 'Do not attempt to deceive me, ' said she, 'I feel thatI cannot long survive. I am prepared for the event, I have long, I hope, been preparing for it. Since I have not long to live, do not suffer amistaken compassion to induce you to flatter my family with false hopes. If you do, their affliction will only be the heavier when it arrives: Iwill endeavour to teach them resignation by my example. '

The physician was affected; he promised to obey her, and told St. Aubert, somewhat abruptly, that there was nothing to expect. The latterwas not philosopher enough to restrain his feelings when he receivedthis information; but a consideration of the increased affliction whichthe observance of his grief would occasion his wife, enabled him, after some time, to command himself in her presence. Emily was at firstoverwhelmed with the intelligence; then, deluded by the strength of herwishes, a hope sprung up in her mind that her mother would yet recover, and to this she pertinaciously adhered almost to the last hour. 

The progress of this disorder was marked, on the side of Madame St. Aubert, by patient suffering, and subjected wishes. The composure, withwhich she awaited her death, could be derived only from the retrospectof a life governed, as far as human frailty permits, by a consciousnessof being always in the presence of the Deity, and by the hope of ahigher world. But her piety could not entirely subdue the grief ofparting from those whom she so dearly loved. During these her lasthours, she conversed much with St. Aubert and Emily, on the prospect offuturity, and on other religious topics. The resignation she expressed, with the firm hope of meeting in a future world the friends she left inthis, and the effort which sometimes appeared to conceal her sorrow atthis temporary separation, frequently affected St. Aubert so much as tooblige him to leave the room. Having indulged his tears awhile, he woulddry them and return to the chamber with a countenance composed by anendeavour which did but increase his grief. 

Never had Emily felt the importance of the lessons, which had taught herto restrain her sensibility, so much as in these moments, and never hadshe practised them with a triumph so complete. But when the last wasover, she sunk at once under the pressure of her sorrow, and thenperceived that it was hope, as well as fortitude, which had hithertosupported her. St. Aubert was for a time too devoid of comfort himselfto bestow any on his daughter. 

CHAPTER II

 I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul. SHAKESPEARE

Madame St. Aubert was interred in the neighbouring village church; herhusband and daughter attended her to the grave, followed by a long trainof the peasantry, who were sincere mourners of this excellent woman. 

On his return from the funeral, St. Aubert shut himself in his chamber. When he came forth, it was with a serene countenance, though pale insorrow. He gave orders that his family should attend him. Emily only wasabsent; who, overcome with the scene she had just witnessed, had retiredto her closet to weep alone. St. Aubert followed her thither: he tookher hand in silence, while she continued to weep; and it was somemoments before he could so far command his voice as to speak. Ittrembled while he said, 'My Emily, I am going to prayers with my family;you will join us. We must ask support from above. Where else ought we toseek it--where else can we find it?'

Emily checked her tears, and followed her father to the parlour, where, the servants being assembled, St. Aubert read, in a low and solemnvoice, the evening service, and added a prayer for the soul of thedeparted. During this, his voice often faltered, his tears fell upon thebook, and at length he paused. But the sublime emotions of pure devotiongradually elevated his views above this world, and finally broughtcomfort to his heart. 

When the service was ended, and the servants were withdrawn, he tenderlykissed Emily, and said, 'I have endeavoured to teach you, from yourearliest youth, the duty of self-command; I have pointed out to you thegreat importance of it through life, not only as it preserves us inthe various and dangerous temptations that call us from rectitude andvirtue, but as it limits the indulgences which are termed virtuous, yet which, extended beyond a certain boundary, are vicious, for theirconsequence is evil. All excess is vicious; even that sorrow, which isamiable in its origin, becomes a selfish and unjust passion, if indulgedat the expence of our duties--by our duties I mean what we owe toourselves, as well as to others. The indulgence of excessive griefenervates the mind, and almost incapacitates it for again partaking ofthose various innocent enjoyments which a benevolent God designed to bethe sun-shine of our lives. My dear Emily, recollect and practise theprecepts I have so often given you, and which your own experience has sooften shewn you to be wise. 

'Your sorrow is useless. Do not receive this as merely a commonplaceremark, but let reason THEREFORE restrain sorrow. I would not annihilateyour feelings, my child, I would only teach you to command them; forwhatever may be the evils resulting from a too susceptible heart, nothing can be hoped from an insensible one; that, on the other hand, is all vice--vice, of which the deformity is not softened, or the effectconsoled for, by any semblance or possibility of good. You know mysufferings, and are, therefore, convinced that mine are not the lightwords which, on these occasions, are so often repeated to destroy eventhe sources of honest emotion, or which merely display the selfishostentation of a false philosophy. I will shew my Emily, that I canpractise what I advise. I have said thus much, because I cannot bear tosee you wasting in useless sorrow, for want of that resistance whichis due from mind; and I have not said it till now, because there isa period when all reasoning must yield to nature; that is past: andanother, when excessive indulgence, having sunk into habit, weighsdown the elasticity of the spirits so as to render conquest nearlyimpossible; this is to come. You, my Emily, will shew that you arewilling to avoid it. '

Emily smiled through her tears upon her father: 'Dear sir, ' said she, and her voice trembled; she would have added, 'I will shew myself worthyof being your daughter;' but a mingled emotion of gratitude, affection, and grief overcame her. St. Aubert suffered her to weep withoutinterruption, and then began to talk on common topics. 

The first person who came to condole with St. Aubert was a M. Barreaux, an austere and seemingly unfeeling man. A taste for botany hadintroduced them to each other, for they had frequently met in theirwanderings among the mountains. M. Barreaux had retired from the world, and almost from society, to live in a pleasant chateau, on the skirts ofthe woods, near La Vallee. He also had been disappointed in his opinionof mankind; but he did not, like St. Aubert, pity and mourn for them;he felt more indignation at their vices, than compassion for theirweaknesses. 

St. Aubert was somewhat surprised to see him; for, though he had oftenpressed him to come to the chateau, he had never till now accepted theinvitation; and now he came without ceremony or reserve, entering theparlour as an old friend. The claims of misfortune appeared to havesoftened down all the ruggedness and prejudices of his heart. St. Aubertunhappy, seemed to be the sole idea that occupied his mind. It was inmanners, more than in words, that he appeared to sympathize with hisfriends: he spoke little on the subject of their grief; but the minuteattention he gave them, and the modulated voice, and softened look thataccompanied it, came from his heart, and spoke to theirs. 

At this melancholy period St. Aubert was likewise visited by MadameCheron, his only surviving sister, who had been some years a widow, andnow resided on her own estate near Tholouse. The intercourse betweenthem had not been very frequent. In her condolements, words were notwanting; she understood not the magic of the look that speaks at onceto the soul, or the voice that sinks like balm to the heart: but sheassured St. Aubert that she sincerely sympathized with him, praised thevirtues of his late wife, and then offered what she considered to beconsolation. Emily wept unceasingly while she spoke; St. Aubert wastranquil, listened to what she said in silence, and then turned thediscourse upon another subject. 

At parting she pressed him and her niece to make her an early visit. 'Change of place will amuse you, ' said she, 'and it is wrong to give wayto grief. ' St. Aubert acknowledged the truth of these words of course;but, at the same time, felt more reluctant than ever to quit the spotwhich his past happiness had consecrated. The presence of his wifehad sanctified every surrounding scene, and, each day, as it graduallysoftened the acuteness of his suffering, assisted the tender enchantmentthat bound him to home. 

But there were calls which must be complied with, and of this kind wasthe visit he paid to his brother-in-law M. Quesnel. An affair of aninteresting nature made it necessary that he should delay this visit nolonger, and, wishing to rouse Emily from her dejection, he took her withhim to Epourville. 

As the carriage entered upon the forest that adjoined his paternaldomain, his eyes once more caught, between the chesnut avenue, theturreted corners of the chateau. He sighed to think of what had passedsince he was last there, and that it was now the property of a man whoneither revered nor valued it. At length he entered the avenue, whoselofty trees had so often delighted him when a boy, and whose melancholyshade was now so congenial with the tone of his spirits. Every featureof the edifice, distinguished by an air of heavy grandeur, appearedsuccessively between the branches of the trees--the broad turret, thearched gate-way that led into the courts, the drawbridge, and the dryfosse which surrounded the whole. 

The sound of carriage wheels brought a troop of servants to the greatgate, where St. Aubert alighted, and from which he led Emily into thegothic hall, now no longer hung with the arms and ancient banners of thefamily. These were displaced, and the oak wainscotting, and beams thatcrossed the roof, were painted white. The large table, too, that used tostretch along the upper end of the hall, where the master of the mansionloved to display his hospitality, and whence the peal of laughter, andthe song of conviviality, had so often resounded, was now removed; eventhe benches that had surrounded the hall were no longer there. The heavywalls were hung with frivolous ornaments, and every thing that appeareddenoted the false taste and corrupted sentiments of the present owner. 

St. Aubert followed a gay Parisian servant to a parlour, where sat Mons. And Madame Quesnel, who received him with a stately politeness, and, after a few formal words of condolement, seemed to have forgotten thatthey ever had a sister. 

Emily felt tears swell into her eyes, and then resentment checked them. St. Aubert, calm and deliberate, preserved his dignity without assumingimportance, and Quesnel was depressed by his presence without exactlyknowing wherefore. 

After some general conversation, St. Aubert requested to speak with himalone; and Emily, being left with Madame Quesnel, soon learned that alarge party was invited to dine at the chateau, and was compelled tohear that nothing which was past and irremediable ought to prevent thefestivity of the present hour. 

St. Aubert, when he was told that company were expected, felt a mixedemotion of disgust and indignation against the insensibility of Quesnel, which prompted him to return home immediately. But he was informed, thatMadame Cheron had been asked to meet him; and, when he looked at Emily, and considered that a time might come when the enmity of her uncle wouldbe prejudicial to her, he determined not to incur it himself, by conductwhich would be resented as indecorous, by the very persons who nowshowed so little sense of decorum. 

Among the visitors assembled at dinner were two Italian gentlemen, ofwhom one was named Montoni, a distant relation of Madame Quesnel, a manabout forty, of an uncommonly handsome person, with features manly andexpressive, but whose countenance exhibited, upon the whole, more of thehaughtiness of command, and the quickness of discernment, than of anyother character. 

Signor Cavigni, his friend, appeared to be about thirty--inferior indignity, but equal to him in penetration of countenance, and superior ininsinuation of manner. 

Emily was shocked by the salutation with which Madame Cheron met herfather--'Dear brother, ' said she, 'I am concerned to see you look sovery ill; do, pray, have advice!' St. Aubert answered, with a melancholysmile, that he felt himself much as usual; but Emily's fears made hernow fancy that her father looked worse than he really did. 

Emily would have been amused by the new characters she saw, and thevaried conversation that passed during dinner, which was served in astyle of splendour she had seldom seen before, had her spirits been lessoppressed. Of the guests, Signor Montoni was lately come from Italy, andhe spoke of the commotions which at that period agitated the country;talked of party differences with warmth, and then lamented the probableconsequences of the tumults. His friend spoke with equal ardour, ofthe politics of his country; praised the government and prosperityof Venice, and boasted of its decided superiority over all the otherItalian states. He then turned to the ladies, and talked with the sameeloquence, of Parisian fashions, the French opera, and French manners;and on the latter subject he did not fail to mingle what is soparticularly agreeable to French taste. The flattery was not detectedby those to whom it was addressed, though its effect, in producingsubmissive attention, did not escape his observation. When he coulddisengage himself from the assiduities of the other ladies, he sometimesaddressed Emily: but she knew nothing of Parisian fashions, or Parisianoperas; and her modesty, simplicity, and correct manners formed adecided contrast to those of her female companions. 

After dinner, St. Aubert stole from the room to view once more the oldchesnut which Quesnel talked of cutting down. As he stood under itsshade, and looked up among its branches, still luxuriant, and saw hereand there the blue sky trembling between them; the pursuits and eventsof his early days crowded fast to his mind, with the figures andcharacters of friends--long since gone from the earth; and he now felthimself to be almost an insulated being, with nobody but his Emily forhis heart to turn to. 

He stood lost amid the scenes of years which fancy called up, till thesuccession closed with the picture of his dying wife, and he startedaway, to forget it, if possible, at the social board. 

St. Aubert ordered his carriage at an early hour, and Emily observed, that he was more than usually silent and dejected on the way home; butshe considered this to be the effect of his visit to a place which spokeso eloquently of former times, nor suspected that he had a cause ofgrief which he concealed from her. 

On entering the chateau she felt more depressed than ever, for she morethan ever missed the presence of that dear parent, who, whenever shehad been from home, used to welcome her return with smiles and fondness;now, all was silent and forsaken. 

But what reason and effort may fail to do, time effects. Week after weekpassed away, and each, as it passed, stole something from the harshnessof her affliction, till it was mellowed to that tenderness which thefeeling heart cherishes as sacred. St. Aubert, on the contrary, visiblydeclined in health; though Emily, who had been so constantly with him, was almost the last person who observed it. His constitution had neverrecovered from the late attack of the fever, and the succeeding shockit received from Madame St. Aubert's death had produced its presentinfirmity. His physician now ordered him to travel; for it wasperceptible that sorrow had seized upon his nerves, weakened as they hadbeen by the preceding illness; and variety of scene, it was probable, would, by amusing his mind, restore them to their proper tone. 

For some days Emily was occupied in preparations to attend him; and he, by endeavours to diminish his expences at home during the journey--apurpose which determined him at length to dismiss his domestics. Emilyseldom opposed her father's wishes by questions or remonstrances, or shewould now have asked why he did not take a servant, and have representedthat his infirm health made one almost necessary. But when, on the eveof their departure, she found that he had dismissed Jacques, Francis, and Mary, and detained only Theresa the old housekeeper, she wasextremely surprised, and ventured to ask his reason for having done so. 'To save expences, my dear, ' he replied--'we are going on an expensiveexcursion. '

The physician had prescribed the air of Languedoc and Provence; and St. Aubert determined, therefore, to travel leisurely along the shores ofthe Mediterranean, towards Provence. 

They retired early to their chamber on the night before their departure;but Emily had a few books and other things to collect, and the clock hadstruck twelve before she had finished, or had remembered that some ofher drawing instruments, which she meant to take with her, were in theparlour below. As she went to fetch these, she passed her father'sroom, and, perceiving the door half open, concluded that he was in hisstudy--for, since the death of Madame St. Aubert, it had been frequentlyhis custom to rise from his restless bed, and go thither to compose hismind. When she was below stairs she looked into this room, but withoutfinding him; and as she returned to her chamber, she tapped at his door, and receiving no answer, stepped softly in, to be certain whether he wasthere. 

The room was dark, but a light glimmered through some panes of glassthat were placed in the upper part of a closet-door. Emily believed herfather to be in the closet, and, surprised that he was up at so latean hour, apprehended he was unwell, and was going to enquire; but, considering that her sudden appearance at this hour might alarm him, she removed her light to the stair-case, and then stepped softly to thecloset. On looking through the panes of glass, she saw him seated at asmall table, with papers before him, some of which he was reading withdeep attention and interest, during which he often wept and sobbedaloud. Emily, who had come to the door to learn whether her father wasill, was now detained there by a mixture of curiosity and tenderness. She could not witness his sorrow, without being anxious to know thesubject of; and she therefore continued to observe him in silence, concluding that those papers were letters of her late mother. Presentlyhe knelt down, and with a look so solemn as she had seldom seen himassume, and which was mingled with a certain wild expression, thatpartook more of horror than of any other character, he prayed silentlyfor a considerable time. 

When he rose, a ghastly paleness was on his countenance. Emily washastily retiring; but she saw him turn again to the papers, and shestopped. He took from among them a small case, and from thence aminiature picture. The rays of light fell strongly upon it, and sheperceived it to be that of a lady, but not of her mother. 

St. Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly upon his portrait, put it to hislips, and then to his heart, and sighed with a convulsive force. Emilycould scarcely believe what she saw to be real. She never knew till nowthat he had a picture of any other lady than her mother, much lessthat he had one which he evidently valued so highly; but having lookedrepeatedly, to be certain that it was not the resemblance of Madame St. Aubert, she became entirely convinced that it was designed for that ofsome other person. 

At length St. Aubert returned the picture to its case; and Emily, recollecting that she was intruding upon his private sorrows, softlywithdrew from the chamber. 

CHAPTER III

 O how canst thou renounce the boundless store Of charms which nature to her vot'ry yields! The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields; All that the genial ray of morning gilds, And all that echoes to the song of even; All that the mountain's shelt'ring bosom shields, And all the dread magnificence of heaven; O how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven!. .. .. These charms shall work thy soul's eternal health, And love, and gentleness, and joy, impart. THE MINSTREL

St. Aubert, instead of taking the more direct road, that ran along thefeet of the Pyrenees to Languedoc, chose one that, winding over theheights, afforded more extensive views and greater variety of romanticscenery. He turned a little out of his way to take leave of M. Barreaux, whom he found botanizing in the wood near his chateau, and who, whenhe was told the purpose of St. Aubert's visit, expressed a degree ofconcern, such as his friend had thought it was scarcely possible for himto feel on any similar occasion. They parted with mutual regret. 

'If any thing could have tempted me from my retirement, ' said M. Barreaux, 'it would have been the pleasure of accompanying you on thislittle tour. I do not often offer compliments; you may, therefore, believe me, when I say, that I shall look for your return withimpatience. '

The travellers proceeded on their journey. As they ascended the heights, St. Aubert often looked back upon the chateau, in the plain below;tender images crowded to his mind; his melancholy imagination suggestedthat he should return no more; and though he checked this wanderingthought, still he continued to look, till the haziness of distanceblended his home with the general landscape, and St. Aubert seemed to

 Drag at each remove a lengthening chain. 

He and Emily continued sunk in musing silence for some leagues, fromwhich melancholy reverie Emily first awoke, and her young fancy, struckwith the grandeur of the objects around, gradually yielded to delightfulimpressions. The road now descended into glens, confined by stupendouswalls of rock, grey and barren, except where shrubs fringed theirsummits, or patches of meagre vegetation tinted their recesses, in whichthe wild goat was frequently browsing. And now, the way led to thelofty cliffs, from whence the landscape was seen extending in all itsmagnificence. 

Emily could not restrain her transport as she looked over the pineforests of the mountains upon the vast plains, that, enriched withwoods, towns, blushing vines, and plantations of almonds, palms, andolives, stretched along, till their various colours melted in distanceinto one harmonious hue, that seemed to unite earth with heaven. Through the whole of this glorious scene the majestic Garonne wandered;descending from its source among the Pyrenees, and winding its bluewaves towards the Bay of Biscay. 

The ruggedness of the unfrequented road often obliged the wanderers toalight from their little carriage, but they thought themselves amplyrepaid for this inconvenience by the grandeur of the scenes; and, while the muleteer led his animals slowly over the broken ground, thetravellers had leisure to linger amid these solitudes, and to indulgethe sublime reflections, which soften, while they elevate, the heart, and fill it with the certainty of a present God! Still the enjoymentof St. Aubert was touched with that pensive melancholy, which givesto every object a mellower tint, and breathes a sacred charm over allaround. 

They had provided against part of the evil to be encountered from a wantof convenient inns, by carrying a stock of provisions in the carriage, so that they might take refreshment on any pleasant spot, in the openair, and pass the nights wherever they should happen to meet with acomfortable cottage. For the mind, also, they had provided, by a work onbotany, written by M. Barreaux, and by several of the Latin and Italianpoets; while Emily's pencil enabled her to preserve some of thosecombinations of forms, which charmed her at every step. 

The loneliness of the road, where, only now and then, a peasant was seendriving his mule, or some mountaineer-children at play among the rocks, heightened the effect of the scenery. St. Aubert was so much struck withit, that he determined, if he could hear of a road, to penetrate furtheramong the mountains, and, bending his way rather more to the south, toemerge into Rousillon, and coast the Mediterranean along part of thatcountry to Languedoc. 

Soon after mid-day, they reached the summit of one of those cliffs, which, bright with the verdure of palm-trees, adorn, like gems, thetremendous walls of the rocks, and which overlooked the greater part ofGascony, and part of Languedoc. Here was shade, and the fresh water ofa spring, that, gliding among the turf, under the trees, thenceprecipitated itself from rock to rock, till its dashing murmurs werelost in the abyss, though its white foam was long seen amid the darknessof the pines below. 

This was a spot well suited for rest, and the travellers alighted todine, while the mules were unharnessed to browse on the savoury herbsthat enriched this summit. 

It was some time before St. Aubert or Emily could withdraw theirattention from the surrounding objects, so as to partake of their littlerepast. Seated in the shade of the palms, St. Aubert pointed out to herobservation the course of the rivers, the situation of great towns, andthe boundaries of provinces, which science, rather than the eye, enabledhim to describe. Notwithstanding this occupation, when he had talkedawhile he suddenly became silent, thoughtful, and tears often swelled tohis eyes, which Emily observed, and the sympathy of her own heart toldher their cause. The scene before them bore some resemblance, though itwas on a much grander scale, to a favourite one of the late Madame St. Aubert, within view of the fishing-house. They both observed this, andthought how delighted she would have been with the present landscape, while they knew that her eyes must never, never more open upon thisworld. St. Aubert remembered the last time of his visiting that spot incompany with her, and also the mournfully presaging thoughts which hadthen arisen in his mind, and were now, even thus soon, realized! Therecollections subdued him, and he abruptly rose from his seat, andwalked away to where no eye could observe his grief. 

When he returned, his countenance had recovered its usual serenity; hetook Emily's hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking, and soonafter called to the muleteer, who sat at a little distance, concerninga road among the mountains towards Rousillon. Michael said, there wereseveral that way, but he did not know how far they extended, or evenwhether they were passable; and St. Aubert, who did not intend to travelafter sun-set, asked what village they could reach about that time. Themuleteer calculated that they could easily reach Mateau, which was intheir present road; but that, if they took a road that sloped more tothe south, towards Rousillon, there was a hamlet, which he thought theycould gain before the evening shut in. 

St. Aubert, after some hesitation, determined to take the latter course, and Michael, having finished his meal, and harnessed his mules, againset forward, but soon stopped; and St. Aubert saw him doing homage to across, that stood on a rock impending over their way. Having concludedhis devotions, he smacked his whip in the air, and, in spite of therough road, and the pain of his poor mules, which he had been latelylamenting, rattled, in a full gallop, along the edge of a precipice, which it made the eye dizzy to look down. Emily was terrified almostto fainting; and St. Aubert, apprehending still greater danger fromsuddenly stopping the driver, was compelled to sit quietly, and trusthis fate to the strength and discretion of the mules, who seemed topossess a greater portion of the latter quality than their master; forthey carried the travellers safely into the valley, and there stoppedupon the brink of the rivulet that watered it. 

Leaving the splendour of extensive prospects, they now entered thisnarrow valley screened by

 Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic spell, Here scorch'd by lightnings, there with ivy green. 

The scene of barrenness was here and there interrupted by the spreadingbranches of the larch and cedar, which threw their gloom over the cliff, or athwart the torrent that rolled in the vale. No living creatureappeared, except the izard, scrambling among the rocks, and oftenhanging upon points so dangerous, that fancy shrunk from the view ofthem. This was such a scene as SALVATOR would have chosen, had he thenexisted, for his canvas; St. Aubert, impressed by the romantic characterof the place, almost expected to see banditti start from behind someprojecting rock, and he kept his hand upon the arms with which he alwaystravelled. 

As they advanced, the valley opened; its savage features graduallysoftened, and, towards evening, they were among heathy mountains, stretched in far perspective, along which the solitary sheep-bell washeard, and the voice of the shepherd calling his wandering flocks to thenightly fold. His cabin, partly shadowed by the cork-tree and the ilex, which St. Aubert observed to flourish in higher regions of the air thanany other trees, except the fir, was all the human habitation that yetappeared. Along the bottom of this valley the most vivid verdure wasspread; and, in the little hollow recesses of the mountains, under theshade of the oak and chestnut, herds of cattle were grazing. Groupsof them, too, were often seen reposing on the banks of the rivulet, orlaving their sides in the cool stream, and sipping its wave. 

The sun was now setting upon the valley; its last light gleamed upon thewater, and heightened the rich yellow and purple tints of the heath andbroom, that overspread the mountains. St. Aubert enquired of Michaelthe distance to the hamlet he had mentioned, but the man could not withcertainty tell; and Emily began to fear that he had mistaken the road. Here was no human being to assist, or direct them; they had left theshepherd and his cabin far behind, and the scene became so obscured intwilight, that the eye could not follow the distant perspective of thevalley in search of a cottage, or a hamlet. A glow of the horizon stillmarked the west, and this was of some little use to the travellers. Michael seemed endeavouring to keep up his courage by singing; hismusic, however, was not of a kind to disperse melancholy; he sung, in asort of chant, one of the most dismal ditties his present auditors hadever heard, and St. Aubert at length discovered it to be a vesper-hymnto his favourite saint. 

They travelled on, sunk in that thoughtful melancholy, with whichtwilight and solitude impress the mind. Michael had now ended his ditty, and nothing was heard but the drowsy murmur of the breeze among thewoods, and its light flutter, as it blew freshly into the carriage. Theywere at length roused by the sound of fire-arms. St. Aubert called tothe muleteer to stop, and they listened. The noise was not repeated; butpresently they heard a rustling among the brakes. St. Aubert drew fortha pistol, and ordered Michael to proceed as fast as possible; who hadnot long obeyed, before a horn sounded, that made the mountains ring. Helooked again from the window, and then saw a young man spring from thebushes into the road, followed by a couple of dogs. The stranger was ina hunter's dress. His gun was slung across his shoulders, the hunter'shorn hung from his belt, and in his hand was a small pike, which, ashe held it, added to the manly grace of his figure, and assisted theagility of his steps. 

After a moment's hesitation, St. Aubert again stopped the carriage, andwaited till he came up, that they might enquire concerning the hamletthey were in search of. The stranger informed him, that it was only halfa league distant, that he was going thither himself, and would readilyshew the way. St. Aubert thanked him for the offer, and, pleased withhis chevalier-like air and open countenance, asked him to take a seatin the carriage; which the stranger, with an acknowledgment, declined, adding that he would keep pace with the mules. 'But I fear you will bewretchedly accommodated, ' said he: 'the inhabitants of these mountainsare a simple people, who are not only without the luxuries of life, but almost destitute of what in other places are held to be itsnecessaries. '

'I perceive you are not one of its inhabitants, sir, ' said St. Aubert. 

'No, sir, I am only a wanderer here. '

The carriage drove on, and the increasing dusk made the travellers verythankful that they had a guide; the frequent glens, too, that now openedamong the mountains, would likewise have added to their perplexity. Emily, as she looked up one of these, saw something at a great distancelike a bright cloud in the air. 'What light is yonder, sir?' said she. 

St. Aubert looked, and perceived that it was the snowy summit of amountain, so much higher than any around it, that it still reflected thesun's rays, while those below lay in deep shade. 

At length, the village lights were seen to twinkle through the dusk, and, soon after, some cottages were discovered in the valley, or ratherwere seen by reflection in the stream, on whose margin they stood, andwhich still gleamed with the evening light. 

The stranger now came up, and St. Aubert, on further enquiry, found notonly that there was no inn in the place, but not any sort of house ofpublic reception. The stranger, however, offered to walk on, and enquirefor a cottage to accommodate them; for which further civility St. Aubertreturned his thanks, and said, that, as the village was so near, hewould alight, and walk with him. Emily followed slowly in the carriage. 

On the way, St. Aubert asked his companion what success he had hadin the chase. 'Not much, sir, ' he replied, 'nor do I aim at it. I ampleased with the country, and mean to saunter away a few weeks amongits scenes. My dogs I take with me more for companionship than for game. This dress, too, gives me an ostensible business, and procures me thatrespect from the people, which would, perhaps, be refused to a lonelystranger, who had no visible motive for coming among them. '

'I admire your taste, ' said St. Aubert, 'and, if I was a younger man, should like to pass a few weeks in your way exceedingly. I, too, am awanderer, but neither my plan nor pursuits are exactly like yours--I goin search of health, as much as of amusement. ' St. Aubert sighed, andpaused; and then, seeming to recollect himself, he resumed: 'If I canhear of a tolerable road, that shall afford decent accommodation, itis my intention to pass into Rousillon, and along the sea-shore toLanguedoc. You, sir, seem to be acquainted with the country, and can, perhaps, give me information on the subject. '

The stranger said, that what information he could give was entirely athis service; and then mentioned a road rather more to the east, whichled to a town, whence it would be easy to proceed into Rousillon. 

They now arrived at the village, and commenced their search for acottage, that would afford a night's lodging. In several, which theyentered, ignorance, poverty, and mirth seemed equally to prevail; andthe owners eyed St. Aubert with a mixture of curiosity and timidity. Nothing like a bed could be found, and he had ceased to enquire forone, when Emily joined him, who observed the languor of her father'scountenance, and lamented, that he had taken a road so ill providedwith the comforts necessary for an invalid. Other cottages, which theyexamined, seemed somewhat less savage than the former, consisting oftwo rooms, if such they could be called; the first of these occupied bymules and pigs, the second by the family, which generally consisted ofsix or eight children, with their parents, who slept on beds of skinsand dried beech leaves, spread upon a mud floor. Here, light wasadmitted, and smoke discharged, through an aperture in the roof; andhere the scent of spirits (for the travelling smugglers, who haunted thePyrenees, had made this rude people familiar with the use of liquors)was generally perceptible enough. Emily turned from such scenes, andlooked at her father with anxious tenderness, which the young strangerseemed to observe; for, drawing St. Aubert aside, he made him an offerof his own bed. 'It is a decent one, ' said he, 'when compared withwhat we have just seen, yet such as in other circumstances I should beashamed to offer you. ' St. Aubert acknowledged how much he felt himselfobliged by this kindness, but refused to accept it, till the youngstranger would take no denial. 'Do not give me the pain of knowing, sir, ' said he, 'that an invalid, like you, lies on hard skins, whileI sleep in a bed. Besides, sir, your refusal wounds my pride; I mustbelieve you think my offer unworthy your acceptance. Let me shew you theway. I have no doubt my landlady can accommodate this young lady also. '

St. Aubert at length consented, that, if this could be done, he wouldaccept his kindness, though he felt rather surprised, that the strangerhad proved himself so deficient in gallantry, as to administer to therepose of an infirm man, rather than to that of a very lovely youngwoman, for he had not once offered the room for Emily. But she thoughtnot of herself, and the animated smile she gave him, told how much shefelt herself obliged for the preference of her father. 

On their way, the stranger, whose name was Valancourt, stepped on firstto speak to his hostess, and she came out to welcome St. Aubert into acottage, much superior to any he had seen. This good woman seemed verywilling to accommodate the strangers, who were soon compelled to acceptthe only two beds in the place. Eggs and milk were the only food thecottage afforded; but against scarcity of provisions St. Aubert hadprovided, and he requested Valancourt to stay, and partake with him ofless homely fare; an invitation, which was readily accepted, and theypassed an hour in intelligent conversation. St. Aubert was much pleasedwith the manly frankness, simplicity, and keen susceptibility to thegrandeur of nature, which his new acquaintance discovered; and, indeed, he had often been heard to say, that, without a certain simplicity ofheart, this taste could not exist in any strong degree. 

The conversation was interrupted by a violent uproar without, in whichthe voice of the muleteer was heard above every other sound. Valancourtstarted from his seat, and went to enquire the occasion; but the disputecontinued so long afterwards, that St. Aubert went himself, and foundMichael quarrelling with the hostess, because she had refused to let hismules lie in a little room where he and three of her sons were to passthe night. The place was wretched enough, but there was no other forthese people to sleep in; and, with somewhat more of delicacy than wasusual among the inhabitants of this wild tract of country, she persistedin refusing to let the animals have the same BED-CHAMBER with herchildren. This was a tender point with the muleteer; his honour waswounded when his mules were treated with disrespect, and he would havereceived a blow, perhaps, with more meekness. He declared that hisbeasts were as honest beasts, and as good beasts, as any in the wholeprovince; and that they had a right to be well treated wherever theywent. 'They are as harmless as lambs, ' said he, 'if people don't affrontthem. I never knew them behave themselves amiss above once or twice inmy life, and then they had good reason for doing so. Once, indeed, theykicked at a boy's leg that lay asleep in the stable, and broke it; butI told them they were out there, and by St. Anthony! I believe theyunderstood me, for they never did so again. '

He concluded this eloquent harangue with protesting, that they shouldshare with him, go where he would. 

The dispute was at length settled by Valancourt, who drew the hostessaside, and desired she would let the muleteer and his beasts have theplace in question to themselves, while her sons should have the bed ofskins designed for him, for that he would wrap himself in his cloak, andsleep on the bench by the cottage door. But this she thought it herduty to oppose, and she felt it to be her inclination to disappoint themuleteer. Valancourt, however, was positive, and the tedious affair wasat length settled. 

It was late when St. Aubert and Emily retired to their rooms, andValancourt to his station at the door, which, at this mild season, hepreferred to a close cabin and a bed of skins. St. Aubert was somewhatsurprised to find in his room volumes of Homer, Horace, and Petrarch;but the name of Valancourt, written in them, told him to whom theybelonged. 

CHAPTER IV

 In truth he was a strange and wayward wight, Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful scene, In darkness, and in storm he found delight; Nor less than when on ocean-wave serene The southern sun diffus'd his dazzling sheen. Even sad vicissitude amus'd his soul; And if a sigh would sometimes intervene, And down his cheek a tear of pity roll, A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish'd not to controul. THE MINSTREL

St. Aubert awoke at an early hour, refreshed by sleep, and desirous toset forward. He invited the stranger to breakfast with him; and, talkingagain of the road, Valancourt said, that, some months past, he hadtravelled as far as Beaujeu, which was a town of some consequence on theway to Rousillon. He recommended it to St. Aubert to take that route, and the latter determined to do so. 

'The road from this hamlet, ' said Valancourt, 'and that to Beaujeu, partat the distance of about a league and a half from hence; if you willgive me leave, I will direct your muleteer so far. I must wandersomewhere, and your company would make this a pleasanter ramble than anyother I could take. '

St. Aubert thankfully accepted his offer, and they set out together, theyoung stranger on foot, for he refused the invitation of St. Aubert totake a seat in his little carriage. 

The road wound along the feet of the mountains through a pastoralvalley, bright with verdure, and varied with groves of dwarf oak, beech and sycamore, under whose branches herds of cattle reposed. Themountain-ash too, and the weeping birch, often threw their pendantfoliage over the steeps above, where the scanty soil scarcely concealedtheir roots, and where their light branches waved to every breeze thatfluttered from the mountains. 

The travellers were frequently met at this early hour, for the sun hadnot yet risen upon the valley, by shepherds driving immense flocks fromtheir folds to feed upon the hills. St. Aubert had set out thus early, not only that he might enjoy the first appearance of sunrise, but thathe might inhale the first pure breath of morning, which above all thingsis refreshing to the spirits of the invalid. In these regions it wasparticularly so, where an abundance of wild flowers and aromatic herbsbreathed forth their essence on the air. 

The dawn, which softened the scenery with its peculiar grey tint, nowdispersed, and Emily watched the progress of the day, first trembling onthe tops of the highest cliffs, then touching them with splendid light, while their sides and the vale below were still wrapt in dewy mist. Meanwhile, the sullen grey of the eastern clouds began to blush, then toredden, and then to glow with a thousand colours, till the golden lightdarted over all the air, touched the lower points of the mountain'sbrow, and glanced in long sloping beams upon the valley and its stream. All nature seemed to have awakened from death into life; the spirit ofSt. Aubert was renovated. His heart was full; he wept, and his thoughtsascended to the Great Creator. 

Emily wished to trip along the turf, so green and bright with dew, andto taste the full delight of that liberty, which the izard seemed toenjoy as he bounded along the brow of the cliffs; while Valancourt oftenstopped to speak with the travellers, and with social feeling to pointout to them the peculiar objects of his admiration. St. Aubert waspleased with him: 'Here is the real ingenuousness and ardour of youth, 'said he to himself; 'this young man has never been at Paris. '

He was sorry when they came to the spot where the roads parted, and hisheart took a more affectionate leave of him than is usual after so shortan acquaintance. Valancourt talked long by the side of the carriage;seemed more than once to be going, but still lingered, and appeared tosearch anxiously for topics of conversation to account for his delay. Atlength he took leave. As he went, St. Aubert observed him look with anearnest and pensive eye at Emily, who bowed to him with a countenancefull of timid sweetness, while the carriage drove on. St. Aubert, forwhatever reason, soon after looked from the window, and saw Valancourtstanding upon the bank of the road, resting on his pike with foldedarms, and following the carriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, andValancourt, seeming to awake from his reverie, returned the salute, andstarted away. 

The aspect of the country now began to change, and the travellers soonfound themselves among mountains covered from their base nearly to theirsummits with forests of gloomy pine, except where a rock of granite shotup from the vale, and lost its snowy top in the clouds. The rivulet, which had hitherto accompanied them, now expanded into a river; and, flowing deeply and silently along, reflected, as in a mirror, theblackness of the impending shades. Sometimes a cliff was seen liftingits bold head above the woods and the vapours, that floated mid-way downthe mountains; and sometimes a face of perpendicular marble rose fromthe water's edge, over which the larch threw his gigantic arms, herescathed with lightning, and there floating in luxuriant foliage. 

They continued to travel over a rough and unfrequented road, seeing nowand then at a distance the solitary shepherd, with his dog, stalkingalong the valley, and hearing only the dashing of torrents, which thewoods concealed from the eye, the long sullen murmur of the breeze, as it swept over the pines, or the notes of the eagle and the vulture, which were seen towering round the beetling cliff. 

Often, as the carriage moved slowly over uneven ground, St. Aubertalighted, and amused himself with examining the curious plants that grewon the banks of the road, and with which these regions abound; whileEmily, wrapt in high enthusiasm, wandered away under the shades, listening in deep silence to the lonely murmur of the woods. 

Neither village nor hamlet was seen for many leagues; the goat-herd's orthe hunter's cabin, perched among the cliffs of the rocks, were the onlyhuman habitations that appeared. 

The travellers again took their dinner in the open air, on a pleasantspot in the valley, under the spreading shade of cedars; and then setforward towards Beaujeu. 

The road now began to descend, and, leaving the pine forests behind, wound among rocky precipices. The evening twilight again fell over thescene, and the travellers were ignorant how far they might yet be fromBeaujeu. St. Aubert, however, conjectured that the distance could not bevery great, and comforted himself with the prospect of travelling on amore frequented road after reaching that town, where he designed to passthe night. Mingled woods, and rocks, and heathy mountains were now seenobscurely through the dusk; but soon even these imperfect images fadedin darkness. Michael proceeded with caution, for he could scarcelydistinguish the road; his mules, however, seemed to have more sagacity, and their steps were sure. 

On turning the angle of a mountain, a light appeared at a distance, thatillumined the rocks, and the horizon to a great extent. It was evidentlya large fire, but whether accidental, or otherwise, there were no meansof knowing. St. Aubert thought it was probably kindled by some of thenumerous banditti, that infested the Pyrenees, and he became watchfuland anxious to know whether the road passed near this fire. He had armswith him, which, on an emergency, might afford some protection, thoughcertainly a very unequal one, against a band of robbers, so desperatetoo as those usually were who haunted these wild regions. While manyreflections rose upon his mind, he heard a voice shouting from the roadbehind, and ordering the muleteer to stop. St. Aubert bade him proceedas fast as possible; but either Michael, or his mules were obstinate, for they did not quit the old pace. Horses' feet were now heard; a manrode up to the carriage, still ordering the driver to stop; and St. Aubert, who could no longer doubt his purpose, was with difficulty ableto prepare a pistol for his defence, when his hand was upon the door ofthe chaise. The man staggered on his horse, the report of the pistol wasfollowed by a groan, and St. Aubert's horror may be imagined, when inthe next instant he thought he heard the faint voice of Valancourt. He now himself bade the muleteer stop; and, pronouncing the name ofValancourt, was answered in a voice, that no longer suffered him todoubt. St. Aubert, who instantly alighted and went to his assistance, found him still sitting on his horse, but bleeding profusely, andappearing to be in great pain, though he endeavoured to soften theterror of St. Aubert by assurances that he was not materially hurt, thewound being only in his arm. St. Aubert, with the muleteer, assisted himto dismount, and he sat down on the bank of the road, where St. Auberttried to bind up his arm, but his hands trembled so excessively that hecould not accomplish it; and, Michael being now gone in pursuit of thehorse, which, on being disengaged from his rider, had galloped off, he called Emily to his assistance. Receiving no answer, he went to thecarriage, and found her sunk on the seat in a fainting fit. Between thedistress of this circumstance and that of leaving Valancourt bleeding, he scarcely knew what he did; he endeavoured, however, to raise her, and called to Michael to fetch water from the rivulet that flowed by theroad, but Michael was gone beyond the reach of his voice. Valancourt, who heard these calls, and also the repeated name of Emily, instantlyunderstood the subject of his distress; and, almost forgetting his owncondition, he hastened to her relief. She was reviving when hereached the carriage; and then, understanding that anxiety for him hadoccasioned her indisposition, he assured her, in a voice that trembled, but not from anguish, that his wound was of no consequence. While hesaid this St. Aubert turned round, and perceiving that he was stillbleeding, the subject of his alarm changed again, and he hastily formedsome handkerchiefs into a bandage. This stopped the effusion of theblood; but St. Aubert, dreading the consequence of the wound, enquiredrepeatedly how far they were from Beaujeu; when, learning that it wasat two leagues' distance, his distress increased, since he knew not howValancourt, in his present state, would bear the motion of the carriage, and perceived that he was already faint from loss of blood. When hementioned the subject of his anxiety, Valancourt entreated that he wouldnot suffer himself to be thus alarmed on his account, for that he had nodoubt he should be able to support himself very well; and then he talkedof the accident as a slight one. The muleteer being now returned withValancourt's horse, assisted him into the chaise; and, as Emily was nowrevived, they moved slowly on towards Beaujeu. 

St. Aubert, when he had recovered from the terror occasioned him by thisaccident, expressed surprise on seeing Valancourt, who explainedhis unexpected appearance by saying, 'You, sir, renewed my taste forsociety; when you had left the hamlet, it did indeed appear a solitude. I determined, therefore, since my object was merely amusement, to changethe scene; and I took this road, because I knew it led through a moreromantic tract of mountains than the spot I have left. Besides, ' addedhe, hesitating for an instant, 'I will own, and why should I not? that Ihad some hope of overtaking you. '

'And I have made you a very unexpected return for the compliment, 'said St. Aubert, who lamented again the rashness which had producedthe accident, and explained the cause of his late alarm. But Valancourtseemed anxious only to remove from the minds of his companions everyunpleasant feeling relative to himself; and, for that purpose, stillstruggled against a sense of pain, and tried to converse with gaiety. Emily meanwhile was silent, except when Valancourt particularlyaddressed her, and there was at those times a tremulous tone in hisvoice that spoke much. 

They were now so near the fire, which had long flamed at a distance onthe blackness of night, that it gleamed upon the road, and they coulddistinguish figures moving about the blaze. The way winding stillnearer, they perceived in the valley one of those numerous bands ofgipsies, which at that period particularly haunted the wilds of thePyrenees, and lived partly by plundering the traveller. Emily lookedwith some degree of terror on the savage countenances of these people, shewn by the fire, which heightened the romantic effects of the scenery, as it threw a red dusky gleam upon the rocks and on the foliage of thetrees, leaving heavy masses of shade and regions of obscurity, which theeye feared to penetrate. 

They were preparing their supper; a large pot stood by the fire, overwhich several figures were busy. The blaze discovered a rude kind oftent, round which many children and dogs were playing, and the wholeformed a picture highly grotesque. The travellers saw plainly theirdanger. Valancourt was silent, but laid his hand on one of St. Aubert'spistols; St. Aubert drew forth another, and Michael was ordered toproceed as fast as possible. They passed the place, however, without being attacked; the rovers being probably unprepared for theopportunity, and too busy about their supper to feel much interest, atthe moment, in any thing besides. 

After a league and a half more, passed in darkness, the travellersarrived at Beaujeu, and drove up to the only inn the place afforded;which, though superior to any they had seen since they entered themountains, was bad enough. 

The surgeon of the town was immediately sent for, if a surgeon he couldbe called, who prescribed for horses as well as for men, and shavedfaces at least as dexterously as he set bones. After examiningValancourt's arm, and perceiving that the bullet had passed throughthe flesh without touching the bone, he dressed it, and left him witha solemn prescription of quiet, which his patient was not inclined toobey. The delight of ease had now succeeded to pain; for ease may beallowed to assume a positive quality when contrasted with anguish; and, his spirits thus re-animated, he wished to partake of the conversationof St. Aubert and Emily, who, released from so many apprehensions, wereuncommonly cheerful. Late as it was, however, St. Aubert was obliged togo out with the landlord to buy meat for supper; and Emily, who, duringthis interval, had been absent as long as she could, upon excuses oflooking to their accommodation, which she found rather better than sheexpected, was compelled to return, and converse with Valancourt alone. They talked of the character of the scenes they had passed, of thenatural history of the country, of poetry, and of St. Aubert; a subjecton which Emily always spoke and listened to with peculiar pleasure. 

The travellers passed an agreeable evening; but St. Aubert was fatiguedwith his journey; and, as Valancourt seemed again sensible of pain, theyseparated soon after supper. 

In the morning St. Aubert found that Valancourt had passed a restlessnight; that he was feverish, and his wound very painful. The surgeon, when he dressed it, advised him to remain quietly at Beaujeu; advicewhich was too reasonable to be rejected. St. Aubert, however, had nofavourable opinion of this practitioner, and was anxious to commitValancourt into more skilful hands; but learning, upon enquiry, thatthere was no town within several leagues which seemed more likely toafford better advice, he altered the plan of his journey, and determinedto await the recovery of Valancourt, who, with somewhat more ceremonythan sincerity, made many objections to this delay. 

By order of his surgeon, Valancourt did not go out of the house thatday; but St. Aubert and Emily surveyed with delight the environs ofthe town, situated at the feet of the Pyrenean Alps, that rose, somein abrupt precipices, and others swelling with woods of cedar, fir, andcypress, which stretched nearly to their highest summits. The cheerfulgreen of the beech and mountain-ash was sometimes seen, like a gleam oflight, amidst the dark verdure of the forest; and sometimes a torrentpoured its sparkling flood, high among the woods. 

Valancourt's indisposition detained the travellers at Beaujeu severaldays, during which interval St. Aubert had observed his disposition andhis talents with the philosophic inquiry so natural to him. He sawa frank and generous nature, full of ardour, highly susceptible ofwhatever is grand and beautiful, but impetuous, wild, and somewhatromantic. Valancourt had known little of the world. His perceptions wereclear, and his feelings just; his indignation of an unworthy, or hisadmiration of a generous action, were expressed in terms of equalvehemence. St. Aubert sometimes smiled at his warmth, but seldom checkedit, and often repeated to himself, 'This young man has never been atParis. ' A sigh sometimes followed this silent ejaculation. He determinednot to leave Valancourt till he should be perfectly recovered; and, ashe was now well enough to travel, though not able to manage his horse, St. Aubert invited him to accompany him for a few days in the carriage. This he the more readily did, since he had discovered that Valancourtwas of a family of the same name in Gascony, with whose respectabilityhe was well acquainted. The latter accepted the offer with greatpleasure, and they again set forward among these romantic wilds aboutRousillon. 

They travelled leisurely; stopping wherever a scene uncommonly grandappeared; frequently alighting to walk to an eminence, whither the mulescould not go, from which the prospect opened in greater magnificence;and often sauntering over hillocks covered with lavender, wild thyme, juniper, and tamarisc; and under the shades of woods, between thoseboles they caught the long mountain-vista, sublime beyond any thing thatEmily had ever imagined. 

St. Aubert sometimes amused himself with botanizing, while Valancourtand Emily strolled on; he pointing out to her notice the objects thatparticularly charmed him, and reciting beautiful passages from such ofthe Latin and Italian poets as he had heard her admire. In the pauses ofconversation, when he thought himself not observed, he frequently fixedhis eyes pensively on her countenance, which expressed with so muchanimation the taste and energy of her mind; and when he spoke again, there was a peculiar tenderness in the tone of his voice, that defeatedany attempt to conceal his sentiments. By degrees these silent pausesbecame more frequent; till Emily, only, betrayed an anxiety to interruptthem; and she; who had been hitherto reserved, would now talk again, and again, of the woods and the vallies and the mountains, to avoid thedanger of sympathy and silence. 

From Beaujeu the road had constantly ascended, conducting the travellersinto the higher regions of the air, where immense glaciers exhibitedtheir frozen horrors, and eternal snow whitened the summits of themountains. They often paused to contemplate these stupendous scenes, and, seated on some wild cliff, where only the ilex or the larch couldflourish, looked over dark forests of fir, and precipices where humanfoot had never wandered, into the glen--so deep, that the thunder of thetorrent, which was seen to foam along the bottom, was scarcely heard tomurmur. Over these crags rose others of stupendous height, and fantasticshape; some shooting into cones; others impending far over their base, in huge masses of granite, along whose broken ridges was often lodgeda weight of snow, that, trembling even to the vibration of a sound, threatened to bear destruction in its course to the vale. Around, onevery side, far as the eye could penetrate, were seen only forms ofgrandeur--the long perspective of mountain-tops, tinged with etherealblue, or white with snow; vallies of ice, and forests of gloomy fir. The serenity and clearness of the air in these high regions wereparticularly delightful to the travellers; it seemed to inspire themwith a finer spirit, and diffused an indescribable complacency overtheir minds. They had no words to express the sublime emotions theyfelt. A solemn expression characterized the feelings of St. Aubert;tears often came to his eyes, and he frequently walked away from hiscompanions. Valancourt now and then spoke, to point to Emily's noticesome feature of the scene. The thinness of the atmosphere, through whichevery object came so distinctly to the eye, surprised and deluded her;who could scarcely believe that objects, which appeared so near, were, in reality, so distant. The deep silence of these solitudes was brokenonly at intervals by the scream of the vultures, seen cowering roundsome cliff below, or by the cry of the eagle sailing high in the air;except when the travellers listened to the hollow thunder that sometimesmuttered at their feet. While, above, the deep blue of the heavens wasunobscured by the lightest cloud, half way down the mountains, longbillows of vapour were frequently seen rolling, now wholly excluding thecountry below, and now opening, and partially revealing its features. Emily delighted to observe the grandeur of these clouds as they changedin shape and tints, and to watch their various effect on the lowerworld, whose features, partly veiled, were continually assuming newforms of sublimity. 

After traversing these regions for many leagues, they began to descendtowards Rousillon, and features of beauty then mingled with the scene. Yet the travellers did not look back without some regret to the sublimeobjects they had quitted; though the eye, fatigued with the extensionof its powers, was glad to repose on the verdure of woods and pastures, that now hung on the margin of the river below; to view again the humblecottage shaded by cedars, the playful group of mountaineer-children, andthe flowery nooks that appeared among the hills. 

As they descended, they saw at a distance, on the right, one of thegrand passes of the Pyrenees into Spain, gleaming with its battlementsand towers to the splendour of the setting rays, yellow tops of woodscolouring the steeps below, while far above aspired the snowy points ofthe mountains, still reflecting a rosy hue. 

St. Aubert began to look out for the little town he had been directed toby the people of Beaujeu, and where he meant to pass the night; but nohabitation yet appeared. Of its distance Valancourt could not assist himto judge, for he had never been so far along this chain of Alps before. There was, however, a road to guide them; and there could be littledoubt that it was the right one; for, since they had left Beaujeu, therehad been no variety of tracks to perplex or mislead. 

The sun now gave his last light, and St. Aubert bade the muleteerproceed with all possible dispatch. He found, indeed, the lassitude ofillness return upon him, after a day of uncommon fatigue, both of bodyand mind, and he longed for repose. His anxiety was not soothed byobserving a numerous train, consisting of men, horses, and loadedmules, winding down the steeps of an opposite mountain, appearing anddisappearing at intervals among the woods, so that its numbers could notbe judged of. Something bright, like arms, glanced in the setting ray, and the military dress was distinguishable upon the men who were in thevan, and on others scattered among the troop that followed. As thesewound into the vale, the rear of the party emerged from the woods, andexhibited a band of soldiers. St. Aubert's apprehensions now subsided;he had no doubt that the train before him consisted of smugglers, who, in conveying prohibited goods over the Pyrenees, had been encountered, and conquered by a party of troops. 

The travellers had lingered so long among the sublimer scenes ofthese mountains, that they found themselves entirely mistaken in theircalculation that they could reach Montigny at sun-set; but, as theywound along the valley, the saw, on a rude Alpine bridge, that unitedtwo lofty crags of the glen, a group of mountaineer-children, amusingthemselves with dropping pebbles into a torrent below, and watching thestones plunge into the water, that threw up its white spray high in theair as it received them, and returned a sullen sound, which the echoesof the mountains prolonged. Under the bridge was seen a perspective ofthe valley, with its cataract descending among the rocks, and a cottageon a cliff, overshadowed with pines. It appeared, that they could notbe far from some small town. St. Aubert bade the muleteer stop, andthen called to the children to enquire if he was near Montigny; but thedistance, and the roaring of the waters, would not suffer his voice tobe heard; and the crags, adjoining the bridge, were of such tremendousheight and steepness, that to have climbed either would have beenscarcely practicable to a person unacquainted with the ascent. St. Aubert, therefore, did not waste more moments in delay. They continuedto travel long after twilight had obscured the road, which was sobroken, that, now thinking it safer to walk than to ride, they allalighted. The moon was rising, but her light was yet too feeble toassist them. While they stepped carefully on, they heard the vesper-bellof a convent. The twilight would not permit them to distinguish anythinglike a building, but the sounds seemed to come from some woods, thatoverhung an acclivity to the right. Valancourt proposed to go insearch of this convent. 'If they will not accommodate us with a night'slodging, ' said he, 'they may certainly inform us how far we are fromMontigny, and direct us towards it. ' He was bounding forward, withoutwaiting St. Aubert's reply, when the latter stopped him. 'I am veryweary, ' said St. Aubert, 'and wish for nothing so much as for immediaterest. We will all go to the convent; your good looks would defeat ourpurpose; but when they see mine and Emily's exhausted countenances, theywill scarcely deny us repose. '

As he said this, he took Emily's arm within his, and, telling Michael towait awhile in the road with the carriage, they began to ascend towardsthe woods, guided by the bell of the convent. His steps were feeble, andValancourt offered him his arm, which he accepted. The moon now threwa faint light over their path, and, soon after, enabled them todistinguish some towers rising above the tops of the woods. Stillfollowing the note of the bell, they entered the shade of those woods, lighted only by the moonbeams, that glided down between the leaves, and threw a tremulous uncertain gleam upon the steep track they werewinding. The gloom and the silence that prevailed, except when the bellreturned upon the air, together with the wildness of the surroundingscene, struck Emily with a degree of fear, which, however, the voice andconversation of Valancourt somewhat repressed. When they had been sometime ascending, St. Aubert complained of weariness, and they stopped torest upon a little green summit, where the trees opened, and admittedthe moon-light. He sat down upon the turf, between Emily and Valancourt. The bell had now ceased, and the deep repose of the scene wasundisturbed by any sound, for the low dull murmur of some distanttorrents might be said to sooth, rather than to interrupt, the silence. 

Before them, extended the valley they had quitted; its rocks, and woodsto the left, just silvered by the rays, formed a contrast to the deepshadow, that involved the opposite cliffs, whose fringed summits onlywere tipped with light; while the distant perspective of the valley waslost in the yellow mist of moon-light. The travellers sat for some timewrapt in the complacency which such scenes inspire. 

'These scenes, ' said Valancourt, at length, 'soften the heart, like thenotes of sweet music, and inspire that delicious melancholy which noperson, who had felt it once, would resign for the gayest pleasures. They waken our best and purest feelings, disposing us to benevolence, pity, and friendship. Those whom I love--I always seem to love more insuch an hour as this. ' His voice trembled, and he paused. 

St. Aubert was silent; Emily perceived a warm tear fall upon the hand heheld; she knew the object of his thoughts; hers too had, for some time, been occupied by the remembrance of her mother. He seemed by an effortto rouse himself. 'Yes, ' said he, with an half-suppressed sigh, 'thememory of those we love--of times for ever past! in such an hour as thissteals upon the mind, like a strain of distant music in the stillnessof night;--all tender and harmonious as this landscape, sleeping in themellow moon-light. ' After the pause of a moment, St. Aubert added, 'Ihave always fancied, that I thought with more clearness, and precision, at such an hour than at any other, and that heart must be insensiblein a great degree, that does not soften to its influence. But many suchthere are. '

Valancourt sighed. 

'Are there, indeed, many such?' said Emily. 

'A few years hence, my Emily, ' replied St. Aubert, 'and you may smile atthe recollection of that question--if you do not weep to it. But come, Iam somewhat refreshed, let us proceed. '

Having emerged from the woods, they saw, upon a turfy hillock above, theconvent of which they were in search. A high wall, that surrounded it, led them to an ancient gate, at which they knocked; and the poor monk, who opened it, conducted them into a small adjoining room, where hedesired they would wait while he informed the superior of their request. In this interval, several friars came in separately to look at them;and at length the first monk returned, and they followed him to a room, where the superior was sitting in an arm-chair, with a large foliovolume, printed in black letter, open on a desk before him. He receivedthem with courtesy, though he did not rise from his seat; and, havingasked them a few questions, granted their request. After a shortconversation, formal and solemn on the part of the superior, theywithdrew to the apartment where they were to sup, and Valancourt, whomone of the inferior friars civilly desired to accompany, went to seekMichael and his mules. They had not descended half way down the cliffs, before they heard the voice of the muleteer echoing far and wide. Sometimes he called on St. Aubert, and sometimes on Valancourt; whohaving, at length, convinced him that he had nothing to fear either forhimself, or his master; and having disposed of him, for the night, in acottage on the skirts of the woods, returned to sup with his friends, on such sober fare as the monks thought it prudent to set before them. While St. Aubert was too much indisposed to share it, Emily, in heranxiety for her father, forgot herself; and Valancourt, silent andthoughtful, yet never inattentive to them, appeared particularlysolicitous to accommodate and relieve St. Aubert, who often observed, while his daughter was pressing him to eat, or adjusting the pillow shehad placed in the back of his arm-chair, that Valancourt fixed on her alook of pensive tenderness, which he was not displeased to understand. 

They separated at an early hour, and retired to their respectiveapartments. Emily was shown to hers by a nun of the convent, whom shewas glad to dismiss, for her heart was melancholy, and her attentionso much abstracted, that conversation with a stranger was painful. Shethought her father daily declining, and attributed his present fatiguemore to the feeble state of his frame, than to the difficulty of thejourney. A train of gloomy ideas haunted her mind, till she fell asleep. 

In about two hours after, she was awakened by the chiming of a bell, andthen heard quick steps pass along the gallery, into which her chamberopened. She was so little accustomed to the manners of a convent, as tobe alarmed by this circumstance; her fears, ever alive for her father, suggested that he was very ill, and she rose in haste to go to him. Having paused, however, to let the persons in the gallery pass beforeshe opened her door, her thoughts, in the mean time, recovered from theconfusion of sleep, and she understood that the bell was the call ofthe monks to prayers. It had now ceased, and, all being again still, she forbore to go to St. Aubert's room. Her mind was not disposedfor immediate sleep, and the moon-light, that shone into her chamber, invited her to open the casement, and look out upon the country. 

It was a still and beautiful night, the sky was unobscured by any cloud, and scarce a leaf of the woods beneath trembled in the air. As shelistened, the mid-night hymn of the monks rose softly from a chapel, that stood on one of the lower cliffs, an holy strain, that seemed toascend through the silence of night to heaven, and her thoughts ascendedwith it. From the consideration of His works, her mind arose to theadoration of the Deity, in His goodness and power; wherever she turnedher view, whether on the sleeping earth, or to the vast regions ofspace, glowing with worlds beyond the reach of human thought, thesublimity of God, and the majesty of His presence appeared. Her eyeswere filled with tears of awful love and admiration; and she felt thatpure devotion, superior to all the distinctions of human system, whichlifts the soul above this world, and seems to expand it into a noblernature; such devotion as can, perhaps, only be experienced, whenthe mind, rescued, for a moment, from the humbleness of earthlyconsiderations, aspires to contemplate His power in the sublimity of Hisworks, and His goodness in the infinity of His blessings. 

 Is it not now the hour, The holy hour, when to the cloudless height Of yon starred concave climbs the full-orbed moon, And to this nether world in solemn stillness, Gives sign, that, to the list'ning ear of Heaven Religion's voice should plead? The very babe Knows this, and, chance awak'd, his little hands Lifts to the gods, and on his innocent couch Calls down a blessing. * *Caractacus

The midnight chant of the monks soon after dropped into silence; butEmily remained at the casement, watching the setting moon, and thevalley sinking into deep shade, and willing to prolong her present stateof mind. At length she retired to her mattress, and sunk into tranquilslumber. 

CHAPTER V

 While in the rosy vale Love breath'd his infant sighs, from anguish free. Thomson

St. Aubert, sufficiently restored by a night's repose to pursue hisjourney, set out in the morning, with his family and Valancourt, forRousillon, which he hoped to reach before night-fall. The scenes, through which they now passed, were as wild and romantic, as any theyhad yet observed, with this difference, that beauty, every now and then, softened the landscape into smiles. Little woody recesses appeared amongthe mountains, covered with bright verdure and flowers; or a pastoralvalley opened its grassy bosom in the shade of the cliffs, with flocksand herds loitering along the banks of a rivulet, that refreshed itwith perpetual green. St. Aubert could not repent the having taken thisfatiguing road, though he was this day, also, frequently obliged toalight, to walk along the rugged precipice, and to climb the steep andflinty mountain. The wonderful sublimity and variety of the prospectsrepaid him for all this, and the enthusiasm, with which they were viewedby his young companions, heightened his own, and awakened a remembranceof all the delightful emotions of his early days, when the sublimecharms of nature were first unveiled to him. He found great pleasure inconversing with Valancourt, and in listening to his ingenuousremarks. The fire and simplicity of his manners seemed to render hima characteristic figure in the scenes around them; and St. Aubertdiscovered in his sentiments the justness and the dignity of an elevatedmind, unbiased by intercourse with the world. He perceived, that hisopinions were formed, rather than imbibed; were more the result ofthought, than of learning. Of the world he seemed to know nothing; forhe believed well of all mankind, and this opinion gave him the reflectedimage of his own heart. 

St. Aubert, as he sometimes lingered to examine the wild plants in hispath, often looked forward with pleasure to Emily and Valancourt, asthey strolled on together; he, with a countenance of animated delight, pointing to her attention some grand feature of the scene; and she, listening and observing with a look of tender seriousness, that spokethe elevation of her mind. They appeared like two lovers who hadnever strayed beyond these their native mountains; whose situation hadsecluded them from the frivolities of common life, whose ideas weresimple and grand, like the landscapes among which they moved, and whoknew no other happiness, than in the union of pure and affectionatehearts. St. Aubert smiled, and sighed at the romantic picture offelicity his fancy drew; and sighed again to think, that nature andsimplicity were so little known to the world, as that their pleasureswere thought romantic. 

'The world, ' said he, pursuing this train of thought, 'ridicules apassion which it seldom feels; its scenes, and its interests, distractthe mind, deprave the taste, corrupt the heart, and love cannot existin a heart that has lost the meek dignity of innocence. Virtue and tasteare nearly the same, for virtue is little more than active taste, andthe most delicate affections of each combine in real love. How then arewe to look for love in great cities, where selfishness, dissipation, andinsincerity supply the place of tenderness, simplicity and truth?'

It was near noon, when the travellers, having arrived at a piece ofsteep and dangerous road, alighted to walk. The road wound up an ascent, that was clothed with wood, and, instead of following the carriage, theyentered the refreshing shade. A dewy coolness was diffused upon the air, which, with the bright verdure of turf, that grew under the trees, themingled fragrance of flowers and of balm, thyme, and lavender, thatenriched it, and the grandeur of the pines, beech, and chestnuts, thatovershadowed them, rendered this a most delicious retreat. Sometimes, the thick foliage excluded all view of the country; at others, itadmitted some partial catches of the distant scenery, which gavehints to the imagination to picture landscapes more interesting, moreimpressive, than any that had been presented to the eye. The wanderersoften lingered to indulge in these reveries of fancy. 

The pauses of silence, such as had formerly interrupted theconversations of Valancourt and Emily, were more frequent today thanever. Valancourt often dropped suddenly from the most animating vivacityinto fits of deep musing, and there was, sometimes, an unaffectedmelancholy in his smile, which Emily could not avoid understanding, forher heart was interested in the sentiment it spoke. 

St. Aubert was refreshed by the shades, and they continued to saunterunder them, following, as nearly as they could guess, the direction ofthe road, till they perceived that they had totally lost it. They hadcontinued near the brow of the precipice, allured by the sceneryit exhibited, while the road wound far away over the cliff above. Valancourt called loudly to Michael, but heard no voice, except his own, echoing among the rocks, and his various efforts to regain the road wereequally unsuccessful. While they were thus circumstanced, they perceiveda shepherd's cabin, between the boles of the trees at some distance, andValancourt bounded on first to ask assistance. When he reached it, hesaw only two little children, at play, on the turf before the door. Helooked into the hut, but no person was there, and the eldest of the boystold him that their father was with his flocks, and their mother wasgone down into the vale, but would be back presently. As he stood, considering what was further to be done, on a sudden he heard Michael'svoice roaring forth most manfully among the cliffs above, till hemade their echoes ring. Valancourt immediately answered the call, andendeavoured to make his way through the thicket that clothed the steeps, following the direction of the sound. After much struggle over bramblesand precipices, he reached Michael, and at length prevailed with him tobe silent, and to listen to him. The road was at a considerable distancefrom the spot where St. Aubert and Emily were; the carriage could noteasily return to the entrance of the wood, and, since it would be veryfatiguing for St. Aubert to climb the long and steep road to the placewhere it now stood, Valancourt was anxious to find a more easy ascent, by the way he had himself passed. 

Meanwhile St. Aubert and Emily approached the cottage, and restedthemselves on a rustic bench, fastened between two pines, whichovershadowed it, till Valancourt, whose steps they had observed, shouldreturn. 

The eldest of the children desisted from his play, and stood still toobserve the strangers, while the younger continued his little gambols, and teased his brother to join in them. St. Aubert looked with pleasureupon this picture of infantine simplicity, till it brought to hisremembrance his own boys, whom he had lost about the age of these, andtheir lamented mother; and he sunk into a thoughtfulness, which Emilyobserving, she immediately began to sing one of those simple and livelyairs he was so fond of, and which she knew how to give with the mostcaptivating sweetness. St. Aubert smiled on her through his tears, tookher hand and pressed it affectionately, and then tried to dissipate themelancholy reflections that lingered in his mind. 

While she sung, Valancourt approached, who was unwilling to interrupther, and paused at a little distance to listen. When she had concluded, he joined the party, and told them, that he had found Michael, aswell as a way, by which he thought they could ascend the cliff tothe carriage. He pointed to the woody steeps above, which St. Aubertsurveyed with an anxious eye. He was already wearied by his walk, andthis ascent was formidable to him. He thought, however, it would be lesstoilsome than the long and broken road, and he determined to attempt it;but Emily, ever watchful of his ease, proposing that he should rest, anddine before they proceeded further, Valancourt went to the carriage forthe refreshments deposited there. 

On his return, he proposed removing a little higher up the mountain, towhere the woods opened upon a grand and extensive prospect; andthither they were preparing to go, when they saw a young woman join thechildren, and caress and weep over them. 

The travellers, interested by her distress, stopped to observe her. She took the youngest of the children in her arms, and, perceiving thestrangers, hastily dried her tears, and proceeded to the cottage. St. Aubert, on enquiring the occasion of her sorrow, learned that herhusband, who was a shepherd, and lived here in the summer months towatch over the flocks he led to feed upon these mountains, had lost, onthe preceding night, his little all. A gang of gipsies, who had for sometime infested the neighbourhood, had driven away several of his master'ssheep. 'Jacques, ' added the shepherd's wife, 'had saved a little money, and had bought a few sheep with it, and now they must go to his masterfor those that are stolen; and what is worse than all, his master, whenhe comes to know how it is, will trust him no longer with the care ofhis flocks, for he is a hard man! and then what is to become of ourchildren!'

The innocent countenance of the woman, and the simplicity of her mannerin relating her grievance, inclined St. Aubert to believe her story; andValancourt, convinced that it was true, asked eagerly what was the valueof the stolen sheep; on hearing which he turned away with a look ofdisappointment. St. Aubert put some money into her hand, Emily too gavesomething from her little purse, and they walked towards the cliff; butValancourt lingered behind, and spoke to the shepherd's wife, who wasnow weeping with gratitude and surprise. He enquired how much money wasyet wanting to replace the stolen sheep, and found, that it was asum very little short of all he had about him. He was perplexed anddistressed. 'This sum then, ' said he to himself, 'would make this poorfamily completely happy--it is in my power to give it--to make themcompletely happy! But what is to become of me?--how shall I contriveto reach home with the little money that will remain?' For a moment hestood, unwilling to forego the luxury of raising a family from ruin tohappiness, yet considering the difficulties of pursuing his journey withso small a sum as would be left. 

While he was in this state of perplexity, the shepherd himself appeared:his children ran to meet him; he took one of them in his arms, and, withthe other clinging to his coat, came forward with a loitering step. Hisforlorn and melancholy look determined Valancourt at once; he threw downall the money he had, except a very few louis, and bounded awayafter St. Aubert and Emily, who were proceeding slowly up the steep. Valancourt had seldom felt his heart so light as at this moment; hisgay spirits danced with pleasure; every object around him appeared moreinteresting, or beautiful, than before. St. Aubert observed the uncommonvivacity of his countenance: 'What has pleased you so much?' said he. 'O what a lovely day, ' replied Valancourt, 'how brightly the sunshines, how pure is this air, what enchanting scenery!' 'It is indeedenchanting, ' said St. Aubert, whom early experience had taught tounderstand the nature of Valancourt's present feelings. 'What pity thatthe wealthy, who can command such sunshine, should ever pass their daysin gloom--in the cold shade of selfishness! For you, my young friend, may the sun always shine as brightly as at this moment; may your ownconduct always give you the sunshine of benevolence and reason united!'

Valancourt, highly flattered by this compliment, could make no reply butby a smile of gratitude. 

They continued to wind under the woods, between the grassy knolls of themountain, and, as they reached the shady summit, which he had pointedout, the whole party burst into an exclamation. Behind the spotwhere they stood, the rock rose perpendicularly in a massy wall to aconsiderable height, and then branched out into overhanging crags. Theirgrey tints were well contrasted by the bright hues of the plants andwild flowers, that grew in their fractured sides, and were deepened bythe gloom of the pines and cedars, that waved above. The steeps below, over which the eye passed abruptly to the valley, were fringed withthickets of alpine shrubs; and, lower still, appeared the tufted tops ofthe chesnut woods, that clothed their base, among which peeped forth theshepherd's cottage, just left by the travellers, with its blueish smokecurling high in the air. On every side appeared the majestic summitsof the Pyrenees, some exhibiting tremendous crags of marble, whoseappearance was changing every instant, as the varying lights fell upontheir surface; others, still higher, displaying only snowy points, whiletheir lower steeps were covered almost invariably with forests of pine, larch, and oak, that stretched down to the vale. This was one ofthe narrow vallies, that open from the Pyrenees into the country ofRousillon, and whose green pastures, and cultivated beauty, form adecided and wonderful contrast to the romantic grandeur that environsit. Through a vista of the mountains appeared the lowlands of Rousillon, tinted with the blue haze of distance, as they united with the waters ofthe Mediterranean; where, on a promontory, which marked the boundary ofthe shore, stood a lonely beacon, over which were seen circling flightsof sea-fowl. Beyond, appeared, now and then, a stealing sail, white withthe sun-beam, and whose progress was perceivable by its approach to thelight-house. Sometimes, too, was seen a sail so distant, that it servedonly to mark the line of separation between the sky and the waves. 

On the other side of the valley, immediately opposite to the spot wherethe travellers rested, a rocky pass opened toward Gascony. Here no signof cultivation appeared. The rocks of granite, that screened the glen, rose abruptly from their base, and stretched their barren points to theclouds, unvaried with woods, and uncheered even by a hunter's cabin. Sometimes, indeed, a gigantic larch threw its long shade over theprecipice, and here and there a cliff reared on its brow a monumentalcross, to tell the traveller the fate of him who had ventured thitherbefore. This spot seemed the very haunt of banditti; and Emily, as shelooked down upon it, almost expected to see them stealing out fromsome hollow cave to look for their prey. Soon after an object not lessterrific struck her, --a gibbet standing on a point of rock near theentrance of the pass, and immediately over one of the crosses she hadbefore observed. These were hieroglyphics that told a plain and dreadfulstory. She forbore to point it out to St. Aubert, but it threw a gloomover her spirits, and made her anxious to hasten forward, thatthey might with certainty reach Rousillon before night-fall. It wasnecessary, however, that St. Aubert should take some refreshment, and, seating themselves on the short dry turf, they opened the basket ofprovisions, while

 by breezy murmurs cool'd, Broad o'er THEIR heads the verdant cedars wave, And high palmetos lift their graceful shade. -----THEY draw Ethereal soul, there drink reviving gales Profusely breathing from the piney groves, And vales of fragrance; there at a distance hear The roaring floods, and cataracts. * *Thomson

St. Aubert was revived by rest, and by the serene air of this summit;and Valancourt was so charmed with all around, and with the conversationof his companions, that he seemed to have forgotten he had any furtherto go. Having concluded their simple repast, they gave a long farewelllook to the scene, and again began to ascend. St. Aubert rejoiced whenhe reached the carriage, which Emily entered with him; but Valancourt, willing to take a more extensive view of the enchanting country, intowhich they were about to descend, than he could do from a carriage, loosened his dogs, and once more bounded with them along the banks ofthe road. He often quitted it for points that promised a wider prospect, and the slow pace, at which the mules travelled, allowed him to overtakethem with ease. Whenever a scene of uncommon magnificence appeared, hehastened to inform St. Aubert, who, though he was too much tired towalk himself, sometimes made the chaise wait, while Emily went to theneighbouring cliff. 

It was evening when they descended the lower alps, that bind Rousillon, and form a majestic barrier round that charming country, leaving it openonly on the east to the Mediterranean. The gay tints of cultivation oncemore beautified the landscape; for the lowlands were coloured with therichest hues, which a luxuriant climate, and an industrious people canawaken into life. Groves of orange and lemon perfumed the air, theirripe fruit glowing among the foliage; while, sloping to the plains, extensive vineyards spread their treasures. Beyond these, woods andpastures, and mingled towns and hamlets stretched towards the sea, onwhose bright surface gleamed many a distant sail; while, over the wholescene, was diffused the purple glow of evening. This landscape with thesurrounding alps did, indeed, present a perfect picture of the lovelyand the sublime, of 'beauty sleeping in the lap of horror. '

The travellers, having reached the plains, proceeded, between hedgesof flowering myrtle and pomegranate, to the town of Arles, wherethey proposed to rest for the night. They met with simple, but neataccommodation, and would have passed a happy evening, after the toilsand the delights of this day, had not the approaching separation throwna gloom over their spirit. It was St. Aubert's plan to proceed, on themorrow, to the borders of the Mediterranean, and travel along its shoresinto Languedoc; and Valancourt, since he was now nearly recovered, andhad no longer a pretence for continuing with his new friends, resolvedto leave them here. St. Aubert, who was much pleased with him, invitedhim to go further, but did not repeat the invitation, and Valancourthad resolution enough to forego the temptation of accepting it, thathe might prove himself not unworthy of the favour. On the followingmorning, therefore, they were to part, St. Aubert to pursue his way toLanguedoc, and Valancourt to explore new scenes among the mountains, onhis return home. During this evening he was often silent and thoughtful;St. Aubert's manner towards him was affectionate, though grave, andEmily was serious, though she made frequent efforts to appear cheerful. After one of the most melancholy evenings they had yet passed together, they separated for the night. 

CHAPTER VI

 I care not, Fortune! what you me deny; You cannot rob me of free nature's grace; You cannot shut the windows of the sky, Through which Aurora shews her brightening face; You cannot bar my constant feet to trace The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve: Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, And I their toys to the great children leave: Of fancy, reason, virtue, nought can me bereave. THOMSON

In the morning, Valancourt breakfasted with St. Aubert and Emily, neither of whom seemed much refreshed by sleep. The languor of illnessstill hung over St. Aubert, and to Emily's fears his disorder appearedto be increasing fast upon him. She watched his looks with anxiousaffection, and their expression was always faithfully reflected in herown. 

At the commencement of their acquaintance, Valancourt had made known hisname and family. St. Aubert was not a stranger to either, for thefamily estates, which were now in the possession of an elder brother ofValancourt, were little more than twenty miles distant from LaVallee, and he had sometimes met the elder Valancourt on visits in theneighbourhood. This knowledge had made him more willingly receive hispresent companion; for, though his countenance and manners would havewon him the acquaintance of St. Aubert, who was very apt to trust to theintelligence of his own eyes, with respect to countenances, he wouldnot have accepted these, as sufficient introductions to that of hisdaughter. 

The breakfast was almost as silent as the supper of the preceding night;but their musing was at length interrupted by the sound of the carriagewheels, which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily. Valancourt startedfrom his chair, and went to the window; it was indeed the carriage, andhe returned to his seat without speaking. The moment was now come whenthey must part. St. Aubert told Valancourt, that he hoped he wouldnever pass La Vallee without favouring him with a visit; and Valancourt, eagerly thanking him, assured him that he never would; as he said whichhe looked timidly at Emily, who tried to smile away the seriousness ofher spirits. They passed a few minutes in interesting conversation, and St. Aubert then led the way to the carriage, Emily and Valancourtfollowing in silence. The latter lingered at the door several minutesafter they were seated, and none of the party seemed to have courageenough to say--Farewell. At length, St. Aubert pronounced the melancholyword, which Emily passed to Valancourt, who returned it, with a dejectedsmile, and the carriage drove on. 

The travellers remained, for some time, in a state of tranquilpensiveness, which is not unpleasing. St. Aubert interrupted it byobserving, 'This is a very promising young man; it is many years since Ihave been so much pleased with any person, on so short an acquaintance. He brings back to my memory the days of my youth, when every scene wasnew and delightful!' St. Aubert sighed, and sunk again into a reverie;and, as Emily looked back upon the road they had passed, Valancourt wasseen, at the door of the little inn, following them with his eyes. Herperceived her, and waved his hand; and she returned the adieu, till thewinding road shut her from his sight. 

'I remember when I was about his age, ' resumed St. Aubert, 'and Ithought, and felt exactly as he does. The world was opening upon methen, now--it is closing. '

'My dear sir, do not think so gloomily, ' said Emily in a tremblingvoice, 'I hope you have many, many years to live--for your own sake--forMY sake. '

'Ah, my Emily!' replied St. Aubert, 'for thy sake! Well--I hope it isso. ' He wiped away a tear, that was stealing down his cheek, threw asmile upon his countenance, and said in a cheering voice, 'thereis something in the ardour and ingenuousness of youth, which isparticularly pleasing to the contemplation of an old man, if hisfeelings have not been entirely corroded by the world. It is cheeringand reviving, like the view of spring to a sick person; his mind catchessomewhat of the spirit of the season, and his eyes are lighted up with atransient sunshine. Valancourt is this spring to me. '

Emily, who pressed her father's hand affectionately, had never beforelistened with so much pleasure to the praises he bestowed; no, not evenwhen he had bestowed them on herself. 

They travelled on, among vineyards, woods, and pastures, delighted withthe romantic beauty of the landscape, which was bounded, on one side, bythe grandeur of the Pyrenees, and, on the other, by the ocean; and, soon after noon, they reached the town of Colioure, situated on theMediterranean. Here they dined, and rested till towards the cool ofday, when they pursued their way along the shores--those enchantingshores!--which extend to Languedoc. Emily gazed with enthusiasm on thevastness of the sea, its surface varying, as the lights and shadowsfell, and on its woody banks, mellowed with autumnal tints. 

St. Aubert was impatient to reach Perpignan, where he expected lettersfrom M. Quesnel; and it was the expectation of these letters, thathad induced him to leave Colioure, for his feeble frame had requiredimmediate rest. After travelling a few miles, he fell asleep; and Emily, who had put two or three books into the carriage, on leaving La Vallee, had now the leisure for looking into them. She sought for one, in whichValancourt had been reading the day before, and hoped for the pleasureof re-tracing a page, over which the eyes of a beloved friend hadlately passed, of dwelling on the passages, which he had admired, and ofpermitting them to speak to her in the language of his own mind, and tobring himself to her presence. On searching for the book, she could findit no where, but in its stead perceived a volume of Petrarch's poems, that had belonged to Valancourt, whose name was written in it, and fromwhich he had frequently read passages to her, with all the patheticexpression, that characterized the feelings of the author. She hesitatedin believing, what would have been sufficiently apparent to almost anyother person, that he had purposely left this book, instead of theone she had lost, and that love had prompted the exchange; but, havingopened it with impatient pleasure, and observed the lines of his pencildrawn along the various passages he had read aloud, and under othersmore descriptive of delicate tenderness than he had dared to trusthis voice with, the conviction came, at length, to her mind. For somemoments she was conscious only of being beloved; then, a recollectionof all the variations of tone and countenance, with which he had recitedthese sonnets, and of the soul, which spoke in their expression, pressedto her memory, and she wept over the memorial of his affection. 

They arrived at Perpignan soon after sunset, where St. Aubert found, as he had expected, letters from M. Quesnel, the contents of whichso evidently and grievously affected him, that Emily was alarmed, and pressed him, as far as her delicacy would permit, to disclosethe occasion of his concern; but he answered her only by tears, andimmediately began to talk on other topics. Emily, though she forboreto press the one most interesting to her, was greatly affected by herfather's manner, and passed a night of sleepless solicitude. 

In the morning they pursued their journey along the coast towardsLeucate, another town on the Mediterranean, situated on the borders ofLanguedoc and Rousillon. On the way, Emily renewed the subject of thepreceding night, and appeared so deeply affected by St. Aubert's silenceand dejection, that he relaxed from his reserve. 'I was unwilling, mydear Emily, ' said he, 'to throw a cloud over the pleasure you receivefrom these scenes, and meant, therefore, to conceal, for the present, some circumstances, with which, however, you must at length have beenmade acquainted. But your anxiety has defeated my purpose; you suffer asmuch from this, perhaps, as you will do from a knowledge of the facts Ihave to relate. M. Quesnel's visit proved an unhappy one to me; he cameto tell me part of the news he has now confirmed. You may have heard memention a M. Motteville, of Paris, but you did not know that thechief of my personal property was invested in his hands. I had greatconfidence in him, and I am yet willing to believe, that he is notwholly unworthy of my esteem. A variety of circumstances have concurredto ruin him, and--I am ruined with him. '

St. Aubert paused to conceal his emotion. 

'The letters I have just received from M. Quesnel, ' resumed he, struggling to speak with firmness, 'enclosed others from Motteville, which confirmed all I dreaded. '

'Must we then quit La Vallee?' said Emily, after a long pause ofsilence. 'That is yet uncertain, ' replied St. Aubert, 'it will dependupon the compromise Motteville is able to make with his creditors. Myincome, you know, was never large, and now it will be reduced tolittle indeed! It is for you, Emily, for you, my child, that I am mostafflicted. ' His last words faltered; Emily smiled tenderly upon himthrough her tears, and then, endeavouring to overcome her emotion, 'Mydear father, ' said she, 'do not grieve for me, or for yourself; we mayyet be happy;--if La Vallee remains for us, we must be happy. We willretain only one servant, and you shall scarcely perceive the change inyour income. Be comforted, my dear sir; we shall not feel the want ofthose luxuries, which others value so highly, since we never had a tastefor them; and poverty cannot deprive us of many consolations. It cannotrob us of the affection we have for each other, or degrade us in our ownopinion, or in that of any person, whose opinion we ought to value. '

St. Aubert concealed his face with his handkerchief, and was unableto speak; but Emily continued to urge to her father the truths, whichhimself had impressed upon her mind. 

'Besides, my dear sir, poverty cannot deprive us of intellectualdelights. It cannot deprive you of the comfort of affording me examplesof fortitude and benevolence; nor me of the delight of consoling abeloved parent. It cannot deaden our taste for the grand, and thebeautiful, or deny us the means of indulging it; for the scenesof nature--those sublime spectacles, so infinitely superior to allartificial luxuries! are open for the enjoyment of the poor, as well asof the rich. Of what, then, have we to complain, so long as we are notin want of necessaries? Pleasures, such as wealth cannot buy, will stillbe ours. We retain, then, the sublime luxuries of nature, and lose onlythe frivolous ones of art. '

St. Aubert could not reply: he caught Emily to his bosom, their tearsflowed together, but--they were not tears of sorrow. After this languageof the heart, all other would have been feeble, and they remained silentfor some time. Then, St. Aubert conversed as before; for, if his mindhad not recovered its natural tranquillity, it at least assumed theappearance of it. 

They reached the romantic town of Leucate early in the day, but St. Aubert was weary, and they determined to pass the night there. In theevening, he exerted himself so far as to walk with his daughter to viewthe environs that overlook the lake of Leucate, the Mediterranean, partof Rousillon, with the Pyrenees, and a wide extent of the luxuriantprovince of Languedoc, now blushing with the ripened vintage, which thepeasants were beginning to gather. St. Aubert and Emily saw the busygroups, caught the joyous song, that was wafted on the breeze, andanticipated, with apparent pleasure, their next day's journey over thisgay region. He designed, however, still to wind along the sea-shore. To return home immediately was partly his wish, but from this he waswithheld by a desire to lengthen the pleasure, which the journey gavehis daughter, and to try the effect of the sea air on his own disorder. 

On the following day, therefore, they recommenced their journey throughLanguedoc, winding the shores of the Mediterranean; the Pyrenees stillforming the magnificent back-ground of their prospects, while on theirright was the ocean, and, on their left, wide extended plains meltinginto the blue horizon. St. Aubert was pleased, and conversed much withEmily, yet his cheerfulness was sometimes artificial, and sometimes ashade of melancholy would steal upon his countenance, and betray him. This was soon chased away by Emily's smile; who smiled, however, with anaching heart, for she saw that his misfortunes preyed upon his mind, andupon his enfeebled frame. 

It was evening when they reached a small village of Upper Languedoc, where they meant to pass the night, but the place could not affordthem beds; for here, too, it was the time of the vintage, and theywere obliged to proceed to the next post. The languor of illness and offatigue, which returned upon St. Aubert, required immediate repose, and the evening was now far advanced; but from necessity there was noappeal, and he ordered Michael to proceed. 

The rich plains of Languedoc, which exhibited all the glories of thevintage, with the gaieties of a French festival, no longer awakened St. Aubert to pleasure, whose condition formed a mournful contrast to thehilarity and youthful beauty which surrounded him. As his languid eyesmoved over the scene, he considered, that they would soon, perhaps, beclosed for ever on this world. 'Those distant and sublime mountains, 'said he secretly, as he gazed on a chain of the Pyrenees that stretchedtowards the west, 'these luxuriant plains, this blue vault, the cheerfullight of day, will be shut from my eyes! The song of the peasant, thecheering voice of man--will no longer sound for me!'

The intelligent eyes of Emily seemed to read what passed in the mind ofher father, and she fixed them on his face, with an expression of suchtender pity, as recalled his thoughts from every desultory object ofregret, and he remembered only, that he must leave his daughter withoutprotection. This reflection changed regret to agony; he sighed deeply, and remained silent, while she seemed to understand that sigh, forshe pressed his hand affectionately, and then turned to the window toconceal her tears. The sun now threw a last yellow gleam on the waves ofthe Mediterranean, and the gloom of twilight spread fast over the scene, till only a melancholy ray appeared on the western horizon, marking thepoint where the sun had set amid the vapours of an autumnal evening. Acool breeze now came from the shore, and Emily let down the glass; butthe air, which was refreshing to health, was as chilling to sickness, and St. Aubert desired, that the window might be drawn up. Increasingillness made him now more anxious than ever to finish the day's journey, and he stopped the muleteer to enquire how far they had yet to go to thenext post. He replied, 'Nine miles. ' 'I feel I am unable to proceed muchfurther, ' said St. Aubert; 'enquire, as you go, if there is any house onthe road that would accommodate us for the night. ' He sunk back inthe carriage, and Michael, cracking his whip in the air, set off, andcontinued on the full gallop, till St. Aubert, almost fainting, calledto him to stop. Emily looked anxiously from the window, and saw apeasant walking at some little distance on the road, for whom theywaited, till he came up, when he was asked, if there was any house inthe neighbourhood that accommodated travellers. He replied, that he knewof none. 'There is a chateau, indeed, among those woods on the right, 'added he, 'but I believe it receives nobody, and I cannot show you theway, for I am almost a stranger here. ' St. Aubert was going to askhim some further question concerning the chateau, but the man abruptlypassed on. After some consideration, he ordered Michael to proceedslowly to the woods. Every moment now deepened the twilight, andincreased the difficulty of finding the road. Another peasant soon afterpassed. 'Which is the way to the chateau in the woods?' cried Michael. 

'The chateau in the woods!' exclaimed the peasant--'Do you mean thatwith the turret, yonder?'

'I don't know as for the turret, as you call it, ' said Michael, 'I meanthat white piece of a building, that we see at a distance there, amongthe trees. '

'Yes, that is the turret; why, who are you, that you are going thither?'said the man with surprise. 

St. Aubert, on hearing this odd question, and observing the peculiartone in which it was delivered, looked out from the carriage. 'We aretravellers, ' said he, 'who are in search of a house of accommodation forthe night; is there any hereabout?'

'None, Monsieur, unless you have a mind to try your luck yonder, 'replied the peasant, pointing to the woods, 'but I would not advise youto go there. '

'To whom does the chateau belong?'

'I scarcely know myself, Monsieur. '

'It is uninhabited, then?' 'No, not uninhabited; the steward andhousekeeper are there, I believe. '

On hearing this, St. Aubert determined to proceed to the chateau, andrisque the refusal of being accommodated for the night; he thereforedesired the countryman would shew Michael the way, and bade him expectreward for his trouble. The man was for a moment silent, and then said, that he was going on other business, but that the road could not bemissed, if they went up an avenue to the right, to which he pointed. St. Aubert was going to speak, but the peasant wished him good night, andwalked on. 

The carriage now moved towards the avenue, which was guarded by a gate, and Michael having dismounted to open it, they entered between rows ofancient oak and chesnut, whose intermingled branches formed a lofty archabove. There was something so gloomy and desolate in the appearance ofthis avenue, and its lonely silence, that Emily almost shuddered asshe passed along; and, recollecting the manner in which the peasant hadmentioned the chateau, she gave a mysterious meaning to his words, suchas she had not suspected when he uttered them. These apprehensions, however, she tried to check, considering that they were probably theeffect of a melancholy imagination, which her father's situation, anda consideration of her own circumstances, had made sensible to everyimpression. 

They passed slowly on, for they were now almost in darkness, which, together with the unevenness of the ground, and the frequent roots ofold trees, that shot up above the soil, made it necessary to proceedwith caution. On a sudden Michael stopped the carriage; and, as St. Aubert looked from the window to enquire the cause, he perceived afigure at some distance moving up the avenue. The dusk would not permithim to distinguish what it was, but he bade Michael go on. 

'This seems a wild place, ' said Michael; 'there is no house hereabout, don't your honour think we had better turn back?'

'Go a little farther, and if we see no house then, we will return to theroad, ' replied St. Aubert. 

Michael proceeded with reluctance, and the extreme slowness of his pacemade St. Aubert look again from the window to hasten him, when again hesaw the same figure. He was somewhat startled: probably the gloominessof the spot made him more liable to alarm than usual; however thismight be, he now stopped Michael, and bade him call to the person in theavenue. 

'Please your honour, he may be a robber, ' said Michael. 'It does notplease me, ' replied St. Aubert, who could not forbear smiling at thesimplicity of his phrase, 'and we will, therefore, return to the road, for I see no probability of meeting here with what we seek. '

Michael turned about immediately, and was retracing his way withalacrity, when a voice was heard from among the trees on the left. Itwas not the voice of command, or distress, but a deep hollow tone, whichseemed to be scarcely human. The man whipped his mules till they went asfast as possible, regardless of the darkness, the broken ground, andthe necks of the whole party, nor once stopped till he reached the gate, which opened from the avenue into the high-road, where he went into amore moderate pace. 

'I am very ill, ' said St. Aubert, taking his daughter's hand. 'You areworse, then, sir!' said Emily, extremely alarmed by his manner, 'youare worse, and here is no assistance. Good God! what is to be done!' Heleaned his head on her shoulder, while she endeavoured to support himwith her arm, and Michael was again ordered to stop. When the rattlingof the wheels had ceased, music was heard on their air; it was to Emilythe voice of Hope. 'Oh! we are near some human habitation!' said she, 'help may soon be had. '

She listened anxiously; the sounds were distant, and seemed to come froma remote part of the woods that bordered the road; and, as she lookedtowards the spot whence they issued, she perceived in the faintmoon-light something like a chateau. It was difficult, however, to reachthis; St. Aubert was now too ill to bear the motion of the carriage;Michael could not quit his mules; and Emily, who still supported herfather, feared to leave him, and also feared to venture alone to such adistance, she knew not whither, or to whom. Something, however, it wasnecessary to determine upon immediately; St. Aubert, therefore, toldMichael to proceed slowly; but they had not gone far, when he fainted, and the carriage was again stopped. He lay quite senseless. --'My dear, dear father!' cried Emily in great agony, who began to fear that he wasdying, 'speak, if it is only one word to let me hear the sound of yourvoice!' But no voice spoke in reply. In the agony of terror she badeMichael bring water from the rivulet, that flowed along the road;and, having received some in the man's hat, with trembling hands shesprinkled it over her father's face, which, as the moon's rays nowfell upon it, seemed to bear the impression of death. Every emotion ofselfish fear now gave way to a stronger influence, and, committing St. Aubert to the care of Michael, who refused to go far from his mules, she stepped from the carriage in search of the chateau she had seen ata distance. It was a still moon-light night, and the music, which yetsounded on the air, directed her steps from the high road, up a shadowylane, that led to the woods. Her mind was for some time so entirelyoccupied by anxiety and terror for her father, that she felt none forherself, till the deepening gloom of the overhanging foliage, which nowwholly excluded the moon-light, and the wildness of the place, recalledher to a sense of her adventurous situation. The music had ceased, and she had no guide but chance. For a moment she paused in terrifiedperplexity, till a sense of her father's condition again overcomingevery consideration for herself, she proceeded. The lane terminated inthe woods, but she looked round in vain for a house, or a human being, and as vainly listened for a sound to guide her. She hurried on, however, not knowing whither, avoiding the recesses of the woods, andendeavouring to keep along their margin, till a rude kind of avenue, which opened upon a moon-light spot, arrested her attention. Thewildness of this avenue brought to her recollection the one leading tothe turreted chateau, and she was inclined to believe, that this was apart of the same domain, and probably led to the same point. While shehesitated, whether to follow it or not, a sound of many voices in loudmerriment burst upon her ear. It seemed not the laugh of cheerfulness, but of riot, and she stood appalled. While she paused, she heard adistant voice, calling from the way she had come, and not doubting butit was that of Michael, her first impulse was to hasten back; but asecond thought changed her purpose; she believed that nothing less thanthe last extremity could have prevailed with Michael to quit his mules, and fearing that her father was now dying, she rushed forward, with afeeble hope of obtaining assistance from the people in the woods. Herheart beat with fearful expectation, as she drew near the spot whencethe voices issued, and she often startled when her steps disturbed thefallen leaves. The sounds led her towards the moon-light glade she hadbefore noticed; at a little distance from which she stopped, and saw, between the boles of the trees, a small circular level of green turf, surrounded by the woods, on which appeared a group of figures. Ondrawing nearer, she distinguished these, by their dress, to be peasants, and perceived several cottages scattered round the edge of the woods, which waved loftily over this spot. While she gazed, and endeavouredto overcome the apprehensions that withheld her steps, several peasantgirls came out of a cottage; music instantly struck up, and the dancebegan. It was the joyous music of the vintage! the same she had beforeheard upon the air. Her heart, occupied with terror for her father, could not feel the contrast, which this gay scene offered to her owndistress; she stepped hastily forward towards a group of elder peasants, who were seated at the door of a cottage, and, having explained hersituation, entreated their assistance. Several of them rose withalacrity, and, offering any service in their power, followed Emily, whoseemed to move on the wind, as fast as they could towards the road. 

When she reached the carriage she found St. Aubert restored toanimation. On the recovery of his senses, having heard from Michaelwhither his daughter was gone, anxiety for her overcame every regard forhimself, and he had sent him in search of her. He was, however, stilllanguid, and, perceiving himself unable to travel much farther, herenewed his enquiries for an inn, and concerning the chateau in thewoods. 'The chateau cannot accommodate you, sir, ' said a venerablepeasant who had followed Emily from the woods, 'it is scarcelyinhabited; but, if you will do me the honour to visit my cottage, youshall be welcome to the best bed it affords. '

St. Aubert was himself a Frenchman; he therefore was not surprised atFrench courtesy; but, ill as he was, he felt the value of the offerenhanced by the manner which accompanied it. He had too much delicacyto apologize, or to appear to hesitate about availing himself ofthe peasant's hospitality, but immediately accepted it with the samefrankness with which it was offered. 

The carriage again moved slowly on; Michael following the peasants upthe lane, which Emily had just quitted, till they came to the moon-lightglade. St. Aubert's spirits were so far restored by the courtesy ofhis host, and the near prospect of repose, that he looked with a sweetcomplacency upon the moon-light scene, surrounded by the shadowywoods, through which, here and there, an opening admitted the streamingsplendour, discovering a cottage, or a sparkling rivulet. He listened, with no painful emotion, to the merry notes of the guitar and tamborine;and, though tears came to his eyes, when he saw the debonnaire dance ofthe peasants, they were not merely tears of mournful regret. With Emilyit was otherwise; immediate terror for her father had now subsided intoa gentle melancholy, which every note of joy, by awakening comparison, served to heighten. 

The dance ceased on the approach of the carriage, which was a phenomenonin these sequestered woods, and the peasantry flocked round it witheager curiosity. On learning that it brought a sick stranger, severalgirls ran across the turf, and returned with wine and baskets of grapes, which they presented to the travellers, each with kind contentionpressing for a preference. At length, the carriage stopped at a neatcottage, and his venerable conductor, having assisted St. Aubert toalight, led him and Emily to a small inner room, illuminated only bymoon-beams, which the open casement admitted. St. Aubert, rejoicing inrest, seated himself in an arm-chair, and his senses were refreshed bythe cool and balmy air, that lightly waved the embowering honeysuckles, and wafted their sweet breath into the apartment. His host, who wascalled La Voisin, quitted the room, but soon returned with fruits, cream, and all the pastoral luxury his cottage afforded; having set downwhich, with a smile of unfeigned welcome, he retired behind the chair ofhis guest. St. Aubert insisted on his taking a seat at the table, and, when the fruit had allayed the fever of his palate, and he found himselfsomewhat revived, he began to converse with his host, who communicatedseveral particulars concerning himself and his family, which wereinteresting, because they were spoken from the heart, and delineateda picture of the sweet courtesies of family kindness. Emily sat by herfather, holding his hand, and, while she listened to the old man, herheart swelled with the affectionate sympathy he described, and hertears fell to the mournful consideration, that death would probablysoon deprive her of the dearest blessing she then possessed. The softmoon-light of an autumnal evening, and the distant music, which nowsounded a plaintive strain, aided the melancholy of her mind. The oldman continued to talk of his family, and St. Aubert remained silent. 'I have only one daughter living, ' said La Voisin, 'but she is happilymarried, and is every thing to me. When I lost my wife, ' he added witha sigh, 'I came to live with Agnes, and her family; she has severalchildren, who are all dancing on the green yonder, as merry asgrasshoppers--and long may they be so! I hope to die among them, monsieur. I am old now, and cannot expect to live long, but there issome comfort in dying surrounded by one's children. '

'My good friend, ' said St. Aubert, while his voice trembled, 'I hope youwill long live surrounded by them. '

'Ah, sir! at my age I must not expect that!' replied the old man, and hepaused: 'I can scarcely wish it, ' he resumed, 'for I trust that wheneverI die I shall go to heaven, where my poor wife is gone before me. I cansometimes almost fancy I see her of a still moon-light night, walkingamong these shades she loved so well. Do you believe, monsieur, thatwe shall be permitted to revisit the earth, after we have quitted thebody?'

Emily could no longer stifle the anguish of her heart; her tears fellfast upon her father's hand, which she yet held. He made an effort tospeak, and at length said in a low voice, 'I hope we shall be permittedto look down on those we have left on the earth, but I can only hope it. Futurity is much veiled from our eyes, and faith and hope are our onlyguides concerning it. We are not enjoined to believe, that disembodiedspirits watch over the friends they have loved, but we may innocentlyhope it. It is a hope which I will never resign, ' continued he, whilehe wiped the tears from his daughter's eyes, 'it will sweeten the bittermoments of death!' Tears fell slowly on his cheeks; La Voisin wept too, and there was a pause of silence. Then, La Voisin, renewing the subject, said, 'But you believe, sir, that we shall meet in another world therelations we have loved in this; I must believe this. ' 'Then dobelieve it, ' replied St. Aubert, 'severe, indeed, would be the pangs ofseparation, if we believed it to be eternal. Look up, my dear Emily, we shall meet again!' He lifted his eyes towards heaven, and a gleamof moon-light, which fell upon his countenance, discovered peace andresignation, stealing on the lines of sorrow. 

La Voisin felt that he had pursued the subject too far, and he droppedit, saying, 'We are in darkness, I forgot to bring a light. '

'No, ' said St. Aubert, 'this is a light I love. Sit down, my goodfriend. Emily, my love, I find myself better than I have been all day;this air refreshes me. I can enjoy this tranquil hour, and that music, which floats so sweetly at a distance. Let me see you smile. Who touchesthat guitar so tastefully? are there two instruments, or is it an echo Ihear?'

'It is an echo, monsieur, I fancy. That guitar is often heard at night, when all is still, but nobody knows who touches it, and it is sometimesaccompanied by a voice so sweet, and so sad, one would almost think thewoods were haunted. ' 'They certainly are haunted, ' said St. Aubert witha smile, 'but I believe it is by mortals. ' 'I have sometimes heard itat midnight, when I could not sleep, ' rejoined La Voisin, not seeming tonotice this remark, 'almost under my window, and I never heard any musiclike it. It has often made me think of my poor wife till I cried. I havesometimes got up to the window to look if I could see anybody, but assoon as I opened the casement all was hushed, and nobody to be seen; andI have listened, and listened till I have been so timorous, that eventhe trembling of the leaves in the breeze has made me start. They sayit often comes to warn people of their death, but I have heard it thesemany years, and outlived the warning. '

Emily, though she smiled at the mention of this ridiculous superstition, could not, in the present tone of her spirits, wholly resist itscontagion. 

'Well, but, my good friend, ' said St. Aubert, 'has nobody had courage tofollow the sounds? If they had, they would probably have discovered whois the musician. ' 'Yes, sir, they have followed them some way into thewoods, but the music has still retreated, and seemed as distant as ever, and the people have at last been afraid of being led into harm, andwould go no further. It is very seldom that I have heard these sounds soearly in the evening. They usually come about midnight, when that brightplanet, which is rising above the turret yonder, sets below the woods onthe left. '

'What turret?' asked St. Aubert with quickness, 'I see none. '

'Your pardon, monsieur, you do see one indeed, for the moon shines fullupon it;--up the avenue yonder, a long way off; the chateau it belongsto is hid among the trees. '

'Yes, my dear sir, ' said Emily, pointing, 'don't you see somethingglitter above the dark woods? It is a fane, I fancy, which the rays fallupon. '

'O yes, I see what you mean; and who does the chateau belong to?'

'The Marquis de Villeroi was its owner, ' replied La Voisin, emphatically. 

'Ah!' said St. Aubert, with a deep sigh, 'are we then so near Le-Blanc!'He appeared much agitated. 

'It used to be the Marquis's favourite residence, ' resumed La Voisin, 'but he took a dislike to the place, and has not been there for manyyears. We have heard lately that he is dead, and that it is fallen intoother hands. ' St. Aubert, who had sat in deep musing, was roused by thelast words. 'Dead!' he exclaimed, 'Good God! when did he die?'

'He is reported to have died about five weeks since, ' replied La Voisin. 'Did you know the Marquis, sir?'

'This is very extraordinary!' said St. Aubert without attending to thequestion. 'Why is it so, my dear sir?' said Emily, in a voice of timidcuriosity. He made no reply, but sunk again into a reverie; and in afew moments, when he seemed to have recovered himself, asked who hadsucceeded to the estates. 'I have forgot his title, monsieur, ' said LaVoisin; 'but my lord resides at Paris chiefly; I hear no talk of hiscoming hither. '

'The chateau is shut up then, still?'

'Why, little better, sir; the old housekeeper, and her husband thesteward, have the care of it, but they live generally in a cottage hardby. '

'The chateau is spacious, I suppose, ' said Emily, 'and must be desolatefor the residence of only two persons. '

'Desolate enough, mademoiselle, ' replied La Voisin, 'I would not passone night in the chateau, for the value of the whole domain. '

'What is that?' said St. Aubert, roused again from thoughtfulness. Ashis host repeated his last sentence, a groan escaped from St. Aubert, and then, as if anxious to prevent it from being noticed, he hastilyasked La Voisin how long he had lived in this neighbourhood. 'Almostfrom my childhood, sir, ' replied his host. 

'You remember the late marchioness, then?' said St. Aubert in an alteredvoice. 

'Ah, monsieur!--that I do well. There are many besides me who rememberher. '

'Yes--' said St. Aubert, 'and I am one of those. '

'Alas, sir! you remember, then, a most beautiful and excellent lady. Shedeserved a better fate. '

Tears stood in St. Aubert's eyes; 'Enough, ' said he, in a voice almoststifled by the violence of his emotions, --'it is enough, my friend. '

Emily, though extremely surprised by her father's manner, forbore toexpress her feelings by any question. La Voisin began to apologize, butSt. Aubert interrupted him; 'Apology is quite unnecessary, ' said he, 'let us change the topic. You was speaking of the music we just nowheard. '

'I was, monsieur--but hark!--it comes again; listen to that voice!' Theywere all silent;

 At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound Rose, like a stream of rich distilled perfumes, And stole upon the air, that even Silence Was took ere she was 'ware, and wished she might Deny her nature, and be never more Still, to be so displaced. * *Milton. 

In a few moments the voice died into air, and the instrument, which hadbeen heard before, sounded in low symphony. St. Aubert now observed, that it produced a tone much more full and melodious than that of aguitar, and still more melancholy and soft than the lute. They continuedto listen, but the sounds returned no more. 'This is strange!' said St. Aubert, at length interrupting the silence. 'Very strange!' said Emily. 'It is so, ' rejoined La Voisin, and they were again silent. 

After a long pause, 'It is now about eighteen years since I first heardthat music, ' said La Voisin; 'I remember it was on a fine summer'snight, much like this, but later, that I was walking in the woods, andalone. I remember, too, that my spirits were very low, for one of myboys was ill, and we feared we should lose him. I had been watching athis bed-side all the evening while his mother slept; for she had satup with him the night before. I had been watching, and went out for alittle fresh air, the day had been very sultry. As I walked under theshades and mused, I heard music at a distance, and thought it wasClaude playing upon his flute, as he often did of a fine evening, atthe cottage door. But, when I came to a place where the trees opened, (Ishall never forget it!) and stood looking up at the north-lights, whichshot up the heaven to a great height, I heard all of a sudden suchsounds!--they came so as I cannot describe. It was like the music ofangels, and I looked up again almost expecting to see them in the sky. When I came home, I told what I had heard, but they laughed at me, andsaid it must be some of the shepherds playing on their pipes, and Icould not persuade them to the contrary. A few nights after, however, mywife herself heard the same sounds, and was as much surprised as I was, and Father Denis frightened her sadly by saying, that it was music cometo warn her of her child's death, and that music often came to houseswhere there was a dying person. '

Emily, on hearing this, shrunk with a superstitious dread entirely newto her, and could scarcely conceal her agitation from St. Aubert. 

'But the boy lived, monsieur, in spite of Father Denis. '

'Father Denis!' said St. Aubert, who had listened to 'narrative old age'with patient attention, 'are we near a convent, then?'

'Yes, sir; the convent of St. Clair stands at no great distance, on thesea shore yonder. '

'Ah!' said St. Aubert, as if struck with some sudden remembrance, 'theconvent of St. Clair!' Emily observed the clouds of grief, mingled witha faint expression of horror, gathering on his brow; his countenancebecame fixed, and, touched as it now was by the silver whiteness ofthe moon-light, he resembled one of those marble statues of a monument, which seem to bend, in hopeless sorrow, over the ashes of the dead, shewn

 by the blunted light That the dim moon through painted casements lends. * * The Emigrants. 

'But, my dear sir, ' said Emily, anxious to dissipate his thoughts, 'youforget that repose is necessary to you. If our kind host will give meleave, I will prepare your bed, for I know how you like it to be made. 'St. Aubert, recollecting himself, and smiling affectionately, desiredshe would not add to her fatigue by that attention; and La Voisin, whoseconsideration for his guest had been suspended by the interestswhich his own narrative had recalled, now started from his seat, and, apologizing for not having called Agnes from the green, hurried out ofthe room. 

In a few moments he returned with his daughter, a young woman ofpleasing countenance, and Emily learned from her, what she had notbefore suspected, that, for their accommodation, it was necessarypart of La Voisin's family should leave their beds; she lamented thiscircumstance, but Agnes, by her reply, fully proved that she inherited, at least, a share of her father's courteous hospitality. It was settled, that some of her children and Michael should sleep in the neighbouringcottage. 

'If I am better, to-morrow, my dear, ' said St. Aubert when Emilyreturned to him, 'I mean to set out at an early hour, that we may rest, during the heat of the day, and will travel towards home. In the presentstate of my health and spirits I cannot look on a longer journey withpleasure, and I am also very anxious to reach La Vallee. ' Emily, thoughshe also desired to return, was grieved at her father's sudden wish todo so, which she thought indicated a greater degree of indispositionthan he would acknowledge. St. Aubert now retired to rest, and Emily toher little chamber, but not to immediate repose. Her thoughts returnedto the late conversation, concerning the state of departed spirits; asubject, at this time, particularly affecting to her, when she had everyreason to believe that her dear father would ere long be numbered withthem. She leaned pensively on the little open casement, and in deepthought fixed her eyes on the heaven, whose blue unclouded concave wasstudded thick with stars, the worlds, perhaps, of spirits, unspheredof mortal mould. As her eyes wandered along the boundless aether, herthoughts rose, as before, towards the sublimity of the Deity, and to thecontemplation of futurity. No busy note of this world interrupted thecourse of her mind; the merry dance had ceased, and every cottager hadretired to his home. The still air seemed scarcely to breathe upon thewoods, and, now and then, the distant sound of a solitary sheep-bell, or of a closing casement, was all that broke on silence. At length, eventhis hint of human being was heard no more. Elevated and enwrapt, whileher eyes were often wet with tears of sublime devotion and solemn awe, she continued at the casement, till the gloom of mid-night hung over theearth, and the planet, which La Voisin had pointed out, sunk below thewoods. She then recollected what he had said concerning this planet, andthe mysterious music; and, as she lingered at the window, halfhoping and half fearing that it would return, her mind was led to theremembrance of the extreme emotion her father had shewn on mention ofthe Marquis La Villeroi's death, and of the fate of the Marchioness, and she felt strongly interested concerning the remote cause of thisemotion. Her surprise and curiosity were indeed the greater, because shedid not recollect ever to have heard him mention the name of Villeroi. 

No music, however, stole on the silence of the night, and Emily, perceiving the lateness of the hour, returned to a scene of fatigue, remembered that she was to rise early in the morning, and withdrew fromthe window to repose. 

CHAPTER VII

 Let those deplore their doom, Whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn. But lofty souls can look beyond the tomb, Can smile at fate, and wonder how they mourn. Shall Spring to these sad scenes no more return? Is yonder wave the sun's eternal bed?-- Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn, And Spring shall soon her vital influence shed, Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead! BEATTIE

Emily, called, as she had requested, at an early hour, awoke, littlerefreshed by sleep, for uneasy dreams had pursued her, and marred thekindest blessing of the unhappy. But, when she opened her casement, looked out upon the woods, bright with the morning sun, and inspired thepure air, her mind was soothed. The scene was filled with that cheeringfreshness, which seems to breathe the very spirit of health, and sheheard only sweet and PICTURESQUE sounds, if such an expression may beallowed--the matin-bell of a distant convent, the faint murmur of thesea-waves, the song of birds, and the far-off low of cattle, whichshe saw coming slowly on between the trunks of trees. Struck withthe circumstances of imagery around her, she indulged the pensivetranquillity which they inspired; and while she leaned on her window, waiting till St. Aubert should descend to breakfast, her ideas arrangedthemselves in the following lines:

THE FIRST HOUR OF MORNING

 How sweet to wind the forest's tangled shade, When early twilight, from the eastern bound, Dawns on the sleeping landscape in the glade, And fades as morning spreads her blush around!

 When ev'ry infant flower, that wept in night, Lifts its chill head soft glowing with a tear, Expands its tender blossom to the light, And gives its incense to the genial air. 

 How fresh the breeze that wafts the rich perfume, And swells the melody of waking birds; The hum of bees, beneath the verdant gloom, And woodman's song, and low of distant herds!

 Then, doubtful gleams the mountain's hoary head, Seen through the parting foliage from afar; And, farther still, the ocean's misty bed, With flitting sails, that partial sun-beams share. 

 But, vain the sylvan shade--the breath of May, The voice of music floating on the gale, And forms, that beam through morning's dewy veil, If health no longer bid the heart be gay! O balmy hour! 'tis thine her wealth to give, Here spread her blush, and bid the parent live!

Emily now heard persons moving below in the cottage, and presently thevoice of Michael, who was talking to his mules, as he led them forthfrom a hut adjoining. As she left her room, St. Aubert, who was nowrisen, met her at the door, apparently as little restored by sleep asherself. She led him down stairs to the little parlour, in which theyhad supped on the preceding night, where they found a neat breakfast setout, while the host and his daughter waited to bid them good-morrow. 

'I envy you this cottage, my good friends, ' said St. Aubert, as he metthem, 'it is so pleasant, so quiet, and so neat; and this air, that onebreathes--if any thing could restore lost health, it would surely bethis air. '

La Voisin bowed gratefully, and replied, with the gallantry of aFrenchman, 'Our cottage may be envied, sir, since you and Mademoisellehave honoured it with your presence. ' St. Aubert gave him a friendlysmile for his compliment, and sat down to a table, spread with cream, fruit, new cheese, butter, and coffee. Emily, who had observed herfather with attention and thought he looked very ill, endeavoured topersuade him to defer travelling till the afternoon; but he seemed veryanxious to be at home, and his anxiety he expressed repeatedly, and withan earnestness that was unusual with him. He now said, he found himselfas well as he had been of late, and that he could bear travelling betterin the cool hour of the morning, than at any other time. But, whilehe was talking with his venerable host, and thanking him for his kindattentions, Emily observed his countenance change, and, before she couldreach him, he fell back in his chair. In a few moments he recovered fromthe sudden faintness that had come over him, but felt so ill, thathe perceived himself unable to set out, and, having remained a littlewhile, struggling against the pressure of indisposition, he begged hemight be helped up stairs to bed. This request renewed all the terrorwhich Emily had suffered on the preceding evening; but, though scarcelyable to support herself, under the sudden shock it gave her, she triedto conceal her apprehensions from St. Aubert, and gave her trembling armto assist him to the door of his chamber. 

When he was once more in bed, he desired that Emily, who was thenweeping in her own room, might be called; and, as she came, he waved hishand for every other person to quit the apartment. When they were alone, he held out his hand to her, and fixed his eyes upon her countenance, with an expression so full of tenderness and grief, that all herfortitude forsook her, and she burst into an agony of tears. St. Aubertseemed struggling to acquire firmness, but was still unable to speak; hecould only press her hand, and check the tears that stood trembling inhis eyes. At length he commanded his voice, 'My dear child, ' said he, trying to smile through his anguish, 'my dear Emily!'--and paused again. He raised his eyes to heaven, as if in prayer, and then, in a firmertone, and with a look, in which the tenderness of the father wasdignified by the pious solemnity of the saint, he said, 'My dear child, I would soften the painful truth I have to tell you, but I find myselfquite unequal to the art. Alas! I would, at this moment, conceal it fromyou, but that it would be most cruel to deceive you. It cannot belong before we must part; let us talk of it, that our thoughts and ourprayers may prepare us to bear it. ' His voice faltered, while Emily, still weeping, pressed his hand close to her heart, which swelled with aconvulsive sigh, but she could not look up. 

'Let me not waste these moments, ' said St. Aubert, recovering himself, 'I have much to say. There is a circumstance of solemn consequence, which I have to mention, and a solemn promise to obtain from you; whenthis is done I shall be easier. You have observed, my dear, how anxiousI am to reach home, but know not all my reasons for this. Listen to whatI am going to say. --Yet stay--before I say more give me this promise, apromise made to your dying father!'--St. Aubert was interrupted; Emily, struck by his last words, as if for the first time, with a conviction ofhis immediate danger, raised her head; her tears stopped, and, gazingat him for a moment with an expression of unutterable anguish, a slightconvulsion seized her, and she sunk senseless in her chair. St. Aubert's cries brought La Voisin and his daughter to the room, andthey administered every means in their power to restore her, but, for aconsiderable time, without effect. When she recovered, St. Aubert was soexhausted by the scene he had witnessed, that it was many minutesbefore he had strength to speak; he was, however, somewhat revived bya cordial, which Emily gave him; and, being again alone with her, heexerted himself to tranquilize her spirits, and to offer her all thecomfort of which her situation admitted. She threw herself into hisarms, wept on his neck, and grief made her so insensible to all he said, that he ceased to offer the alleviations, which he himself could not, atthis moment, feel, and mingled his silent tears with hers. Recalled, atlength, to a sense of duty, she tried to spare her father from a fartherview of her suffering; and, quitting his embrace, dried her tears, and said something, which she meant for consolation. 'My dear Emily, 'replied St. Aubert, 'my dear child, we must look up with humbleconfidence to that Being, who has protected and comforted us in everydanger, and in every affliction we have known; to whose eye every momentof our lives has been exposed; he will not, he does not, forsake us now;I feel his consolations in my heart. I shall leave you, my child, stillin his care; and, though I depart from this world, I shall be still inhis presence. Nay, weep not again, my Emily. In death there is nothingnew, or surprising, since we all know, that we are born to die; andnothing terrible to those, who can confide in an all-powerful God. Had my life been spared now, after a very few years, in the courseof nature, I must have resigned it; old age, with all its train ofinfirmity, its privations and its sorrows, would have been mine; andthen, at last, death would have come, and called forth the tears you nowshed. Rather, my child, rejoice, that I am saved from such suffering, and that I am permitted to die with a mind unimpaired, and sensible ofthe comforts of faith and resignation. ' St. Aubert paused, fatigued withspeaking. Emily again endeavoured to assume an air of composure; and, inreplying to what he had said, tried to sooth him with a belief, that hehad not spoken in vain. 

When he had reposed a while, he resumed the conversation. 'Let mereturn, ' said he, 'to a subject, which is very near my heart. I said Ihad a solemn promise to receive from you; let me receive it now, beforeI explain the chief circumstance which it concerns; there are others, of which your peace requires that you should rest in ignorance. Promise, then, that you will perform exactly what I shall enjoin. '

Emily, awed by the earnest solemnity of his manner, dried her tears, that had begun again to flow, in spite of her efforts to suppress them;and, looking eloquently at St. Aubert, bound herself to do whatever heshould require by a vow, at which she shuddered, yet knew not why. 

He proceeded: 'I know you too well, my Emily, to believe, that you wouldbreak any promise, much less one thus solemnly given; your assurancegives me peace, and the observance of it is of the utmost importance toyour tranquillity. Hear, then, what I am going to tell you. The closet, which adjoins my chamber at La Vallee, has a sliding board in the floor. You will know it by a remarkable knot in the wood, and by its being thenext board, except one, to the wainscot, which fronts the door. At thedistance of about a yard from that end, nearer the window, you willperceive a line across it, as if the plank had been joined;--the way toopen it is this:--Press your foot upon the line; the end of the boardwill then sink, and you may slide it with ease beneath the other. Below, you will see a hollow place. ' St. Aubert paused for breath, and Emilysat fixed in deep attention. 'Do you understand these directions, mydear?' said he. Emily, though scarcely able to speak, assured him thatshe did. 

'When you return home, then, ' he added with a deep sigh--

At the mention of her return home, all the melancholy circumstances, that must attend this return, rushed upon her fancy; she burst intoconvulsive grief, and St. Aubert himself, affected beyond the resistanceof the fortitude which he had, at first, summoned, wept with her. After some moments, he composed himself. 'My dear child, ' said he, 'becomforted. When I am gone, you will not be forsaken--I leave you only inthe more immediate care of that Providence, which has never yet forsakenme. Do not afflict me with this excess of grief; rather teach me byyour example to bear my own. ' He stopped again, and Emily, the more sheendeavoured to restrain her emotion, found it the less possible to doso. 

St. Aubert, who now spoke with pain, resumed the subject. 'That closet, my dear, --when you return home, go to it; and, beneath the board I havedescribed, you will find a packet of written papers. Attend to me now, for the promise you have given particularly relates to what I shalldirect. These papers you must burn--and, solemnly I command you, WITHOUTEXAMINING THEM. '

Emily's surprise, for a moment, overcame her grief, and she ventured toask, why this must be? St. Aubert replied, that, if it had been rightfor him to explain his reasons, her late promise would have beenunnecessarily exacted. 'It is sufficient for you, my love, to have adeep sense of the importance of observing me in this instance. ' St. Aubert proceeded. 'Under that board you will also find about two hundredlouis d'ors, wrapped in a silk purse; indeed, it was to secure whatevermoney might be in the chateau, that this secret place was contrived, at a time when the province was over-run by troops of men, who tookadvantage of the tumults, and became plunderers. 

'But I have yet another promise to receive from you, which is--thatyou will never, whatever may be your future circumstances, SELL thechateau. ' St. Aubert even enjoined her, whenever she might marry, tomake it an article in the contract, that the chateau should alwaysbe hers. He then gave her a more minute account of his presentcircumstances than he had yet done, adding, 'The two hundred louis, withwhat money you will now find in my purse, is all the ready money I haveto leave you. I have told you how I am circumstanced with M. Motteville, at Paris. Ah, my child! I leave you poor--but not destitute, ' he added, after a long pause. Emily could make no reply to any thing he now said, but knelt at the bed-side, with her face upon the quilt, weeping overthe hand she held there. 

After this conversation, the mind of St. Aubert appeared to be much moreat ease; but, exhausted by the effort of speaking, he sunk into a kindof doze, and Emily continued to watch and weep beside him, till a gentletap at the chamber-door roused her. It was La Voisin, come to say, thata confessor from the neighbouring convent was below, ready to attend St. Aubert. Emily would not suffer her father to be disturbed, but desired, that the priest might not leave the cottage. When St. Aubert awoke fromthis doze, his senses were confused, and it was some moments before herecovered them sufficiently to know, that it was Emily who sat besidehim. He then moved his lips, and stretched forth his hand to her; as shereceived which, she sunk back in her chair, overcome by the impressionof death on his countenance. In a few minutes he recovered his voice, and Emily then asked, if he wished to see the confessor; he replied, that he did; and, when the holy father appeared, she withdrew. Theyremained alone together above half an hour; when Emily was called in, she found St. Aubert more agitated than when she had left him, and shegazed, with a slight degree of resentment, at the friar, as the causeof this; who, however, looked mildly and mournfully at her, and turnedaway. St. Aubert, in a tremulous voice, said, he wished her to join inprayer with him, and asked if La Voisin would do so too. The old man andhis daughter came; they both wept, and knelt with Emily round the bed, while the holy father read in a solemn voice the service for the dying. St. Aubert lay with a serene countenance, and seemed to join ferventlyin the devotion, while tears often stole from beneath his closedeyelids, and Emily's sobs more than once interrupted the service. 

When it was concluded, and extreme unction had been administered, the friar withdrew. St. Aubert then made a sign for La Voisin to comenearer. He gave him his hand, and was, for a moment, silent. At length, he said, in a trembling voice, 'My good friend, our acquaintance hasbeen short, but long enough to give you an opportunity of shewing memuch kind attention. I cannot doubt, that you will extend this kindnessto my daughter, when I am gone; she will have need of it. I entrust herto your care during the few days she will remain here. I need say nomore--you know the feelings of a father, for you have children; minewould be, indeed, severe if I had less confidence in you. ' He paused. LaVoisin assured him, and his tears bore testimony to his sincerity, thathe would do all he could to soften her affliction, and that, if St. Aubert wished it, he would even attend her into Gascony; an offer sopleasing to St. Aubert, that he had scarcely words to acknowledge hissense of the old man's kindness, or to tell him, that he accepted it. The scene, that followed between St. Aubert and Emily, affected LaVoisin so much, that he quitted the chamber, and she was again leftalone with her father, whose spirits seemed fainting fast, but neitherhis senses, or his voice, yet failed him; and, at intervals, he employedmuch of these last awful moments in advising his daughter, as to herfuture conduct. Perhaps, he never had thought more justly, or expressedhimself more clearly, than he did now. 

'Above all, my dear Emily, ' said he, 'do not indulge in the pride offine feeling, the romantic error of amiable minds. Those, who reallypossess sensibility, ought early to be taught, that it is a dangerousquality, which is continually extracting the excess of misery, ordelight, from every surrounding circumstance. And, since, in our passagethrough this world, painful circumstances occur more frequently thanpleasing ones, and since our sense of evil is, I fear, more acute thanour sense of good, we become the victims of our feelings, unless we canin some degree command them. I know you will say, (for you are young, myEmily) I know you will say, that you are contented sometimes to suffer, rather than to give up your refined sense of happiness, at others;but, when your mind has been long harassed by vicissitude, you will becontent to rest, and you will then recover from your delusion. You willperceive, that the phantom of happiness is exchanged for the substance;for happiness arises in a state of peace, not of tumult. It is of atemperate and uniform nature, and can no more exist in a heart, that iscontinually alive to minute circumstances, than in one that is dead tofeeling. You see, my dear, that, though I would guard you against thedangers of sensibility, I am not an advocate for apathy. At your ageI should have said THAT is a vice more hateful than all the errors ofsensibility, and I say so still. I call it a VICE, because it leads topositive evil; in this, however, it does no more than an ill-governedsensibility, which, by such a rule, might also be called a vice; butthe evil of the former is of more general consequence. I have exhaustedmyself, ' said St. Aubert, feebly, 'and have wearied you, my Emily; but, on a subject so important to your future comfort, I am anxious to beperfectly understood. '

Emily assured him, that his advice was most precious to her, and thatshe would never forget it, or cease from endeavouring to profit by it. St. Aubert smiled affectionately and sorrowfully upon her. 'I repeatit, ' said he, 'I would not teach you to become insensible, if I could;I would only warn you of the evils of susceptibility, and point outhow you may avoid them. Beware, my love, I conjure you, of thatself-delusion, which has been fatal to the peace of so many persons;beware of priding yourself on the gracefulness of sensibility; if youyield to this vanity, your happiness is lost for ever. Always rememberhow much more valuable is the strength of fortitude, than the grace ofsensibility. Do not, however, confound fortitude with apathy; apathycannot know the virtue. Remember, too, that one act of beneficence, one act of real usefulness, is worth all the abstract sentiment in theworld. Sentiment is a disgrace, instead of an ornament, unless it leadus to good actions. The miser, who thinks himself respectable, merelybecause he possesses wealth, and thus mistakes the means of doing good, for the actual accomplishment of it, is not more blameable than the manof sentiment, without active virtue. You may have observed persons, whodelight so much in this sort of sensibility to sentiment, which excludesthat to the calls of any practical virtue, that they turn fromthe distressed, and, because their sufferings are painful to becontemplated, do not endeavour to relieve them. How despicable is thathumanity, which can be contented to pity, where it might assuage!'

St. Aubert, some time after, spoke of Madame Cheron, his sister. 'Letme inform you of a circumstance, that nearly affects your welfare, ' headded. 'We have, you know, had little intercourse for some years, but, as she is now your only female relation, I have thought it proper toconsign you to her care, as you will see in my will, till you are ofage, and to recommend you to her protection afterwards. She is notexactly the person, to whom I would have committed my Emily, but I hadno alternative, and I believe her to be upon the whole--a good kind ofwoman. I need not recommend it to your prudence, my love, to endeavourto conciliate her kindness; you will do this for his sake, who has oftenwished to do so for yours. '

Emily assured him, that, whatever he requested she would religiouslyperform to the utmost of her ability. 'Alas!' added she, in a voiceinterrupted by sighs, 'that will soon be all which remains for me; itwill be almost my only consolation to fulfil your wishes. '

St. Aubert looked up silently in her face, as if would have spoken, buthis spirit sunk a while, and his eyes became heavy and dull. She feltthat look at her heart. 'My dear father!' she exclaimed; and then, checking herself, pressed his hand closer, and hid her face withher handkerchief. Her tears were concealed, but St. Aubert heard herconvulsive sobs. His spirits returned. 'O my child!' said he, faintly, 'let my consolations be yours. I die in peace; for I know, that Iam about to return to the bosom of my Father, who will still be yourFather, when I am gone. Always trust in him, my love, and he willsupport you in these moments, as he supports me. '

Emily could only listen, and weep; but the extreme composure of hismanner, and the faith and hope he expressed, somewhat soothed heranguish. Yet, whenever she looked upon his emaciated countenance, andsaw the lines of death beginning to prevail over it--saw his sunk eyes, still bent on her, and their heavy lids pressing to a close, there was apang in her heart, such as defied expression, though it required filialvirtue, like hers, to forbear the attempt. 

He desired once more to bless her; 'Where are you, my dear?' said he, as he stretched forth his hands. Emily had turned to the window, that hemight not perceive her anguish; she now understood, that his sight hadfailed him. When he had given her his blessing, and it seemed to be thelast effort of expiring life, he sunk back on his pillow. She kissedhis forehead; the damps of death had settled there, and, forgetting herfortitude for a moment, her tears mingled with them. St. Aubert liftedup his eyes; the spirit of a father returned to them, but it quicklyvanished, and he spoke no more. 

St. Aubert lingered till about three o'clock in the afternoon, and, thusgradually sinking into death, he expired without a struggle, or a sigh. 

Emily was led from the chamber by La Voisin and his daughter, who didwhat they could to comfort her. The old man sat and wept with her. Agneswas more erroneously officious. 

CHAPTER VIII

 O'er him, whose doom thy virtues grieve, Aerial forms shall sit at eve, and bend the pensive head. COLLINS

The monk, who had before appeared, returned in the evening to offerconsolation to Emily, and brought a kind message from the lady abbess, inviting her to the convent. Emily, though she did not accept the offer, returned an answer expressive of her gratitude. The holy conversationof the friar, whose mild benevolence of manners bore some resemblance tothose of St. Aubert, soothed the violence of her grief, and lifted herheart to the Being, who, extending through all place and all eternity, looks on the events of this little world as on the shadows of a moment, and beholds equally, and in the same instant, the soul that has passedthe gates of death, and that, which still lingers in the body. 'In thesight of God, ' said Emily, 'my dear father now exists, as truly as heyesterday existed to me; it is to me only that he is dead; to God and tohimself he yet lives!'

The good monk left her more tranquil than she had been since St. Aubertdied; and, before she retired to her little cabin for the night, shetrusted herself so far as to visit the corpse. Silent, and withoutweeping, she stood by its side. The features, placid and serene, toldthe nature of the last sensations, that had lingered in the now desertedframe. For a moment she turned away, in horror of the stillness in whichdeath had fixed that countenance, never till now seen otherwisethan animated; then gazed on it with a mixture of doubt and awfulastonishment. Her reason could scarcely overcome an involuntary andunaccountable expectation of seeing that beloved countenance stillsusceptible. She continued to gaze wildly; took up the cold hand;spoke; still gazed, and then burst into a transport of grief. La Voisin, hearing her sobs, came into the room to lead her away, but she heardnothing, and only begged that he would leave her. 

Again alone, she indulged her tears, and, when the gloom of eveningobscured the chamber, and almost veiled from her eyes the object of herdistress, she still hung over the body; till her spirits, at length, were exhausted, and she became tranquil. La Voisin again knocked at thedoor, and entreated that she would come to the common apartment. Beforeshe went, she kissed the lips of St. Aubert, as she was wont to do whenshe bade him good night. Again she kissed them; her heart felt as if itwould break, a few tears of agony started to her eyes, she looked up toheaven, then at St. Aubert, and left the room. 

Retired to her lonely cabin, her melancholy thoughts still hoveredround the body of her deceased parent; and, when she sunk into a kindof slumber, the images of her waking mind still haunted her fancy. Shethought she saw her father approaching her with a benign countenance;then, smiling mournfully and pointing upwards, his lips moved, but, instead of words, she heard sweet music borne on the distant air, andpresently saw his features glow with the mild rapture of a superiorbeing. The strain seemed to swell louder, and she awoke. The visionwas gone, but music yet came to her ear in strains such as angels mightbreathe. She doubted, listened, raised herself in the bed, and againlistened. It was music, and not an illusion of her imagination. Aftera solemn steady harmony, it paused; then rose again, in mournfulsweetness, and then died, in a cadence, that seemed to bear away thelistening soul to heaven. She instantly remembered the music of thepreceding night, with the strange circumstances, related by La Voisin, and the affecting conversation it had led to, concerning the state ofdeparted spirits. All that St. Aubert had said, on that subject, nowpressed upon her heart, and overwhelmed it. What a change in a fewhours! He, who then could only conjecture, was now made acquainted withtruth; was himself become one of the departed! As she listened, she waschilled with superstitious awe, her tears stopped; and she rose, andwent to the window. All without was obscured in shade; but Emily, turning her eyes from the massy darkness of the woods, whose wavingoutline appeared on the horizon, saw, on the left, that effulgentplanet, which the old man had pointed out, setting over the woods. Sheremembered what he had said concerning it, and, the music now comingat intervals on the air, she unclosed the casement to listen to thestrains, that soon gradually sunk to a greater distance, and triedto discover whence they came. The obscurity prevented her fromdistinguishing any object on the green platform below; and the soundsbecame fainter and fainter, till they softened into silence. Shelistened, but they returned no more. Soon after, she observed theplanet trembling between the fringed tops of the woods, and, in the nextmoment, sink behind them. Chilled with a melancholy awe, she retiredonce more to her bed, and, at length, forgot for a while her sorrows insleep. 

On the following morning, she was visited by a sister of the convent, who came, with kind offices and a second invitation from the ladyabbess; and Emily, though she could not forsake the cottage, while theremains of her father were in it, consented, however painful such avisit must be, in the present state of her spirits, to pay her respectsto the abbess, in the evening. 

About an hour before sun-set, La Voisin shewed her the way through thewoods to the convent, which stood in a small bay of the Mediterranean, crowned by a woody amphitheatre; and Emily, had she been less unhappy, would have admired the extensive sea view, that appeared from the greenslope, in front of the edifice, and the rich shores, hung with woodsand pastures, that extended on either hand. But her thoughts werenow occupied by one sad idea, and the features of nature were to hercolourless and without form. The bell for vespers struck, as she passedthe ancient gate of the convent, and seemed the funereal note for St. Aubert. Little incidents affect a mind, enervated by sorrow; Emilystruggled against the sickening faintness, that came over her, and wasled into the presence of the abbess, who received her with an air ofmaternal tenderness; an air of such gentle solicitude and consideration, as touched her with an instantaneous gratitude; her eyes were filledwith tears, and the words she would have spoken faltered on her lips. The abbess led her to a seat, and sat down beside her, still holdingher hand and regarding her in silence, as Emily dried her tears andattempted to speak. 'Be composed, my daughter, ' said the abbess ina soothing voice, 'do not speak yet; I know all you would say. Yourspirits must be soothed. We are going to prayers;--will you attendour evening service? It is comfortable, my child, to look up in ourafflictions to a father, who sees and pities us, and who chastens in hismercy. '

Emily's tears flowed again, but a thousand sweet emotions mingled withthem. The abbess suffered her to weep without interruption, and watchedover her with a look of benignity, that might have characterized thecountenance of a guardian angel. Emily, when she became tranquil, wasencouraged to speak without reserve, and to mention the motive, thatmade her unwilling to quit the cottage, which the abbess did not opposeeven by a hint; but praised the filial piety of her conduct, and added ahope, that she would pass a few days at the convent, before she returnedto La Vallee. 'You must allow yourself a little time to recover fromyour first shock, my daughter, before you encounter a second; I will notaffect to conceal from you how much I know your heart must suffer, onreturning to the scene of your former happiness. Here, you will haveall, that quiet and sympathy and religion can give, to restore yourspirits. But come, ' added she, observing the tears swell in Emily'seyes, 'we will go to the chapel. '

Emily followed to the parlour, where the nuns were assembled, to whomthe abbess committed her, saying, 'This is a daughter, for whom I havemuch esteem; be sisters to her. '

They passed on in a train to the chapel, where the solemn devotion, withwhich the service was performed, elevated her mind, and brought to itthe comforts of faith and resignation. 

Twilight came on, before the abbess's kindness would suffer Emily todepart, when she left the convent, with a heart much lighter than shehad entered it, and was reconducted by La Voisin through the woods, thepensive gloom of which was in unison with the temper of her mind; andshe pursued the little wild path, in musing silence, till her guidesuddenly stopped, looked round, and then struck out of the path into thehigh grass, saying he had mistaken the road. He now walked on quickly, and Emily, proceeding with difficulty over the obscured and unevenground, was left at some distance, till her voice arrested him, whoseemed unwilling to stop, and still hurried on. 'If you are in doubtabout the way, ' said Emily, 'had we not better enquire it at the chateauyonder, between the trees?'

'No, ' replied La Voisin, 'there is no occasion. When we reach thatbrook, ma'amselle, (you see the light upon the water there, beyond thewoods) when we reach that brook, we shall be at home presently. I don'tknow how I happened to mistake the path; I seldom come this way aftersun-set. '

'It is solitary enough, ' said Emily, 'but you have no banditti here. '

'No, ma'amselle--no banditti. '

'What are you afraid of then, my good friend? you are notsuperstitious?' 'No, not superstitious; but, to tell you the truth, lady, nobody likes to go near that chateau, after dusk. ' 'By whom is itinhabited, ' said Emily, 'that it is so formidable?' 'Why, ma'amselle, it is scarcely inhabited, for our lord the Marquis, and the lord of allthese find woods, too, is dead. He had not once been in it, for thesemany years, and his people, who have the care of it, live in a cottageclose by. ' Emily now understood this to be the chateau, which La Voisinhad formerly pointed out, as having belonged to the Marquis Villeroi, onthe mention of which her father had appeared so much affected. 

'Ah! it is a desolate place now, ' continued La Voisin, 'and such agrand, fine place, as I remember it!' Emily enquired what had occasionedthis lamentable change; but the old man was silent, and Emily, whoseinterest was awakened by the fear he had expressed, and above all bya recollection of her father's agitation, repeated the question, andadded, 'If you are neither afraid of the inhabitants, my good friend, nor are superstitious, how happens it, that you dread to pass near thatchateau in the dark?'

'Perhaps, then, I am a little superstitious, ma'amselle; and, if youknew what I do, you might be so too. Strange things have happenedthere. Monsieur, your good father, appeared to have known the lateMarchioness. ' 'Pray inform me what did happen?' said Emily, with muchemotion. 

'Alas! ma'amselle, ' answered La Voisin, 'enquire no further; it is notfor me to lay open the domestic secrets of my lord. '--Emily, surprisedby the old man's words, and his manner of delivering them, forbore torepeat her question; a nearer interest, the remembrance of St. Aubert, occupied her thoughts, and she was led to recollect the music she heardon the preceding night, which she mentioned to La Voisin. 'You was notalone, ma'amselle, in this, ' he replied, 'I heard it too; but I have sooften heard it, at the same hour, that I was scarcely surprised. '

'You doubtless believe this music to have some connection with thechateau, ' said Emily suddenly, 'and are, therefore, superstitious. ' 'Itmay be so, ma'amselle, but there are other circumstances, belonging tothat chateau, which I remember, and sadly too. ' A heavy sigh followed:but Emily's delicacy restrained the curiosity these words revived, andshe enquired no further. 

On reaching the cottage, all the violence of her grief returned; itseemed as if she had escaped its heavy pressure only while she wasremoved from the object of it. She passed immediately to the chamber, where the remains of her father were laid, and yielded to all theanguish of hopeless grief. La Voisin, at length, persuaded her toleave the room, and she returned to her own, where, exhausted bythe sufferings of the day, she soon fell into deep sleep, and awokeconsiderably refreshed. 

When the dreadful hour arrived, in which the remains of St. Aubert wereto be taken from her for ever, she went alone to the chamber to lookupon his countenance yet once again, and La Voisin, who had waitedpatiently below stairs, till her despair should subside, with therespect due to grief, forbore to interrupt the indulgence of it, tillsurprise, at the length of her stay, and then apprehension overcame hisdelicacy, and he went to lead her from the chamber. Having tapped gentlyat the door, without receiving an answer, he listened attentively, butall was still; no sigh, no sob of anguish was heard. Yet more alarmed bythis silence, he opened the door, and found Emily lying senseless acrossthe foot of the bed, near which stood the coffin. His calls procuredassistance, and she was carried to her room, where proper applications, at length, restored her. 

During her state of insensibility, La Voisin had given directions forthe coffin to be closed, and he succeeded in persuading Emily to forbearrevisiting the chamber. She, indeed, felt herself unequal to this, andalso perceived the necessity of sparing her spirits, and recollectingfortitude sufficient to bear her through the approaching scene. St. Aubert had given a particular injunction, that his remains should beinterred in the church of the convent of St. Clair, and, in mentioningthe north chancel, near the ancient tomb of the Villerois, had pointedout the exact spot, where he wished to be laid. The superior had grantedthis place for the interment, and thither, therefore, the sad processionnow moved, which was met, at the gates, by the venerable priest, followed by a train of friars. Every person, who heard the solemn chantof the anthem, and the peal of the organ, that struck up, when thebody entered the church, and saw also the feeble steps, and the assumedtranquillity of Emily, gave her involuntary tears. She shed none, but walked, her face partly shaded by a thin black veil, between twopersons, who supported her, preceded by the abbess, and followed bynuns, whose plaintive voices mellowed the swelling harmony of the dirge. When the procession came to the grave the music ceased. Emily drew theveil entirely over her face, and, in a momentary pause, between theanthem and the rest of the service, her sobs were distinctly audible. The holy father began the service, and Emily again commanded herfeelings, till the coffin was let down, and she heard the earth rattleon its lid. Then, as she shuddered, a groan burst from her heart, andshe leaned for support on the person who stood next to her. In a fewmoments she recovered; and, when she heard those affecting and sublimewords: 'His body is buried in peace, and his soul returns to Him thatgave it, ' her anguish softened into tears. 

The abbess led her from the church into her own parlour, and thereadministered all the consolations, that religion and gentle sympathycan give. Emily struggled against the pressure of grief; but the abbess, observing her attentively, ordered a bed to be prepared, and recommendedher to retire to repose. She also kindly claimed her promise to remaina few days at the convent; and Emily, who had no wish to return tothe cottage, the scene of all her sufferings, had leisure, now that noimmediate care pressed upon her attention, to feel the indisposition, which disabled her from immediately travelling. 

Meanwhile, the maternal kindness of the abbess, and the gentleattentions of the nuns did all, that was possible, towards soothing herspirits and restoring her health. But the latter was too deeply wounded, through the medium of her mind, to be quickly revived. She lingered forsome weeks at the convent, under the influence of a slow fever, wishingto return home, yet unable to go thither; often even reluctant toleave the spot where her father's relics were deposited, and sometimessoothing herself with the consideration, that, if she died here, herremains would repose beside those of St. Aubert. In the meanwhile, shesent letters to Madame Cheron and to the old housekeeper, informing themof the sad event, that had taken place, and of her own situation. From her aunt she received an answer, abounding more in common-placecondolement, than in traits of real sorrow, which assured her, that aservant should be sent to conduct her to La Vallee, for that herown time was so much occupied by company, that she had no leisure toundertake so long a journey. However Emily might prefer La Vallee toTholouse, she could not be insensible to the indecorous and unkindconduct of her aunt, in suffering her to return thither, where she hadno longer a relation to console and protect her; a conduct, which wasthe more culpable, since St. Aubert had appointed Madame Cheron theguardian of his orphan daughter. 

Madame Cheron's servant made the attendance of the good La Voisinunnecessary; and Emily, who felt sensibly her obligations to him, forall his kind attention to her late father, as well as to herself, wasglad to spare him a long, and what, at his time of life, must have beena troublesome journey. 

During her stay at the convent, the peace and sanctity that reignedwithin, the tranquil beauty of the scenery without, and the delicateattentions of the abbess and the nuns, were circumstances so soothing toher mind, that they almost tempted her to leave a world, where she hadlost her dearest friends, and devote herself to the cloister, in a spot, rendered sacred to her by containing the tomb of St. Aubert. The pensiveenthusiasm, too, so natural to her temper, had spread a beautifulillusion over the sanctified retirement of a nun, that almost hid fromher view the selfishness of its security. But the touches, which amelancholy fancy, slightly tinctured with superstition, gave to themonastic scene, began to fade, as her spirits revived, and brought oncemore to her heart an image, which had only transiently been banishedthence. By this she was silently awakened to hope and comfort and sweetaffections; visions of happiness gleamed faintly at a distance, and, though she knew them to be illusions, she could not resolve to shut themout for ever. It was the remembrance of Valancourt, of his taste, hisgenius, and of the countenance which glowed with both, that, perhaps, alone determined her to return to the world. The grandeur and sublimityof the scenes, amidst which they had first met, had fascinated herfancy, and had imperceptibly contributed to render Valancourt moreinteresting by seeming to communicate to him somewhat of their owncharacter. The esteem, too, which St. Aubert had repeatedly expressedfor him, sanctioned this kindness; but, though his countenance andmanner had continually expressed his admiration of her, he had nototherwise declared it; and even the hope of seeing him again was sodistant, that she was scarcely conscious of it, still less that itinfluenced her conduct on this occasion. 

It was several days after the arrival of Madame Cheron's servant beforeEmily was sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey to La Vallee. On the evening preceding her departure, she went to the cottage to takeleave of La Voisin and his family, and to make them a return for theirkindness. The old man she found sitting on a bench at his door, betweenhis daughter, and his son-in-law, who was just returned from his dailylabour, and who was playing upon a pipe, that, in tone, resembled anoboe. A flask of wine stood beside the old man, and, before him, a smalltable with fruit and bread, round which stood several of his grandsons, fine rosy children, who were taking their supper, as their motherdistributed it. On the edge of the little green, that spread beforethe cottage, were cattle and a few sheep reposing under the trees. Thelandscape was touched with the mellow light of the evening sun, whoselong slanting beams played through a vista of the woods, and lightedup the distant turrets of the chateau. She paused a moment, before sheemerged from the shade, to gaze upon the happy group before her--on thecomplacency and ease of healthy age, depictured on the countenance ofLa Voisin; the maternal tenderness of Agnes, as she looked upon herchildren, and the innocency of infantine pleasures, reflected in theirsmiles. Emily looked again at the venerable old man, and at the cottage;the memory of her father rose with full force upon her mind, and shehastily stepped forward, afraid to trust herself with a longer pause. She took an affectionate and affecting leave of La Voisin and hisfamily; he seemed to love her as his daughter, and shed tears; Emilyshed many. She avoided going into the cottage, since she knew it wouldrevive emotions, such as she could not now endure. 

One painful scene yet awaited her, for she determined to visit again herfather's grave; and that she might not be interrupted, or observed inthe indulgence of her melancholy tenderness, she deferred her visit, till every inhabitant of the convent, except the nun who promisedto bring her the key of the church, should be retired to rest. Emilyremained in her chamber, till she heard the convent bell strike twelve, when the nun came, as she had appointed, with the key of a private door, that opened into the church, and they descended together the narrowwinding stair-case, that led thither. The nun offered to accompany Emilyto the grave, adding, 'It is melancholy to go alone at this hour;' butthe former, thanking her for the consideration, could not consent tohave any witness of her sorrow; and the sister, having unlocked thedoor, gave her the lamp. 'You will remember, sister, ' said she, 'that inthe east aisle, which you must pass, is a newly opened grave; hold thelight to the ground, that you may not stumble over the loose earth. 'Emily, thanking her again, took the lamp, and, stepping into the church, sister Mariette departed. But Emily paused a moment at the door;a sudden fear came over her, and she returned to the foot of thestair-case, where, as she heard the steps of the nun ascending, and, while she held up the lamp, saw her black veil waving over the spiralbalusters, she was tempted to call her back. While she hesitated, theveil disappeared, and, in the next moment, ashamed of her fears, shereturned to the church. The cold air of the aisles chilled her, andtheir deep silence and extent, feebly shone upon by the moon-light, thatstreamed through a distant gothic window, would at any other time haveawed her into superstition; now, grief occupied all her attention. Shescarcely heard the whispering echoes of her own steps, or thought of theopen grave, till she found herself almost on its brink. A friar of theconvent had been buried there on the preceding evening, and, as she hadsat alone in her chamber at twilight, she heard, at distance, the monkschanting the requiem for his soul. This brought freshly to her memorythe circumstances of her father's death; and, as the voices, minglingwith a low querulous peal of the organ, swelled faintly, gloomy andaffecting visions had arisen upon her mind. Now she remembered them, and, turning aside to avoid the broken ground, these recollections madeher pass on with quicker steps to the grave of St. Aubert, when in themoon-light, that fell athwart a remote part of the aisle, she thoughtshe saw a shadow gliding between the pillars. She stopped to listen, and, not hearing any footstep, believed that her fancy had deceived her, and, no longer apprehensive of being observed, proceeded. St. Aubert wasburied beneath a plain marble, bearing little more than his name and thedate of his birth and death, near the foot of the stately monument ofthe Villerois. Emily remained at his grave, till a chime, that calledthe monks to early prayers, warned her to retire; then, she wept overit a last farewel, and forced herself from the spot. After this hour ofmelancholy indulgence, she was refreshed by a deeper sleep, than shehad experienced for a long time, and, on awakening, her mind was moretranquil and resigned, than it had been since St. Aubert's death. 

But, when the moment of her departure from the convent arrived, all hergrief returned; the memory of the dead, and the kindness of the livingattached her to the place; and for the sacred spot, where her father'sremains were interred, she seemed to feel all those tender affectionswhich we conceive for home. The abbess repeated many kind assurances ofregard at their parting, and pressed her to return, if ever she shouldfind her condition elsewhere unpleasant; many of the nuns also expressedunaffected regret at her departure, and Emily left the convent with manytears, and followed by sincere wishes for her happiness. 

She had travelled several leagues, before the scenes of the country, through which she passed, had power to rouse her for a moment from thedeep melancholy, into which she was sunk, and, when they did, it wasonly to remind her, that, on her last view of them, St. Aubert was ather side, and to call up to her remembrance the remarks he had deliveredon similar scenery. Thus, without any particular occurrence, passedthe day in languor and dejection. She slept that night in a town on theskirts of Languedoc, and, on the following morning, entered Gascony. 

Towards the close of this day, Emily came within view of the plains inthe neighbourhood of La Vallee, and the well-known objects of formertimes began to press upon her notice, and with them recollections, thatawakened all her tenderness and grief. Often, while she looked throughher tears upon the wild grandeur of the Pyrenees, now varied with therich lights and shadows of evening, she remembered, that, when last shesaw them, her father partook with her of the pleasure they inspired. Suddenly some scene, which he had particularly pointed out to her, wouldpresent itself, and the sick languor of despair would steal upon herheart. 'There!' she would exclaim, 'there are the very cliffs, there thewood of pines, which he looked at with such delight, as we passed thisroad together for the last time. There, too, under the crag of thatmountain, is the cottage, peeping from among the cedars, which he bademe remember, and copy with my pencil. O my father, shall I never see youmore!'

As she drew near the chateau, these melancholy memorials of past timesmultiplied. At length, the chateau itself appeared, amid the glowingbeauty of St. Aubert's favourite landscape. This was an object, whichcalled for fortitude, not for tears; Emily dried hers, and prepared tomeet with calmness the trying moment of her return to that home, wherethere was no longer a parent to welcome her. 'Yes, ' said she, 'let menot forget the lessons he has taught me! How often he has pointed outthe necessity of resisting even virtuous sorrow; how often we haveadmired together the greatness of a mind, that can at once suffer andreason! O my father! if you are permitted to look down upon yourchild, it will please you to see, that she remembers, and endeavours topractise, the precepts you have given her. '

A turn on the road now allowed a nearer view of the chateau, thechimneys, tipped with light, rising from behind St. Aubert's favouriteoaks, whose foliage partly concealed the lower part of the building. Emily could not suppress a heavy sigh. 'This, too, was his favouritehour, ' said she, as she gazed upon the long evening shadows, stretchedathwart the landscape. 'How deep the repose, how lovely the scene!lovely and tranquil as in former days!'

Again she resisted the pressure of sorrow, till her ear caught the gaymelody of the dance, which she had so often listened to, as she walkedwith St. Aubert, on the margin of the Garonne, when all her fortitudeforsook her, and she continued to weep, till the carriage stopped at thelittle gate, that opened upon what was now her own territory. She raisedher eyes on the sudden stopping of the carriage, and saw her father'sold housekeeper coming to open the gate. Manchon also came running, andbarking before her; and when his young mistress alighted, fawned, andplayed round her, gasping with joy. 

'Dear ma'amselle!' said Theresa, and paused, and looked as if shewould have offered something of condolement to Emily, whose tears nowprevented reply. The dog still fawned and ran round her, and then flewtowards the carriage, with a short quick bark. 'Ah, ma'amselle!--mypoor master!' said Theresa, whose feelings were more awakened than herdelicacy, 'Manchon's gone to look for him. ' Emily sobbed aloud; and, onlooking towards the carriage, which still stood with the door open, sawthe animal spring into it, and instantly leap out, and then with hisnose on the ground run round the horses. 

'Don't cry so, ma'amselle, ' said Theresa, 'it breaks my heart to seeyou. ' The dog now came running to Emily, then returned to the carriage, and then back again to her, whining and discontented. 'Poor rogue!' saidTheresa, 'thou hast lost thy master, thou mayst well cry! But come, mydear young lady, be comforted. What shall I get to refresh you?' Emilygave her hand to the old servant, and tried to restrain her grief, while she made some kind enquiries concerning her health. But she stilllingered in the walk which led to the chateau, for within was noperson to meet her with the kiss of affection; her own heart no longerpalpitated with impatient joy to meet again the well-known smile, andshe dreaded to see objects, which would recall the full remembrance ofher former happiness. She moved slowly towards the door, paused, wenton, and paused again. How silent, how forsaken, how forlorn did thechateau appear! Trembling to enter it, yet blaming herself for delayingwhat she could not avoid, she, at length, passed into the hall; crossedit with a hurried step, as if afraid to look round, and opened the doorof that room, which she was wont to call her own. The gloom of eveninggave solemnity to its silent and deserted air. The chairs, the tables, every article of furniture, so familiar to her in happier times, spoke eloquently to her heart. She seated herself, without immediatelyobserving it, in a window, which opened upon the garden, and where St. Aubert had often sat with her, watching the sun retire from the rich andextensive prospect, that appeared beyond the groves. 

Having indulged her tears for some time, she became more composed; and, when Theresa, after seeing the baggage deposited in her lady's room, again appeared, she had so far recovered her spirits, as to be able toconverse with her. 

'I have made up the green bed for you, ma'amselle, ' said Theresa, as sheset the coffee upon the table. 'I thought you would like it better thanyour own now; but I little thought this day month, that you would comeback alone. A-well-a-day! the news almost broke my heart, when it didcome. Who would have believed, that my poor master, when he wentfrom home, would never return again!' Emily hid her face with herhandkerchief, and waved her hand. 

'Do taste the coffee, ' said Theresa. 'My dear young lady, becomforted--we must all die. My dear master is a saint above. ' Emilytook the handkerchief from her face, and raised her eyes full of tearstowards heaven; soon after she dried them, and, in a calm, but tremulousvoice, began to enquire concerning some of her late father's pensioners. 

'Alas-a-day!' said Theresa, as she poured out the coffee, and handedit to her mistress, 'all that could come, have been here every day toenquire after you and my master. ' She then proceeded to tell, thatsome were dead whom they had left well; and others, who were ill, hadrecovered. 'And see, ma'amselle, ' added Theresa, 'there is old Marycoming up the garden now; she has looked every day these three years asif she would die, yet she is alive still. She has seen the chaise at thedoor, and knows you are come home. '

The sight of this poor old woman would have been too much for Emily, andshe begged Theresa would go and tell her, that she was too ill to seeany person that night. 'To-morrow I shall be better, perhaps; but giveher this token of my remembrance. '

Emily sat for some time, given up to sorrow. Not an object, on which hereye glanced, but awakened some remembrance, that led immediately to thesubject of her grief. Her favourite plants, which St. Aubert had taughther to nurse; the little drawings, that adorned the room, which histaste had instructed her to execute; the books, that he had selectedfor her use, and which they had read together; her musical instruments, whose sounds he loved so well, and which he sometimes awakenedhimself--every object gave new force to sorrow. At length, she rousedherself from this melancholy indulgence, and, summoning all herresolution, stepped forward to go into those forlorn rooms, which, though she dreaded to enter, she knew would yet more powerfully affecther, if she delayed to visit them. 

Having passed through the green-house, her courage for a moment forsookher, when she opened the door of the library; and, perhaps, the shade, which evening and the foliage of the trees near the windows threw acrossthe room, heightened the solemnity of her feelings on entering thatapartment, where every thing spoke of her father. There was an armchair, in which he used to sit; she shrunk when she observed it, forshe had so often seen him seated there, and the idea of him rose sodistinctly to her mind, that she almost fancied she saw him before her. But she checked the illusions of a distempered imagination, though shecould not subdue a certain degree of awe, which now mingled with heremotions. She walked slowly to the chair, and seated herself in it;there was a reading-desk before it, on which lay a book open, as ithad been left by her father. It was some moments before she recoveredcourage enough to examine it; and, when she looked at the open page, she immediately recollected, that St. Aubert, on the evening before hisdeparture from the chateau, had read to her some passages from thishis favourite author. The circumstance now affected her extremely; shelooked at the page, wept, and looked again. To her the book appearedsacred and invaluable, and she would not have moved it, or closed thepage, which he had left open, for the treasures of the Indies. Stillshe sat before the desk, and could not resolve to quit it, though theincreasing gloom, and the profound silence of the apartment, reviveda degree of painful awe. Her thoughts dwelt on the probable state ofdeparted spirits, and she remembered the affecting conversation, whichhad passed between St. Aubert and La Voisin, on the night preceding hisdeath. 

As she mused she saw the door slowly open, and a rustling sound in aremote part of the room startled her. Through the dusk she thought sheperceived something move. The subject she had been considering, and thepresent tone of her spirits, which made her imagination respond toevery impression of her senses, gave her a sudden terror of somethingsupernatural. She sat for a moment motionless, and then, her dissipatedreason returning, 'What should I fear?' said she. 'If the spirits ofthose we love ever return to us, it is in kindness. '

The silence, which again reigned, made her ashamed of her late fears, and she believed, that her imagination had deluded her, or that she hadheard one of those unaccountable noises, which sometimes occur in oldhouses. The same sound, however, returned; and, distinguishing somethingmoving towards her, and in the next instant press beside her into thechair, she shrieked; but her fleeting senses were instantly recalled, on perceiving that it was Manchon who sat by her, and who now licked herhands affectionately. 

Perceiving her spirits unequal to the task she had assigned herself ofvisiting the deserted rooms of the chateau this night, when she leftthe library, she walked into the garden, and down to the terrace, thatoverhung the river. The sun was now set; but, under the dark branchesof the almond trees, was seen the saffron glow of the west, spreadingbeyond the twilight of middle air. The bat flitted silently by; and, now and then, the mourning note of the nightingale was heard. Thecircumstances of the hour brought to her recollection some lines, whichshe had once heard St. Aubert recite on this very spot, and she had nowa melancholy pleasure in repeating them. 

 SONNET

 Now the bat circles on the breeze of eve, That creeps, in shudd'ring fits, along the wave, And trembles 'mid the woods, and through the cave Whose lonely sighs the wanderer deceive; For oft, when melancholy charms his mind, He thinks the Spirit of the rock he hears, Nor listens, but with sweetly-thrilling fears, To the low, mystic murmurs of the wind! Now the bat circles, and the twilight-dew Falls silent round, and, o'er the mountain-cliff, The gleaming wave, and far-discover'd skiff, Spreads the gray veil of soft, harmonious hue. So falls o'er Grief the dew of pity's tear Dimming her lonely visions of despair. 

Emily, wandering on, came to St. Aubert's favourite plane-tree, where sooften, at this hour, they had sat beneath the shade together, and withher dear mother so often had conversed on the subject of a future state. How often, too, had her father expressed the comfort he derived frombelieving, that they should meet in another world! Emily, overcome bythese recollections, left the plane-tree, and, as she leaned pensivelyon the wall of the terrace, she observed a group of peasants dancinggaily on the banks of the Garonne, which spread in broad expanse below, and reflected the evening light. What a contrast they formed to thedesolate, unhappy Emily! They were gay and debonnaire, as they were wontto be when she, too, was gay--when St. Aubert used to listen to theirmerry music, with a countenance beaming pleasure and benevolence. Emily, having looked for a moment on this sprightly band, turned away, unableto bear the remembrances it excited; but where, alas! could she turn, and not meet new objects to give acuteness to grief?

As she walked slowly towards the house, she was met by Theresa. 'Dearma'amselle, ' said she, 'I have been seeking you up and down this halfhour, and was afraid some accident had happened to you. How can you liketo wander about so in this night air! Do come into the house. Think whatmy poor master would have said, if he could see you. I am sure, when mydear lady died, no gentleman could take it more to heart than he did, yet you know he seldom shed a tear. '

'Pray, Theresa, cease, ' said Emily, wishing to interrupt thisill-judged, but well-meaning harangue; Theresa's loquacity, however, was not to be silenced so easily. 'And when you used to grieve so, ' sheadded, 'he often told you how wrong it was--for that my mistress washappy. And, if she was happy, I am sure he is so too; for the prayers ofthe poor, they say, reach heaven. ' During this speech, Emily had walkedsilently into the chateau, and Theresa lighted her across the hallinto the common sitting parlour, where she had laid the cloth, with onesolitary knife and fork, for supper. Emily was in the room before sheperceived that it was not her own apartment, but she checked the emotionwhich inclined her to leave it, and seated herself quietly by the littlesupper table. Her father's hat hung upon the opposite wall; while shegazed at it, a faintness came over her. Theresa looked at her, and thenat the object, on which her eyes were settled, and went to remove it;but Emily waved her hand--'No, ' said she, 'let it remain. I am goingto my chamber. ' 'Nay, ma'amselle, supper is ready. ' 'I cannot take it, 'replied Emily, 'I will go to my room, and try to sleep. Tomorrow I shallbe better. '

'This is poor doings!' said Theresa. 'Dear lady! do take some food! Ihave dressed a pheasant, and a fine one it is. Old Monsieur Barreauxsent it this morning, for I saw him yesterday, and told him you werecoming. And I know nobody that seemed more concerned, when he heard thesad news, then he. '

'Did he?' said Emily, in a tender voice, while she felt her poor heartwarmed for a moment by a ray of sympathy. 

At length, her spirits were entirely overcome, and she retired to herroom. 

CHAPTER IX

 Can Music's voice, can Beauty's eye, Can Painting's glowing hand supply A charm so suited to my mind, As blows this hollow gust of wind? As drops this little weeping rill, Soft tinkling down the moss-grown hill; While, through the west, where sinks the crimson day, Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners gray? MASON

Emily, some time after her return to La Vallee, received letters fromher aunt, Madame Cheron, in which, after some common-place condolementand advice, she invited her to Tholouse, and added, that, as her latebrother had entrusted Emily's EDUCATION to her, she should considerherself bound to overlook her conduct. Emily, at this time, wishedonly to remain at La Vallee, in the scenes of her early happiness, nowrendered infinitely dear to her, as the late residence of those, whomshe had lost for ever, where she could weep unobserved, retrace theirsteps, and remember each minute particular of their manners. But she wasequally anxious to avoid the displeasure of Madame Cheron. 

Though her affection would not suffer her to question, even a moment, the propriety of St. Aubert's conduct in appointing Madame Cheron forher guardian, she was sensible, that this step had made her happinessdepend, in a great degree, on the humour of her aunt. In her reply, shebegged permission to remain, at present, at La Vallee, mentioning theextreme dejection of her spirits, and the necessity she felt for quietand retirement to restore them. These she knew were not to be found atMadame Cheron's, whose inclinations led her into a life of dissipation, which her ample fortune encouraged; and, having given her answer, shefelt somewhat more at ease. 

In the first days of her affliction, she was visited by MonsieurBarreaux, a sincere mourner for St. Aubert. 'I may well lament myfriend, ' said he, 'for I shall never meet with his resemblance. If Icould have found such a man in what is called society, I should not haveleft it. '

M. Barreaux's admiration of her father endeared him extremely to Emily, whose heart found almost its first relief in conversing of her parents, with a man, whom she so much revered, and who, though with such anungracious appearance, possessed to much goodness of heart and delicacyof mind. 

Several weeks passed away in quiet retirement, and Emily's afflictionbegan to soften into melancholy. She could bear to read the books shehad before read with her father; to sit in his chair in the library--towatch the flowers his hand had planted--to awaken the tones of thatinstrument his fingers had pressed, and sometimes even to play hisfavourite air. 

When her mind had recovered from the first shock of affliction, perceiving the danger of yielding to indolence, and that activity alonecould restore its tone, she scrupulously endeavoured to pass all herhours in employment. And it was now that she understood the full valueof the education she had received from St. Aubert, for in cultivatingher understanding he had secured her an asylum from indolence, withoutrecourse to dissipation, and rich and varied amusement and information, independent of the society, from which her situation secluded her. Norwere the good effects of this education confined to selfish advantages, since, St. Aubert having nourished every amiable qualify of her heart, it now expanded in benevolence to all around her, and taught her, whenshe could not remove the misfortunes of others, at least to soften themby sympathy and tenderness;--a benevolence that taught her to feel forall, that could suffer. 

Madame Cheron returned no answer to Emily's letter, who began tohope, that she should be permitted to remain some time longer in herretirement, and her mind had now so far recovered its strength, that sheventured to view the scenes, which most powerfully recalled the imagesof past times. Among these was the fishing-house; and, to indulge stillmore the affectionate melancholy of the visit, she took thither herlute, that she might again hear there the tones, to which St. Aubert andher mother had so often delighted to listen. She went alone, and at thatstill hour of the evening which is so soothing to fancy and to grief. The last time she had been here she was in company with Monsieur andMadame St. Aubert, a few days preceding that, on which the latter wasseized with a fatal illness. Now, when Emily again entered the woods, that surrounded the building, they awakened so forcibly the memory offormer times, that her resolution yielded for a moment to excess ofgrief. She stopped, leaned for support against a tree, and wept for someminutes, before she had recovered herself sufficiently to proceed. Thelittle path, that led to the building, was overgrown with grass and theflowers which St. Aubert had scattered carelessly along the borderwere almost choked with weeds--the tall thistle--the fox-glove, and thenettle. She often paused to look on the desolate spot, now so silent andforsaken, and when, with a trembling hand, she opened the door of thefishing-house, 'Ah!' said she, 'every thing--every thing remains as whenI left it last--left it with those who never must return!' She went toa window, that overhung the rivulet, and, leaning over it, with her eyesfixed on the current, was soon lost in melancholy reverie. The luteshe had brought lay forgotten beside her; the mournful sighing of thebreeze, as it waved the high pines above, and its softer whispers amongthe osiers, that bowed upon the banks below, was a kind of music morein unison with her feelings. It did not vibrate on the chords ofunhappy memory, but was soothing to the heart as the voice of Pity. Shecontinued to muse, unconscious of the gloom of evening, and that thesun's last light trembled on the heights above, and would probably haveremained so much longer, if a sudden footstep, without the building, had not alarmed her attention, and first made her recollect that she wasunprotected. In the next moment, a door opened, and a stranger appeared, who stopped on perceiving Emily, and then began to apologize for hisintrusion. But Emily, at the sound of his voice, lost her fear in astronger emotion: its tones were familiar to her ear, and, though shecould not readily distinguish through the dusk the features of theperson who spoke, she felt a remembrance too strong to be distrusted. 

He repeated his apology, and Emily then said something in reply, whenthe stranger eagerly advancing, exclaimed, 'Good God! can it be--surelyI am not mistaken--ma'amselle St. Aubert?--is it not?'

'It is indeed, ' said Emily, who was confirmed in her first conjecture, for she now distinguished the countenance of Valancourt, lighted up withstill more than its usual animation. A thousand painful recollectionscrowded to her mind, and the effort, which she made to support herself, only served to increase her agitation. Valancourt, meanwhile, havingenquired anxiously after her health, and expressed his hopes, that M. St. Aubert had found benefit from travelling, learned from the flood oftears, which she could no longer repress, the fatal truth. He led herto a seat, and sat down by her, while Emily continued to weep, andValancourt to hold the hand, which she was unconscious he had taken, till it was wet with the tears, which grief for St. Aubert and sympathyfor herself had called forth. 

'I feel, ' said he at length, 'I feel how insufficient all attempt atconsolation must be on this subject. I can only mourn with you, for Icannot doubt the source of your tears. Would to God I were mistaken!'

Emily could still answer only by tears, till she rose, and begged theymight leave the melancholy spot, when Valancourt, though he saw herfeebleness, could not offer to detain her, but took her arm within his, and led her from the fishing-house. They walked silently through thewoods, Valancourt anxious to know, yet fearing to ask any particularsconcerning St. Aubert; and Emily too much distressed to converse. After some time, however, she acquired fortitude enough to speak of herfather, and to give a brief account of the manner of his death; duringwhich recital Valancourt's countenance betrayed strong emotion, and, when he heard that St. Aubert had died on the road, and that Emilyhad been left among strangers, he pressed her hand between his, andinvoluntarily exclaimed, 'Why was I not there!' but in the next momentrecollected himself, for he immediately returned to the mention of herfather; till, perceiving that her spirits were exhausted, he graduallychanged the subject, and spoke of himself. Emily thus learned that, after they had parted, he had wandered, for some time, along the shoresof the Mediterranean, and had then returned through Languedoc intoGascony, which was his native province, and where he usually resided. 

When he had concluded his little narrative, he sunk into a silence, which Emily was not disposed to interrupt, and it continued, till theyreached the gate of the chateau, when he stopped, as if he had knownthis to be the limit of his walk. Here, saying, that it was hisintention to return to Estuviere on the following day, he asked her ifshe would permit him to take leave of her in the morning; and Emily, perceiving that she could not reject an ordinary civility, withoutexpressing by her refusal an expectation of something more, wascompelled to answer, that she should be at home. 

She passed a melancholy evening, during which the retrospect of allthat had happened, since she had seen Valancourt, would rise to herimagination; and the scene of her father's death appeared in tintsas fresh, as if it had passed on the preceding day. She rememberedparticularly the earnest and solemn manner, in which he had required herto destroy the manuscript papers, and, awakening from the lethargy, in which sorrow had held her, she was shocked to think she had not yetobeyed him, and determined, that another day should not reproach herwith the neglect. 

CHAPTER X

 Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer's cloud, Without our special wonder? MACBETH

On the next morning, Emily ordered a fire to be lighted in the stoveof the chamber, where St. Aubert used to sleep; and, as soon as she hadbreakfasted, went thither to burn the papers. Having fastened thedoor to prevent interruption, she opened the closet where they wereconcealed, as she entered which, she felt an emotion of unusual awe, and stood for some moments surveying it, trembling, and almost afraid toremove the board. There was a great chair in one corner of the closet, and, opposite to it, stood the table, at which she had seen her fathersit, on the evening that preceded his departure, looking over, with somuch emotion, what she believed to be these very papers. 

The solitary life, which Emily had led of late, and the melancholysubjects, on which she had suffered her thoughts to dwell, had renderedher at times sensible to the 'thick-coming fancies' of a mind greatlyenervated. It was lamentable, that her excellent understanding shouldhave yielded, even for a moment, to the reveries of superstition, orrather to those starts of imagination, which deceive the senses intowhat can be called nothing less than momentary madness. Instances ofthis temporary failure of mind had more than once occurred since herreturn home; particularly when, wandering through this lonely mansion inthe evening twilight, she had been alarmed by appearances, which wouldhave been unseen in her more cheerful days. To this infirm state of hernerves may be attributed what she imagined, when, her eyes glancinga second time on the arm-chair, which stood in an obscure part of thecloset, the countenance of her dead father appeared there. Emily stoodfixed for a moment to the floor, after which she left the closet. Her spirits, however, soon returned; she reproached herself with theweakness of thus suffering interruption in an act of serious importance, and again opened the door. By the directions which St. Aubert had givenher, she readily found the board he had described in an opposite cornerof the closet, near the window; she distinguished also the line hehad mentioned, and, pressing it as he had bade her, it slid down, anddisclosed the bundle of papers, together with some scattered ones, andthe purse of louis. With a trembling hand she removed them, replaced theboard, paused a moment, and was rising from the floor, when, on lookingup, there appeared to her alarmed fancy the same countenance in thechair. The illusion, another instance of the unhappy effect whichsolitude and grief had gradually produced upon her mind, subdued herspirits; she rushed forward into the chamber, and sunk almost senselessinto a chair. Returning reason soon overcame the dreadful, but pitiableattack of imagination, and she turned to the papers, though still withso little recollection, that her eyes involuntarily settled on thewriting of some loose sheets, which lay open; and she was unconscious, that she was transgressing her father's strict injunction, till asentence of dreadful import awakened her attention and her memorytogether. She hastily put the papers from her; but the words, which hadroused equally her curiosity and terror, she could not dismiss from herthoughts. So powerfully had they affected her, that she even could notresolve to destroy the papers immediately; and the more she dwelt on thecircumstance, the more it inflamed her imagination. Urged by the mostforcible, and apparently the most necessary, curiosity to enquirefarther, concerning the terrible and mysterious subject, to which shehad seen an allusion, she began to lament her promise to destroy thepapers. For a moment, she even doubted, whether it could justly beobeyed, in contradiction to such reasons as there appeared to be forfurther information. But the delusion was momentary. 

'I have given a solemn promise, ' said she, 'to observe a solemninjunction, and it is not my business to argue, but to obey. Let mehasten to remove the temptation, that would destroy my innocence, andembitter my life with the consciousness of irremediable guilt, while Ihave strength to reject it. '

Thus re-animated with a sense of her duty, she completed the triumphof her integrity over temptation, more forcible than any she had everknown, and consigned the papers to the flames. Her eyes watched them asthey slowly consumed, she shuddered at the recollection of the sentenceshe had just seen, and at the certainty, that the only opportunity ofexplaining it was then passing away for ever. 

It was long after this, that she recollected the purse; and as she wasdepositing it, unopened, in a cabinet, perceiving that it containedsomething of a size larger than coin, she examined it. 'His handdeposited them here, ' said she, as she kissed some pieces of the coin, and wetted them with her tears, 'his hand--which is now dust!' At thebottom of the purse was a small packet, having taken out which, andunfolded paper after paper, she found to be an ivory case, containingthe miniature of a--lady! She started--'The same, ' said she, 'my fatherwept over!' On examining the countenance she could recollect no personthat it resembled. It was of uncommon beauty, and was characterizedby an expression of sweetness, shaded with sorrow, and tempered byresignation. 

St. Aubert had given no directions concerning this picture, nor had evennamed it; she, therefore, thought herself justified in preservingit. More than once remembering his manner, when he had spoken of theMarchioness of Villeroi, she felt inclined to believe that this was herresemblance; yet there appeared no reason why he should have preserved apicture of that lady, or, having preserved it, why he should lament overit in a manner so striking and affecting as she had witnessed on thenight preceding his departure. 

Emily still gazed on the countenance, examining its features, but sheknew not where to detect the charm that captivated her attention, and inspired sentiments of such love and pity. Dark brown hair playedcarelessly along the open forehead; the nose was rather inclined toaquiline; the lips spoke in a smile, but it was a melancholy one; theeyes were blue, and were directed upwards with an expression of peculiarmeekness, while the soft cloud of the brow spoke of the fine sensibilityof the temper. 

Emily was roused from the musing mood into which the picture had thrownher, by the closing of the garden gate; and, on turning her eyes tothe window, she saw Valancourt coming towards the chateau. Her spiritsagitated by the subjects that had lately occupied her mind, she feltunprepared to see him, and remained a few moments in the chamber torecover herself. 

When she met him in the parlour, she was struck with the change thatappeared in his air and countenance since they had parted in Rousillon, which twilight and the distress she suffered on the preceding eveninghad prevented her from observing. But dejection and languor disappeared, for a moment, in the smile that now enlightened his countenance, onperceiving her. 'You see, ' said he, 'I have availed myself of thepermission with which you honoured me--of bidding YOU farewell, whom Ihad the happiness of meeting only yesterday. '

Emily smiled faintly, and, anxious to say something, asked if he hadbeen long in Gascony. 'A few days only, ' replied Valancourt, while ablush passed over his cheek. 'I engaged in a long ramble after I had themisfortune of parting with the friends who had made my wanderings amongthe Pyrenees so delightful. '

A tear came to Emily's eye, as Valancourt said this, which he observed;and, anxious to draw off her attention from the remembrance that hadoccasioned it, as well as shocked at his own thoughtlessness, he beganto speak on other subjects, expressing his admiration of the chateau, and its prospects. Emily, who felt somewhat embarrassed how to supporta conversation, was glad of such an opportunity to continue it onindifferent topics. They walked down to the terrace, where Valancourtwas charmed with the river scenery, and the views over the oppositeshores of Guienne. 

As he leaned on the wall of the terrace, watching the rapid current ofthe Garonne, 'I was a few weeks ago, ' said he, 'at the source of thisnoble river; I had not then the happiness of knowing you, or I shouldhave regretted your absence--it was a scene so exactly suited toyour taste. It rises in a part of the Pyrenees, still wilder and moresublime, I think, than any we passed in the way to Rousillon. ' He thendescribed its fall among the precipices of the mountains, where itswaters, augmented by the streams that descend from the snowy summitsaround, rush into the Vallee d'Aran, between whose romantic heights itfoams along, pursuing its way to the north west till it emerges upon theplains of Languedoc. Then, washing the walls of Tholouse, and turningagain to the north west, it assumes a milder character, as it fertilizesthe pastures of Gascony and Guienne, in its progress to the Bay ofBiscay. 

Emily and Valancourt talked of the scenes they had passed amongthe Pyrenean Alps; as he spoke of which there was often a tremuloustenderness in his voice, and sometimes he expatiated on them with allthe fire of genius, sometimes would appear scarcely conscious of thetopic, though he continued to speak. This subject recalled forcibly toEmily the idea of her father, whose image appeared in every landscape, which Valancourt particularized, whose remarks dwelt upon her memory, and whose enthusiasm still glowed in her heart. Her silence, at length, reminded Valancourt how nearly his conversation approached to theoccasion of her grief, and he changed the subject, though for onescarcely less affecting to Emily. When he admired the grandeur of theplane-tree, that spread its wide branches over the terrace, and underwhose shade they now sat, she remembered how often she had sat thus withSt. Aubert, and heard him express the same admiration. 

'This was a favourite tree with my dear father, ' said she; 'he used tolove to sit under its foliage with his family about him, in the fineevenings of summer. '

Valancourt understood her feelings, and was silent; had she raised hereyes from the ground she would have seen tears in his. He rose, andleaned on the wall of the terrace, from which, in a few moments, hereturned to his seat, then rose again, and appeared to be greatlyagitated; while Emily found her spirits so much depressed, that severalof her attempts to renew the conversation were ineffectual. Valancourtagain sat down, but was still silent, and trembled. At length he said, with a hesitating voice, 'This lovely scene!--I am going to leave--toleave you--perhaps for ever! These moments may never return; I cannotresolve to neglect, though I scarcely dare to avail myself of them. Letme, however, without offending the delicacy of your sorrow, venture todeclare the admiration I must always feel of your goodness--O! that atsome future period I might be permitted to call it love!'

Emily's emotion would not suffer her to reply; and Valancourt, who nowventured to look up, observing her countenance change, expected to seeher faint, and made an involuntary effort to support her, which recalledEmily to a sense of her situation, and to an exertion of her spirits. Valancourt did not appear to notice her indisposition, but, when hespoke again, his voice told the tenderest love. 'I will not presume, ' headded, 'to intrude this subject longer upon your attention at this time, but I may, perhaps, be permitted to mention, that these parting momentswould lose much of their bitterness if I might be allowed to hope thedeclaration I have made would not exclude me from your presence infuture. '

Emily made another effort to overcome the confusion of her thoughts, and to speak. She feared to trust the preference her heart acknowledgedtowards Valancourt, and to give him any encouragement for hope, on soshort an acquaintance. For though in this narrow period she had observedmuch that was admirable in his taste and disposition, and though theseobservations had been sanctioned by the opinion of her father, they werenot sufficient testimonies of his general worth to determine her upon asubject so infinitely important to her future happiness as that, whichnow solicited her attention. Yet, though the thought of dismissingValancourt was so very painful to her, that she could scarcely endure topause upon it, the consciousness of this made her fear the partiality ofher judgment, and hesitate still more to encourage that suit, for whichher own heart too tenderly pleaded. The family of Valancourt, if nothis circumstances, had been known to her father, and known to beunexceptionable. Of his circumstances, Valancourt himself hinted as faras delicacy would permit, when he said he had at present little else tooffer but an heart, that adored her. He had solicited only for a distanthope, and she could not resolve to forbid, though she scarcely dared topermit it; at length, she acquired courage to say, that she must thinkherself honoured by the good opinion of any person, whom her father hadesteemed. 

'And was I, then, thought worthy of his esteem?' said Valancourt, ina voice trembling with anxiety; then checking himself, he added, 'Butpardon the question; I scarcely know what I say. If I might dare tohope, that you think me not unworthy such honour, and might be permittedsometimes to enquire after your health, I should now leave you withcomparative tranquillity. '

Emily, after a moment's silence, said, 'I will be ingenuous with you, for I know you will understand, and allow for my situation; you willconsider it as a proof of my--my esteem that I am so. Though I livehere in what was my father's house, I live here alone. I have, alas! nolonger a parent--a parent, whose presence might sanction your visits. It is unnecessary for me to point out the impropriety of my receivingthem. '

'Nor will I affect to be insensible of this, ' replied Valancourt, addingmournfully--'but what is to console me for my candour? I distress you, and would now leave the subject, if I might carry with me a hope ofbeing some time permitted to renew it, of being allowed to make myselfknown to your family. '

Emily was again confused, and again hesitated what to reply; she feltmost acutely the difficulty--the forlornness of her situation, which didnot allow her a single relative, or friend, to whom she could turnfor even a look, that might support and guide her in the presentembarrassing circumstances. Madame Cheron, who was her only relative, and ought to have been this friend, was either occupied by her ownamusements, or so resentful of the reluctance her niece had shewn toquit La Vallee, that she seemed totally to have abandoned her. 

'Ah! I see, ' said Valancourt, after a long pause, during which Emily hadbegun, and left unfinished two or three sentences, 'I see that I havenothing to hope; my fears were too just, you think me unworthy of youresteem. That fatal journey! which I considered as the happiest period ofmy life--those delightful days were to embitter all my future ones. Howoften I have looked back to them with hope and fear--yet never tillthis moment could I prevail with myself to regret their enchantinginfluence. '

His voice faltered, and he abruptly quitted his seat and walked on theterrace. There was an expression of despair on his countenance, thataffected Emily. The pleadings of her heart overcame, in some degree, herextreme timidity, and, when he resumed his seat, she said, in an accentthat betrayed her tenderness, 'You do both yourself and me injusticewhen you say I think you unworthy of my esteem; I will acknowledge thatyou have long possessed it, and--and--'

Valancourt waited impatiently for the conclusion of the sentence, but the words died on her lips. Her eyes, however, reflected all theemotions of her heart. Valancourt passed, in an instant, from theimpatience of despair, to that of joy and tenderness. 'O Emily!' heexclaimed, 'my own Emily--teach me to sustain this moment! Let me sealit as the most sacred of my life!'

He pressed her hand to his lips, it was cold and trembling; and, raisingher eyes, he saw the paleness of her countenance. Tears came to herrelief, and Valancourt watched in anxious silence over her. In a fewmoments, she recovered herself, and smiling faintly through her tears, said, 'Can you excuse this weakness? My spirits have not yet, I believe, recovered from the shock they lately received. '

'I cannot excuse myself, ' said Valancourt, 'but I will forbear to renewthe subject, which may have contributed to agitate them, now that I canleave you with the sweet certainty of possessing your esteem. '

Then, forgetting his resolution, he again spoke of himself. 'You knownot, ' said he, 'the many anxious hours I have passed near you lately, when you believed me, if indeed you honoured me with a thought, faraway. I have wandered, near the chateau, in the still hours of thenight, when no eye could observe me. It was delightful to know I was sonear you, and there was something particularly soothing in the thought, that I watched round your habitation, while you slept. These grounds arenot entirely new to me. Once I ventured within the fence, and spent oneof the happiest, and yet most melancholy hours of my life in walkingunder what I believed to be your window. '

Emily enquired how long Valancourt had been in the neighbourhood. 'Several days, ' he replied. 'It was my design to avail myself of thepermission M. St. Aubert had given me. I scarcely know how to accountfor it; but, though I anxiously wished to do this, my resolution alwaysfailed, when the moment approached, and I constantly deferred my visit. I lodged in a village at some distance, and wandered with my dogs, amongthe scenes of this charming country, wishing continually to meet you, yet not daring to visit you. '

Having thus continued to converse, without perceiving the flight oftime, Valancourt, at length, seemed to recollect himself. 'I must go, 'said he mournfully, 'but it is with the hope of seeing you again, ofbeing permitted to pay my respects to your family; let me hear this hopeconfirmed by your voice. ' 'My family will be happy to see any friendof my dear father, ' said Emily. Valancourt kissed her hand, and stilllingered, unable to depart, while Emily sat silently, with her eyes benton the ground; and Valancourt, as he gazed on her, considered that itwould soon be impossible for him to recall, even to his memory, theexact resemblance of the beautiful countenance he then beheld; at thismoment an hasty footstep approached from behind the plane-tree, and, turning her eyes, Emily saw Madame Cheron. She felt a blush steal uponher cheek, and her frame trembled with the emotion of her mind; but sheinstantly rose to meet her visitor. 'So, niece!' said Madame Cheron, casting a look of surprise and enquiry on Valancourt, 'so niece, howdo you do? But I need not ask, your looks tell me you have alreadyrecovered your loss. '

'My looks do me injustice then, Madame, my loss I know can never berecovered. '

'Well--well! I will not argue with you; I see you have exactly yourfather's disposition; and let me tell you it would have been muchhappier for him, poor man! if it had been a different one. '

A look of dignified displeasure, with which Emily regarded MadameCheron, while she spoke, would have touched almost any other heart;she made no other reply, but introduced Valancourt, who could scarcelystifle the resentment he felt, and whose bow Madame Cheron returned witha slight curtsy, and a look of supercilious examination. After a fewmoments he took leave of Emily, in a manner, that hastily expressed hispain both at his own departure, and at leaving her to the society ofMadame Cheron. 

'Who is that young man?' said her aunt, in an accent which equallyimplied inquisitiveness and censure. 'Some idle admirer of yours Isuppose; but I believed niece you had a greater sense of propriety, thanto have received the visits of any young man in your present unfriendedsituation. Let me tell you the world will observe those things, and itwill talk, aye and very freely too. '

Emily, extremely shocked at this coarse speech, attempted to interruptit; but Madame Cheron would proceed, with all the self-importance of aperson, to whom power is new. 

'It is very necessary you should be under the eye of some person moreable to guide you than yourself. I, indeed, have not much leisure forsuch a task; however, since your poor father made it his last request, that I should overlook your conduct--I must even take you under my care. But this let me tell you niece, that, unless you will determine to bevery conformable to my direction, I shall not trouble myself longerabout you. '

Emily made no attempt to interrupt Madame Cheron a second time, griefand the pride of conscious innocence kept her silent, till her auntsaid, 'I am now come to take you with me to Tholouse; I am sorryto find, that your poor father died, after all, in such indifferentcircumstances; however, I shall take you home with me. Ah! poor man, hewas always more generous than provident, or he would not have left hisdaughter dependent on his relations. '

'Nor has he done so, I hope, madam, ' said Emily calmly, 'nor did hispecuniary misfortunes arise from that noble generosity, which alwaysdistinguished him. The affairs of M. De Motteville may, I trust, yetbe settled without deeply injuring his creditors, and in the meantime Ishould be very happy to remain at La Vallee. '

'No doubt you would, ' replied Madame Cheron, with a smile of irony, 'andI shall no doubt consent to this, since I see how necessary tranquillityand retirement are to restore your spirits. I did not think you capableof so much duplicity, niece; when you pleaded this excuse for remaininghere, I foolishly believed it to be a just one, nor expected to havefound with you so agreeable a companion as this M. La Val--, I forgethis name. '

Emily could no longer endure these cruel indignities. 'It was a justone, madam, ' said she; 'and now, indeed, I feel more than ever the valueof the retirement I then solicited; and, if the purport of your visitis only to add insult to the sorrows of your brother's child, she couldwell have spared it. '

'I see that I have undertaken a very troublesome task, ' said MadameCheron, colouring highly. 'I am sure, madam, ' said Emily mildly, andendeavouring to restrain her tears, 'I am sure my father did not mean itshould be such. I have the happiness to reflect, that my conduct underhis eye was such as he often delighted to approve. It would be verypainful to me to disobey the sister of such a parent, and, if youbelieve the task will really be so troublesome, I must lament, that itis yours. '

'Well! niece, fine speaking signifies little. I am willing, inconsideration of my poor brother, to overlook the impropriety of yourlate conduct, and to try what your future will be. '

Emily interrupted her, to beg she would explain what was the improprietyshe alluded to. 

'What impropriety! why that of receiving the visits of a lover unknownto your family, ' replied Madame Cheron, not considering the improprietyof which she had herself been guilty, in exposing her niece to thepossibility of conduct so erroneous. 

A faint blush passed over Emily's countenance; pride and anxietystruggled in her breast; and, till she recollected, that appearancesdid, in some degree, justify her aunt's suspicions, she could notresolve to humble herself so far as to enter into the defence of aconduct, which had been so innocent and undesigning on her part. Shementioned the manner of Valancourt's introduction to her father; thecircumstances of his receiving the pistol-shot, and of their afterwardstravelling together; with the accidental way, in which she had met him, on the preceding evening. She owned he had declared a partiality forher, and that he had asked permission to address her family. 

'And who is this young adventurer, pray?' said Madame Cheron, 'and whatare his pretensions?' 'These he must himself explain, madam, ' repliedEmily. 'Of his family my father was not ignorant, and I believe it isunexceptionable. ' She then proceeded to mention what she knew concerningit. 

'Oh, then, this it seems is a younger brother, ' exclaimed her aunt, 'andof course a beggar. A very fine tale indeed! And so my brother took afancy to this young man after only a few days acquaintance!--but thatwas so like him! In his youth he was always taking these likes anddislikes, when no other person saw any reason for them at all; nay, indeed, I have often thought the people he disapproved were much moreagreeable than those he admired;--but there is no accounting for tastes. He was always so much influenced by people's countenances; now I, for mypart, have no notion of this, it is all ridiculous enthusiasm. What hasa man's face to do with his character? Can a man of good characterhelp having a disagreeable face?'--which last sentence Madame Cherondelivered with the decisive air of a person who congratulates herselfon having made a grand discovery, and believes the question to beunanswerably settled. 

Emily, desirous of concluding the conversation, enquired if her auntwould accept some refreshment, and Madame Cheron accompanied her to thechateau, but without desisting from a topic, which she discussed with somuch complacency to herself, and severity to her niece. 

'I am sorry to perceive, niece, ' said she, in allusion to somewhat thatEmily had said, concerning physiognomy, 'that you have a great many ofyour father's prejudices, and among them those sudden predilections forpeople from their looks. I can perceive, that you imagine yourself to beviolently in love with this young adventurer, after an acquaintance ofonly a few days. There was something, too, so charmingly romantic in themanner of your meeting!'

Emily checked the tears, that trembled in her eyes, while she said, 'When my conduct shall deserve this severity, madam, you will do wellto exercise it; till then justice, if not tenderness, should surelyrestrain it. I have never willingly offended you; now I have lost myparents, you are the only person to whom I can look for kindness. Let menot lament more than ever the loss of such parents. ' The last words werealmost stifled by her emotions, and she burst into tears. Rememberingthe delicacy and the tenderness of St. Aubert, the happy, happy daysshe had passed in these scenes, and contrasting them with the coarseand unfeeling behaviour of Madame Cheron, and from the future hoursof mortification she must submit to in her presence--a degree of griefseized her, that almost reached despair. Madame Cheron, more offendedby the reproof which Emily's words conveyed, than touched by thesorrow they expressed, said nothing, that might soften her grief; but, notwithstanding an apparent reluctance to receive her niece, she desiredher company. The love of sway was her ruling passion, and she knew itwould be highly gratified by taking into her house a young orphan, whohad no appeal from her decisions, and on whom she could exercise withoutcontroul the capricious humour of the moment. 

On entering the chateau, Madame Cheron expressed a desire, that shewould put up what she thought necessary to take to Tholouse, as shemeant to set off immediately. Emily now tried to persuade her to deferthe journey, at least till the next day, and, at length, with muchdifficulty, prevailed. 

The day passed in the exercise of petty tyranny on the part of MadameCheron, and in mournful regret and melancholy anticipation on that ofEmily, who, when her aunt retired to her apartment for the night, wentto take leave of every other room in this her dear native home, whichshe was now quitting for she knew not how long, and for a world, towhich she was wholly a stranger. She could not conquer a presentiment, which frequently occurred to her, this night--that she should never morereturn to La Vallee. Having passed a considerable time in what had beenher father's study, having selected some of his favourite authors, toput up with her clothes, and shed many tears, as she wiped the dust fromtheir covers, she seated herself in his chair before the reading desk, and sat lost in melancholy reflection, till Theresa opened the door toexamine, as was her custom before she went to bed, if was all safe. Shestarted, on observing her young lady, who bade her come in, and thengave her some directions for keeping the chateau in readiness for herreception at all times. 

'Alas-a-day! that you should leave it!' said Theresa, 'I think you wouldbe happier here than where you are going, if one may judge. ' Emily madeno reply to this remark; the sorrow Theresa proceeded to express ather departure affected her, but she found some comfort in the simpleaffection of this poor old servant, to whom she gave such directions asmight best conduce to her comfort during her own absence. 

Having dismissed Theresa to bed, Emily wandered through every lonelyapartment of the chateau, lingering long in what had been her father'sbed-room, indulging melancholy, yet not unpleasing, emotions, and, having often returned within the door to take another look at it, shewithdrew to her own chamber. From her window she gazed upon thegarden below, shewn faintly by the moon, rising over the tops of thepalm-trees, and, at length, the calm beauty of the night increased adesire of indulging the mournful sweetness of bidding farewel to thebeloved shades of her childhood, till she was tempted to descend. Throwing over her the light veil, in which she usually walked, shesilently passed into the garden, and, hastening towards the distantgroves, was glad to breathe once more the air of liberty, and to sighunobserved. The deep repose of the scene, the rich scents, that floatedon the breeze, the grandeur of the wide horizon and of the clearblue arch, soothed and gradually elevated her mind to that sublimecomplacency, which renders the vexations of this world so insignificantand mean in our eyes, that we wonder they have had power for a moment todisturb us. Emily forgot Madame Cheron and all the circumstances ofher conduct, while her thoughts ascended to the contemplation of thoseunnumbered worlds, that lie scattered in the depths of aether, thousandsof them hid from human eyes, and almost beyond the flight of humanfancy. As her imagination soared through the regions of space, andaspired to that Great First Cause, which pervades and governs all being, the idea of her father scarcely ever left her; but it was a pleasingidea, since she resigned him to God in the full confidence of a pure andholy faith. She pursued her way through the groves to the terrace, often pausing as memory awakened the pang of affection, and as reasonanticipated the exile, into which she was going. 

And now the moon was high over the woods, touching their summits withyellow light, and darting between the foliage long level beams; while onthe rapid Garonne below the trembling radiance was faintly obscured bythe lightest vapour. Emily long watched the playing lustre, listened tothe soothing murmur of the current, and the yet lighter sounds of theair, as it stirred, at intervals, the lofty palm-trees. 'How delightfulis the sweet breath of these groves, ' said she. 'This lovely scene!--howoften shall I remember and regret it, when I am far away. Alas!what events may occur before I see it again! O, peaceful, happyshades!--scenes of my infant delights, of parental tenderness now lostfor ever!--why must I leave ye!--In your retreats I should still findsafety and repose. Sweet hours of my childhood--I am now to leave evenyour last memorials! No objects, that would revive your impressions, will remain for me!'

Then drying her tears and looking up, her thoughts rose again to thesublime subject she had contemplated; the same divine complacency stoleover her heart, and, hushing its throbs, inspired hope and confidenceand resignation to the will of the Deity, whose works filled her mindwith adoration. 

Emily gazed long on the plane-tree, and then seated herself, for thelast time, on the bench under its shade, where she had so often sat withher parents, and where, only a few hours before, she had conversedwith Valancourt, at the remembrance of whom, thus revived, a mingledsensation of esteem, tenderness and anxiety rose in her breast. Withthis remembrance occurred a recollection of his late confession--that hehad often wandered near her habitation in the night, having even passedthe boundary of the garden, and it immediately occurred to her, thathe might be at this moment in the grounds. The fear of meeting him, particularly after the declaration he had made, and of incurring acensure, which her aunt might so reasonably bestow, if it was known, that she was met by her lover, at this hour, made her instantly leaveher beloved plane-tree, and walk towards the chateau. She cast ananxious eye around, and often stopped for a moment to examine theshadowy scene before she ventured to proceed, but she passed on withoutperceiving any person, till, having reached a clump of almond trees, notfar from the house, she rested to take a retrospect of the garden, andto sigh forth another adieu. As her eyes wandered over the landscape shethought she perceived a person emerge from the groves, and pass slowlyalong a moon-light alley that led between them; but the distance, andthe imperfect light would not suffer her to judge with any degree ofcertainty whether this was fancy or reality. She continued to gaze forsome time on the spot, till on the dead stillness of the air she hearda sudden sound, and in the next instant fancied she distinguishedfootsteps near her. Wasting not another moment in conjecture, shehurried to the chateau, and, having reached it, retired to her chamber, where, as she closed her window she looked upon the garden, and thenagain thought she distinguished a figure, gliding between the almondtrees she had just left. She immediately withdrew from the casement, and, though much agitated, sought in sleep the refreshment of a shortoblivion. 

CHAPTER XI

 I leave that flowery path for eye Of childhood, where I sported many a day, Warbling and sauntering carelessly along; Where every face was innocent and gay, Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue, Sweet, wild, and artless all. THE MINSTREL

At an early hour, the carriage, which was to take Emily and MadameCheron to Tholouse, appeared at the door of the chateau, and Madame wasalready in the breakfast-room, when her niece entered it. The repastwas silent and melancholy on the part of Emily; and Madame Cheron, whosevanity was piqued on observing her dejection, reproved her in a mannerthat did not contribute to remove it. It was with much reluctance, thatEmily's request to take with her the dog, which had been a favouriteof her father, was granted. Her aunt, impatient to be gone, ordered thecarriage to draw up; and, while she passed to the hall door, Emily gaveanother look into the library, and another farewell glance over thegarden, and then followed. Old Theresa stood at the door to take leaveof her young lady. 'God for ever keep you, ma'amselle!' said she, whileEmily gave her hand in silence, and could answer only with a pressure ofher hand, and a forced smile. 

At the gate, which led out of the grounds, several of her father'spensioners were assembled to bid her farewell, to whom she would havespoken, if her aunt would have suffered the driver to stop; and, havingdistributed to them almost all the money she had about her, she sunkback in the carriage, yielding to the melancholy of her heart. Soonafter, she caught, between the steep banks of the road, another view ofthe chateau, peeping from among the high trees, and surrounded by greenslopes and tufted groves, the Garonne winding its way beneath theirshades, sometimes lost among the vineyards, and then rising in greatermajesty in the distant pastures. The towering precipices of thePyrenees, that rose to the south, gave Emily a thousand interestingrecollections of her late journey; and these objects of her formerenthusiastic admiration, now excited only sorrow and regret. Havinggazed on the chateau and its lovely scenery, till the banks again closedupon them, her mind became too much occupied by mournful reflections, topermit her to attend to the conversation, which Madame Cheron had begunon some trivial topic, so that they soon travelled in profound silence. 

Valancourt, mean while, was returned to Estuviere, his heart occupiedwith the image of Emily; sometimes indulging in reveries of futurehappiness, but more frequently shrinking with dread of the oppositionhe might encounter from her family. He was the younger son of an ancientfamily of Gascony; and, having lost his parents at an early periodof his life, the care of his education and of his small portion haddevolved to his brother, the Count de Duvarney, his senior by nearlytwenty years. Valancourt had been educated in all the accomplishmentsof his age, and had an ardour of spirit, and a certain grandeur ofmind, that gave him particular excellence in the exercises then thoughtheroic. His little fortune had been diminished by the necessary expencesof his education; but M. La Valancourt, the elder, seemed to think thathis genius and accomplishments would amply supply the deficiency of hisinheritance. They offered flattering hopes of promotion in the militaryprofession, in those times almost the only one in which a gentlemancould engage without incurring a stain on his name; and La Valancourtwas of course enrolled in the army. The general genius of his mind wasbut little understood by his brother. That ardour for whatever is greatand good in the moral world, as well as in the natural one, displayeditself in his infant years; and the strong indignation, which he feltand expressed at a criminal, or a mean action, sometimes drew upon himthe displeasure of his tutor; who reprobated it under the generalterm of violence of temper; and who, when haranguing on the virtues ofmildness and moderation, seemed to forget the gentleness and compassion, which always appeared in his pupil towards objects of misfortune. 

He had now obtained leave of absence from his regiment when he made theexcursion into the Pyrenees, which was the means of introducing him toSt. Aubert; and, as this permission was nearly expired, he was the moreanxious to declare himself to Emily's family, from whom he reasonablyapprehended opposition, since his fortune, though, with a moderateaddition from hers, it would be sufficient to support them, would notsatisfy the views, either of vanity, or ambition. Valancourt was notwithout the latter, but he saw golden visions of promotion in the army;and believed, that with Emily he could, in the mean time, be delightedto live within the limits of his humble income. His thoughts were nowoccupied in considering the means of making himself known to her family, to whom, however, he had yet no address, for he was entirely ignorant ofEmily's precipitate departure from La Vallee, of whom he hoped to obtainit. 

Meanwhile, the travellers pursued their journey; Emily making frequentefforts to appear cheerful, and too often relapsing into silence anddejection. Madame Cheron, attributing her melancholy solely to thecircumstance of her being removed to a distance from her lover, andbelieving, that the sorrow, which her niece still expressed for theloss of St. Aubert, proceeded partly from an affectation of sensibility, endeavoured to make it appear ridiculous to her, that such deep regretshould continue to be felt so long after the period usually allowed forgrief. 

At length, these unpleasant lectures were interrupted by the arrival ofthe travellers at Tholouse; and Emily, who had not been there for manyyears, and had only a very faint recollection of it, was surprised atthe ostentatious style exhibited in her aunt's house and furniture; themore so, perhaps, because it was so totally different from the modestelegance, to which she had been accustomed. She followed Madame Cheronthrough a large hall, where several servants in rich liveries appeared, to a kind of saloon, fitted up with more shew than taste; and her aunt, complaining of fatigue, ordered supper immediately. 'I am glad to findmyself in my own house again, ' said she, throwing herself on a largesettee, 'and to have my own people about me. I detest travelling;though, indeed, I ought to like it, for what I see abroad always makesme delighted to return to my own chateau. What makes you so silent, child?--What is it that disturbs you now?'

Emily suppressed a starting tear, and tried to smile away the expressionof an oppressed heart; she was thinking of HER home, and felt toosensibly the arrogance and ostentatious vanity of Madame Cheron'sconversation. 'Can this be my father's sister!' said she to herself; andthen the conviction that she was so, warming her heart with somethinglike kindness towards her, she felt anxious to soften the harshimpression her mind had received of her aunt's character, and to shewa willingness to oblige her. The effort did not entirely fail; shelistened with apparent cheerfulness, while Madame Cheron expatiatedon the splendour of her house, told of the numerous parties sheentertained, and what she should expect of Emily, whose diffidenceassumed the air of a reserve, which her aunt, believing it to be thatof pride and ignorance united, now took occasion to reprehend. She knewnothing of the conduct of a mind, that fears to trust its own powers;which, possessing a nice judgment, and inclining to believe, that everyother person perceives still more critically, fears to commit itselfto censure, and seeks shelter in the obscurity of silence. Emily hadfrequently blushed at the fearless manners, which she had seen admired, and the brilliant nothings, which she had heard applauded; yet thisapplause, so far from encouraging her to imitate the conduct that hadwon it, rather made her shrink into the reserve, that would protect herfrom such absurdity. 

Madame Cheron looked on her niece's diffidence with a feeling very nearto contempt, and endeavoured to overcome it by reproof, rather than toencourage it by gentleness. 

The entrance of supper somewhat interrupted the complacent discourse ofMadame Cheron and the painful considerations, which it had forcedupon Emily. When the repast, which was rendered ostentatious by theattendance of a great number of servants, and by a profusion of plate, was over, Madame Cheron retired to her chamber, and a female servantcame to shew Emily to hers. Having passed up a large stair-case, andthrough several galleries, they came to a flight of back stairs, whichled into a short passage in a remote part of the chateau, and therethe servant opened the door of a small chamber, which she said wasMa'amselle Emily's, who, once more alone, indulged the tears she hadlong tried to restrain. 

Those, who know, from experience, how much the heart becomes attachedeven to inanimate objects, to which it has been long accustomed, howunwillingly it resigns them; how with the sensations of an old friend itmeets them, after temporary absence, will understand the forlornnessof Emily's feelings, of Emily shut out from the only home she hadknown from her infancy, and thrown upon a scene, and among persons, disagreeable for more qualities than their novelty. Her father'sfavourite dog, now in the chamber, thus seemed to acquire the characterand importance of a friend; and, as the animal fawned over her when shewept, and licked her hands, 'Ah, poor Manchon!' said she, 'I have nobodynow to love me--but you!' and she wept the more. After some time, herthoughts returning to her father's injunctions, she remembered how oftenhe had blamed her for indulging useless sorrow; how often he had pointedout to her the necessity of fortitude and patience, assuring her, thatthe faculties of the mind strengthen by exertion, till they finallyunnerve affliction, and triumph over it. These recollections dried hertears, gradually soothed her spirits, and inspired her with the sweetemulation of practising precepts, which her father had so frequentlyinculcated. 

CHAPTER XII

 Some pow'r impart the spear and shield, At which the wizard passions fly, By which the giant follies die. COLLINS

Madame Cheron's house stood at a little distance from the city ofTholouse, and was surrounded by extensive gardens, in which Emily, whohad risen early, amused herself with wandering before breakfast. From aterrace, that extended along the highest part of them, was a wide viewover Languedoc. On the distant horizon to the south, she discoveredthe wild summits of the Pyrenees, and her fancy immediately paintedthe green pastures of Gascony at their feet. Her heart pointed to herpeaceful home--to the neighbourhood where Valancourt was--where St. Aubert had been; and her imagination, piercing the veil of distance, brought that home to her eyes in all its interesting and romanticbeauty. She experienced an inexpressible pleasure in believing, that shebeheld the country around it, though no feature could be distinguished, except the retiring chain of the Pyrenees; and, inattentive to the sceneimmediately before her, and to the flight of time, she continued to leanon the window of a pavilion, that terminated the terrace, with her eyesfixed on Gascony, and her mind occupied with the interesting ideas whichthe view of it awakened, till a servant came to tell her breakfastwas ready. Her thoughts thus recalled to the surrounding objects, the straight walks, square parterres, and artificial fountains of thegarden, could not fail, as she passed through it, to appear the worse, opposed to the negligent graces, and natural beauties of the grounds ofLa Vallee, upon which her recollection had been so intensely employed. 

'Whither have you been rambling so early?' said Madame Cheron, as herniece entered the breakfast-room. 'I don't approve of these solitarywalks;' and Emily was surprised, when, having informed her aunt, thatshe had been no further than the gardens, she understood these to beincluded in the reproof. 'I desire you will not walk there again atso early an hour unattended, ' said Madame Cheron; 'my gardens are veryextensive; and a young woman, who can make assignations by moon-light, at La Vallee, is not to be trusted to her own inclinations elsewhere. '

Emily, extremely surprised and shocked, had scarcely power to beg anexplanation of these words, and, when she did, her aunt absolutelyrefused to give it, though, by her severe looks, and half sentences, she appeared anxious to impress Emily with a belief, that she was wellinformed of some degrading circumstances of her conduct. Consciousinnocence could not prevent a blush from stealing over Emily's cheek;she trembled, and looked confusedly under the bold eye of Madame Cheron, who blushed also; but hers was the blush of triumph, such as sometimesstains the countenance of a person, congratulating himself on thepenetration which had taught him to suspect another, and who loses bothpity for the supposed criminal, and indignation of his guilt, in thegratification of his own vanity. 

Emily, not doubting that her aunt's mistake arose from the havingobserved her ramble in the garden on the night preceding her departurefrom La Vallee, now mentioned the motive of it, at which Madame Cheronsmiled contemptuously, refusing either to accept this explanation, orto give her reasons for refusing it; and, soon after, she concluded thesubject by saying, 'I never trust people's assertions, I always judgeof them by their actions; but I am willing to try what will be yourbehaviour in future. '

Emily, less surprised by her aunt's moderation and mysterious silence, than by the accusation she had received, deeply considered the latter, and scarcely doubted, that it was Valancourt whom she had seen at nightin the gardens of La Vallee, and that he had been observed there byMadame Cheron; who now passing from one painful topic only to reviveanother almost equally so, spoke of the situation of her niece'sproperty, in the hands of M. Motteville. While she thus talked withostentatious pity of Emily's misfortunes, she failed not to inculcatethe duties of humility and gratitude, or to render Emily fully sensibleof every cruel mortification, who soon perceived, that she was to beconsidered as a dependant, not only by her aunt, but by her aunt'sservants. 

She was now informed, that a large party were expected to dinner, onwhich account Madame Cheron repeated the lesson of the preceding night, concerning her conduct in company, and Emily wished, that she might havecourage enough to practise it. Her aunt then proceeded to examine thesimplicity of her dress, adding, that she expected to see her attiredwith gaiety and taste; after which she condescended to shew Emily thesplendour of her chateau, and to point out the particular beauty, orelegance, which she thought distinguished each of her numerous suites ofapartments. She then withdrew to her toilet, the throne of her homage, and Emily to her chamber, to unpack her books, and to try to charm hermind by reading, till the hour of dressing. 

When the company arrived, Emily entered the saloon with an air oftimidity, which all her efforts could not overcome, and which wasincreased by the consciousness of Madame Cheron's severe observation. Her mourning dress, the mild dejection of her beautiful countenance, andthe retiring diffidence of her manner, rendered her a very interestingobject to many of the company; among whom she distinguished SignorMontoni, and his friend Cavigni, the late visitors at M. Quesnel's, whonow seemed to converse with Madame Cheron with the familiarity of oldacquaintance, and she to attend to them with particular pleasure. 

This Signor Montoni had an air of conscious superiority, animatedby spirit, and strengthened by talents, to which every person seemedinvoluntarily to yield. The quickness of his perceptions was strikinglyexpressed on his countenance, yet that countenance could submitimplicitly to occasion; and, more than once in this day, the triumph ofart over nature might have been discerned in it. His visage was long, and rather narrow, yet he was called handsome; and it was, perhaps, the spirit and vigour of his soul, sparkling through his features, thattriumphed for him. Emily felt admiration, but not the admiration thatleads to esteem; for it was mixed with a degree of fear she knew notexactly wherefore. 

Cavigni was gay and insinuating as formerly; and, though he paid almostincessant attention to Madame Cheron, he found some opportunities ofconversing with Emily, to whom he directed, at first, the sallies of hiswit, but now and then assumed an air of tenderness, which she observed, and shrunk from. Though she replied but little, the gentleness andsweetness of her manners encouraged him to talk, and she felt relievedwhen a young lady of the party, who spoke incessantly, obtruded herselfon his notice. This lady, who possessed all the sprightliness ofa Frenchwoman, with all her coquetry, affected to understand everysubject, or rather there was no affectation in the case; for, neverlooking beyond the limits of her own ignorance, she believed she hadnothing to learn. She attracted notice from all; amused some, disgustedothers for a moment, and was then forgotten. 

This day passed without any material occurrence; and Emily, thoughamused by the characters she had seen, was glad when she could retire tothe recollections, which had acquired with her the character of duties. 

A fortnight passed in a round of dissipation and company, and Emily, whoattended Madame Cheron in all her visits, was sometimes entertained, butoftener wearied. She was struck by the apparent talents and knowledgedisplayed in the various conversations she listened to, and it was longbefore she discovered, that the talents were for the most part those ofimposture, and the knowledge nothing more than was necessary to assistthem. But what deceived her most, was the air of constant gaiety andgood spirits, displayed by every visitor, and which she supposed toarise from content as constant, and from benevolence as ready. Atlength, from the over-acting of some, less accomplished than the others, she could perceive, that, though contentment and benevolence arethe only sure sources of cheerfulness, the immoderate and feverishanimation, usually exhibited in large parties, results partly from aninsensibility to the cares, which benevolence must sometimes derivefrom the sufferings of others, and partly from a desire to display theappearance of that prosperity, which they know will command submissionand attention to themselves. 

Emily's pleasantest hours were passed in the pavilion of the terrace, towhich she retired, when she could steal from observation, with a book toovercome, or a lute to indulge, her melancholy. There, as she satwith her eyes fixed on the far-distant Pyrenees, and her thoughts onValancourt and the beloved scenes of Gascony, she would play the sweetand melancholy songs of her native province--the popular songs she hadlistened to from her childhood. 

One evening, having excused herself from accompanying her aunt abroad, she thus withdrew to the pavilion, with books and her lute. It wasthe mild and beautiful evening of a sultry day, and the windows, whichfronted the west, opened upon all the glory of a setting sun. Its raysilluminated, with strong splendour, the cliffs of the Pyrenees, andtouched their snowy tops with a roseate hue, that remained, long afterthe sun had sunk below the horizon, and the shades of twilight hadstolen over the landscape. Emily touched her lute with that finemelancholy expression, which came from her heart. The pensive hour andthe scene, the evening light on the Garonne, that flowed at no greatdistance, and whose waves, as they passed towards La Vallee, she oftenviewed with a sigh, --these united circumstances disposed her mind totenderness, and her thoughts were with Valancourt, of whom she had heardnothing since her arrival at Tholouse, and now that she was removed fromhim, and in uncertainty, she perceived all the interest he held in herheart. Before she saw Valancourt she had never met a mind and taste soaccordant with her own, and, though Madame Cheron told her much of thearts of dissimulation, and that the elegance and propriety of thought, which she so much admired in her lover, were assumed for the purpose ofpleasing her, she could scarcely doubt their truth. This possibility, however, faint as it was, was sufficient to harass her mind withanxiety, and she found, that few conditions are more painful than thatof uncertainty, as to the merit of a beloved object; an uncertainty, which she would not have suffered, had her confidence in her ownopinions been greater. 

She was awakened from her musing by the sound of horses' feet alonga road, that wound under the windows of the pavilion, and a gentlemanpassed on horseback, whose resemblance to Valancourt, in air and figure, for the twilight did not permit a view of his features, immediatelystruck her. She retired hastily from the lattice, fearing to be seen, yet wishing to observe further, while the stranger passed on withoutlooking up, and, when she returned to the lattice, she saw him faintlythrough the twilight, winding under the high trees, that led toTholouse. This little incident so much disturbed her spirits, that thetemple and its scenery were no longer interesting to her, and, afterwalking awhile on the terrace, she returned to the chateau. 

Madame Cheron, whether she had seen a rival admired, had lost at play, or had witnessed an entertainment more splendid than her own, wasreturned from her visit with a temper more than usually discomposed; andEmily was glad, when the hour arrived, in which she could retire to thesolitude of her own apartment. 

On the following morning, she was summoned to Madame Cheron, whosecountenance was inflamed with resentment, and, as Emily advanced, sheheld out a letter to her. 

'Do you know this hand?' said she, in a severe tone, and with a lookthat was intended to search her heart, while Emily examined the letterattentively, and assured her, that she did not. 

'Do not provoke me, ' said her aunt; 'you do know it, confess the truthimmediately. I insist upon your confessing the truth instantly. '

Emily was silent, and turned to leave the room, but Madame called herback. 'O you are guilty, then, ' said she, 'you do know the hand. ' 'Ifyou was before in doubt of this, madam, ' replied Emily calmly, 'why didyou accuse me of having told a falsehood. ' Madame Cheron did notblush; but her niece did, a moment after, when she heard the name ofValancourt. It was not, however, with the consciousness of deservingreproof, for, if she ever had seen his hand-writing, the presentcharacters did not bring it to her recollection. 

'It is useless to deny it, ' said Madame Cheron, 'I see in yourcountenance, that you are no stranger to this letter; and, I dare say, you have received many such from this impertinent young man, without myknowledge, in my own house. '

Emily, shocked at the indelicacy of this accusation, still more thanby the vulgarity of the former, instantly forgot the pride, thathad imposed silence, and endeavoured to vindicate herself from theaspersion, but Madame Cheron was not to be convinced. 

'I cannot suppose, ' she resumed, 'that this young man would have takenthe liberty of writing to me, if you had not encouraged him to do so, and I must now'--'You will allow me to remind you, madam, ' said Emilytimidly, 'of some particulars of a conversation we had at La Vallee. I then told you truly, that I had only not forbade Monsieur Valancourtfrom addressing my family. '

'I will not be interrupted, ' said Madame Cheron, interrupting her niece, 'I was going to say--I--I-have forgot what I was going to say. Buthow happened it that you did not forbid him?' Emily was silent. 'Howhappened it that you encouraged him to trouble me with this letter?--Ayoung man that nobody knows;--an utter stranger in the place, --a youngadventurer, no doubt, who is looking out for a good fortune. However, onthat point he has mistaken his aim. '

'His family was known to my father, ' said Emily modestly, and withoutappearing to be sensible of the last sentence. 

'O! that is no recommendation at all, ' replied her aunt, with her usualreadiness upon this topic; 'he took such strange fancies to people! Hewas always judging persons by their countenances, and was continuallydeceived. ' 'Yet it was but now, madam, that you judged me guilty by mycountenance, ' said Emily, with a design of reproving Madame Cheron, towhich she was induced by this disrespectful mention of her father. 

'I called you here, ' resumed her aunt, colouring, 'to tell you, thatI will not be disturbed in my own house by any letters, or visits fromyoung men, who may take a fancy to flatter you. This M. De Valantine--Ithink you call him, has the impertinence to beg I will permit him topay his respects to me! I shall send him a proper answer. And for you, Emily, I repeat it once for all--if you are not contented to conformto my directions, and to my way of live, I shall give up the task ofoverlooking your conduct--I shall no longer trouble myself with youreducation, but shall send you to board in a convent. '

'Dear madam, ' said Emily, bursting into tears, and overcome by the rudesuspicions her aunt had expressed, 'how have I deserved these reproofs?'She could say no more; and so very fearful was she of acting with anydegree of impropriety in the affair itself, that, at the present moment, Madame Cheron might perhaps have prevailed with her to bind herself bya promise to renounce Valancourt for ever. Her mind, weakened by herterrors, would no longer suffer her to view him as she had formerlydone; she feared the error of her own judgment, not that of MadameCheron, and feared also, that, in her former conversation with him, atLa Vallee, she had not conducted herself with sufficient reserve. Sheknew, that she did not deserve the coarse suspicions, which her aunt hadthrown out, but a thousand scruples rose to torment her, such as wouldnever have disturbed the peace of Madame Cheron. Thus rendered anxiousto avoid every opportunity of erring, and willing to submit to anyrestrictions, that her aunt should think proper, she expressed anobedience, to which Madame Cheron did not give much confidence, andwhich she seemed to consider as the consequence of either fear, orartifice. 

'Well, then, ' said she, 'promise me that you will neither see this youngman, nor write to him without my consent. ' 'Dear madam, ' replied Emily, 'can you suppose I would do either, unknown to you!' 'I don't knowwhat to suppose; there is no knowing how young women will act. It isdifficult to place any confidence in them, for they have seldom senseenough to wish for the respect of the world. '

'Alas, madam!' said Emily, 'I am anxious for my own respect; my fathertaught me the value of that; he said if I deserved my own esteem, thatthe world would follow of course. '

'My brother was a good kind of a man, ' replied Madame Cheron, 'but hedid not know the world. I am sure I have always felt a proper respectfor myself, yet--' she stopped, but she might have added, that the worldhad not always shewn respect to her, and this without impeaching itsjudgment. 

'Well!' resumed Madame Cheron, 'you have not give me the promise, though, that I demand. ' Emily readily gave it, and, being then sufferedto withdraw, she walked in the garden; tried to compose her spirits, and, at length, arrived at her favourite pavilion at the end of theterrace, where, seating herself at one of the embowered windows, thatopened upon a balcony, the stillness and seclusion of the scene allowedher to recollect her thoughts, and to arrange them so as to form aclearer judgment of her former conduct. She endeavoured to review withexactness all the particulars of her conversation with Valancourt at LaVallee, had the satisfaction to observe nothing, that could alarm herdelicate pride, and thus to be confirmed in the self-esteem, which wasso necessary to her peace. Her mind then became tranquil, and she sawValancourt amiable and intelligent, as he had formerly appeared, andMadame Cheron neither the one, or the other. The remembrance of herlover, however, brought with it many very painful emotions, for it by nomeans reconciled her to the thought of resigning him; and, Madame Cheronhaving already shewn how highly she disapproved of the attachment, sheforesaw much suffering from the opposition of interests; yet with allthis was mingled a degree of delight, which, in spite of reason, partookof hope. She determined, however, that no consideration should induceher to permit a clandestine correspondence, and to observe in herconversation with Valancourt, should they ever meet again, the samenicety of reserve, which had hitherto marked her conduct. As sherepeated the words--'should we ever meet again!' she shrunk as if thiswas a circumstance, which had never before occurred to her, and tearscame to her eyes, which she hastily dried, for she heard footstepsapproaching, and then the door of the pavilion open, and, on turning, she saw--Valancourt. An emotion of mingled pleasure, surprise andapprehension pressed so suddenly upon her heart as almost to overcomeher spirits; the colour left her cheeks, then returned brighter thanbefore, and she was for a moment unable to speak, or to rise from herchair. His countenance was the mirror, in which she saw her own emotionsreflected, and it roused her to self-command. The joy, which hadanimated his features, when he entered the pavilion, was suddenlyrepressed, as, approaching, he perceived her agitation, and, in atremulous voice, enquired after her health. Recovered from her firstsurprise, she answered him with a tempered smile; but a variety ofopposite emotions still assailed her heart, and struggled to subduethe mild dignity of her manner. It was difficult to tell whichpredominated--the joy of seeing Valancourt, or the terror of her aunt'sdispleasure, when she should hear of this meeting. After some short andembarrassed conversation, she led him into the gardens, and enquired ifhe had seen Madame Cheron. 'No, ' said he, 'I have not yet seen her, forthey told me she was engaged, and as soon as I learned that you were inthe gardens, I came hither. ' He paused a moment, in great agitation, andthen added, 'May I venture to tell you the purport of my visit, withoutincurring your displeasure, and to hope, that you will not accuse me ofprecipitation in now availing myself of the permission you once gaveme of addressing your family?' Emily, who knew not what to reply, wasspared from further perplexity, and was sensible only of fear, when onraising her eyes, she saw Madame Cheron turn into the avenue. As theconsciousness of innocence returned, this fear was so far dissipated asto permit her to appear tranquil, and, instead of avoiding her aunt, sheadvanced with Valancourt to meet her. The look of haughty and impatientdispleasure, with which Madame Cheron regarded them, made Emily shrink, who understood from a single glance, that this meeting was believed tohave been more than accidental: having mentioned Valancourt's name, shebecame again too much agitated to remain with them, and returned intothe chateau; where she awaited long, in a state of trembling anxiety, the conclusion of the conference. She knew not how to account forValancourt's visit to her aunt, before he had received the permissionhe solicited, since she was ignorant of a circumstance, which would haverendered the request useless, even if Madame Cheron had been inclined togrant it. Valancourt, in the agitation of his spirits, had forgotten todate his letter, so that it was impossible for Madame Cheron to returnan answer; and, when he recollected this circumstance, he was, perhaps, not so sorry for the omission as glad of the excuse it allowed him forwaiting on her before she could send a refusal. 

Madame Cheron had a long conversation with Valancourt, and, when shereturned to the chateau, her countenance expressed ill-humour, but notthe degree of severity, which Emily had apprehended. 'I have dismissedthis young man, at last, ' said she, 'and I hope my house will neveragain be disturbed with similar visits. He assures me, that yourinterview was not preconcerted. '

'Dear madam!' said Emily in extreme emotion, 'you surely did not ask himthe question!' 'Most certainly I did; you could not suppose I should beso imprudent as to neglect it. '

'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, 'what an opinion must he form of me, sinceyou, Madam, could express a suspicion of such ill conduct!'

'It is of very little consequence what opinion he may form of you, 'replied her aunt, 'for I have put an end to the affair; but I believehe will not form a worse opinion of me for my prudent conduct. I let himsee, that I was not to be trifled with, and that I had more delicacy, than to permit any clandestine correspondence to be carried on in myhouse. '

Emily had frequently heard Madame Cheron use the word delicacy, but shewas now more than usually perplexed to understand how she meant to applyit in this instance, in which her whole conduct appeared to merit thevery reverse of the term. 

'It was very inconsiderate of my brother, ' resumed Madame Cheron, 'toleave the trouble of overlooking your conduct to me; I wish you was wellsettled in life. But if I find, that I am to be further troubled withsuch visitors as this M. Valancourt, I shall place you in a convent atonce;--so remember the alternative. This young man has the impertinenceto own to me, --he owns it! that his fortune is very small, and that heis chiefly dependent on an elder brother and on the profession he haschosen! He should have concealed these circumstances, at least, if heexpected to succeed with me. Had he the presumption to suppose I wouldmarry my niece to a person such as he describes himself!'

Emily dried her tears when she heard of the candid confession ofValancourt; and, though the circumstances it discovered were afflictingto her hopes, his artless conduct gave her a degree of pleasure, thatovercame every other emotion. But she was compelled, even thus earlyin life, to observe, that good sense and noble integrity are not alwayssufficient to cope with folly and narrow cunning; and her heart was pureenough to allow her, even at this trying moment, to look with more prideon the defeat of the former, than with mortification on the conquests ofthe latter. 

Madame Cheron pursued her triumph. 'He has also thought proper to tellme, that he will receive his dismission from no person but yourself;this favour, however, I have absolutely refused him. He shall learn, that it is quite sufficient, that I disapprove him. And I take thisopportunity of repeating, --that if you concert any means of interviewunknown to me, you shall leave my house immediately. '

'How little do you know me, madam, that you should think such aninjunction necessary!' said Emily, trying to suppress her emotion, 'howlittle of the dear parents, who educated me!'

Madame Cheron now went to dress for an engagement, which she had madefor the evening; and Emily, who would gladly have been excused fromattending her aunt, did not ask to remain at home lest her requestshould be attributed to an improper motive. When she retired to her ownroom, the little fortitude, which had supported her in the presence ofher relation, forsook her; she remembered only that Valancourt, whosecharacter appeared more amiable from every circumstance, that unfoldedit, was banished from her presence, perhaps, for ever, and she passedthe time in weeping, which, according to her aunt's direction, she oughtto have employed in dressing. This important duty was, however, quicklydispatched; though, when she joined Madame Cheron at table, her eyesbetrayed, that she had been in tears, and drew upon her a severereproof. 

Her efforts to appear cheerful did not entirely fail when she joined thecompany at the house of Madame Clairval, an elderly widow lady, who hadlately come to reside at Tholouse, on an estate of her late husband. Shehad lived many years at Paris in a splendid style; had naturally a gaytemper, and, since her residence at Tholouse, had given some of the mostmagnificent entertainments, that had been seen in that neighbourhood. 

These excited not only the envy, but the trifling ambition of MadameCheron, who, since she could not rival the splendour of her festivities, was desirous of being ranked in the number of her most intimate friends. For this purpose she paid her the most obsequious attention, and madea point of being disengaged, whenever she received an invitation fromMadame Clairval, of whom she talked, wherever she went, and derived muchself-consequence from impressing a belief on her general acquaintance, that they were on the most familiar footing. 

The entertainments of this evening consisted of a ball and supper; itwas a fancy ball, and the company danced in groups in the gardens, which were very extensive. The high and luxuriant trees, under which thegroups assembled, were illuminated with a profusion of lamps, disposedwith taste and fancy. The gay and various dresses of the company, someof whom were seated on the turf, conversing at their ease, observingthe cotillons, taking refreshments, and sometimes touching sportively aguitar; the gallant manners of the gentlemen, the exquisitely capriciousair of the ladies; the light fantastic steps of their dances; themusicians, with the lute, the hautboy, and the tabor, seated at the footof an elm, and the sylvan scenery of woods around were circumstances, that unitedly formed a characteristic and striking picture of Frenchfestivity. Emily surveyed the gaiety of the scene with a melancholy kindof pleasure, and her emotion may be imagined when, as she stood with heraunt, looking at one of the groups, she perceived Valancourt; saw himdancing with a young and beautiful lady, saw him conversing with herwith a mixture of attention and familiarity, such as she had seldomobserved in his manner. She turned hastily from the scene, and attemptedto draw away Madame Cheron, who was conversing with Signor Cavigni, and neither perceived Valancourt, or was willing to be interrupted. Afaintness suddenly came over Emily, and, unable to support herself, shesat down on a turf bank beneath the trees, where several other personswere seated. One of these, observing the extreme paleness of hercountenance, enquired if she was ill, and begged she would allow him tofetch her a glass of water, for which politeness she thanked him, butdid not accept it. Her apprehension lest Valancourt should observe heremotion made her anxious to overcome it, and she succeeded so far asto re-compose her countenance. Madame Cheron was still conversing withCavigni; and the Count Bauvillers, who had addressed Emily, made someobservations upon the scene, to which she answered almost unconsciously, for her mind was still occupied with the idea of Valancourt, to whomit was with extreme uneasiness that she remained so near. Some remarks, however, which the Count made upon the dance obliged her to turn hereyes towards it, and, at that moment, Valancourt's met hers. Her colourfaded again, she felt, that she was relapsing into faintness, andinstantly averted her looks, but not before she had observed the alteredcountenance of Valancourt, on perceiving her. She would have left thespot immediately, had she not been conscious, that this conduct wouldhave shewn him more obviously the interest he held in her heart; and, having tried to attend to the Count's conversation, and to join init, she, at length, recovered her spirits. But, when he made someobservation on Valancourt's partner, the fear of shewing that she wasinterested in the remark, would have betrayed it to him, had notthe Count, while he spoke, looked towards the person of whom he wasspeaking. 'The lady, ' said he, 'dancing with that young Chevalier, whoappears to be accomplished in every thing, but in dancing, is rankedamong the beauties of Tholouse. She is handsome, and her fortune will bevery large. I hope she will make a better choice in a partner for lifethan she has done in a partner for the dance, for I observe he has justput the set into great confusion; he does nothing but commit blunders. Iam surprised, that, with his air and figure, he has not taken more careto accomplish himself in dancing. '

Emily, whose heart trembled at every word, that was now uttered, endeavoured to turn the conversation from Valancourt, by enquiringthe name of the lady, with whom he danced; but, before the Count couldreply, the dance concluded, and Emily, perceiving that Valancourt wascoming towards her, rose and joined Madame Cheron. 

'Here is the Chevalier Valancourt, madam, ' said she in a whisper, 'praylet us go. ' Her aunt immediately moved on, but not before Valancourt hadreached them, who bowed lowly to Madame Cheron, and with an earnest anddejected look to Emily, with whom, notwithstanding all her effort, anair of more than common reserve prevailed. The presence of MadameCheron prevented Valancourt from remaining, and he passed on with acountenance, whose melancholy reproached her for having increased it. Emily was called from the musing fit, into which she had fallen, by theCount Bauvillers, who was known to her aunt. 

'I have your pardon to beg, ma'amselle, ' said he, 'for a rudeness, whichyou will readily believe was quite unintentional. I did not know, thatthe Chevalier was your acquaintance, when I so freely criticised hisdancing. ' Emily blushed and smiled, and Madame Cheron spared her thedifficulty of replying. 'If you mean the person, who has just passedus, ' said she, 'I can assure you he is no acquaintance of either mine, or ma'amselle St. Aubert's: I know nothing of him. '

'O! that is the Chevalier Valancourt, ' said Cavigni carelessly, andlooking back. 'You know him then?' said Madame Cheron. 'I am notacquainted with him, ' replied Cavigni. 'You don't know, then, the reasonI have to call him impertinent;--he has had the presumption to admire myniece!'

'If every man deserves the title of impertinent, who admiresma'amselle St. Aubert, ' replied Cavigni, 'I fear there are a great manyimpertinents, and I am willing to acknowledge myself one of the number. '

'O Signor!' said Madame Cheron, with an affected smile, 'I perceive youhave learnt the art of complimenting, since you came into France. But itis cruel to compliment children, since they mistake flattery for truth. '

Cavigni turned away his face for a moment, and then said with a studiedair, 'Whom then are we to compliment, madam? for it would be absurd tocompliment a woman of refined understanding; SHE is above all praise. 'As he finished the sentence he gave Emily a sly look, and the smile, that had lurked in his eye, stole forth. She perfectly understood it, and blushed for Madame Cheron, who replied, 'You are perfectly right, signor, no woman of understanding can endure compliment. '

'I have heard Signor Montoni say, ' rejoined Cavigni, 'that he never knewbut one woman who deserved it. '

'Well!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, with a short laugh, and a smile ofunutterable complacency, 'and who could she be?'

'O!' replied Cavigni, 'it is impossible to mistake her, for certainlythere is not more than one woman in the world, who has both the merit todeserve compliment and the wit to refuse it. Most women reverse the caseentirely. ' He looked again at Emily, who blushed deeper than before forher aunt, and turned from him with displeasure. 

'Well, signor!' said Madame Cheron, 'I protest you are a Frenchman; Inever heard a foreigner say any thing half so gallant as that!'

'True, madam, ' said the Count, who had been some time silent, and with alow bow, 'but the gallantry of the compliment had been utterly lost, butfor the ingenuity that discovered the application. '

Madame Cheron did not perceive the meaning of this too satiricalsentence, and she, therefore, escaped the pain, which Emily felt onher account. 'O! here comes Signor Montoni himself, ' said her aunt, 'Iprotest I will tell him all the fine things you have been saying to me. 'The Signor, however, passed at this moment into another walk. 'Pray, whois it, that has so much engaged your friend this evening?' asked MadameCheron, with an air of chagrin, 'I have not seen him once. '

'He had a very particular engagement with the Marquis La Riviere, 'replied Cavigni, 'which has detained him, I perceive, till this moment, or he would have done himself the honour of paying his respects to you, madam, sooner, as he commissioned me to say. But, I know not how itis--your conversation is so fascinating--that it can charm even memory, I think, or I should certainly have delivered my friend's apologybefore. '

'The apology, sir, would have been more satisfactory from himself, ' saidMadame Cheron, whose vanity was more mortified by Montoni's neglect, than flattered by Cavigni's compliment. Her manner, at this moment, andCavigni's late conversation, now awakened a suspicion in Emily's mind, which, notwithstanding that some recollections served to confirm it, appeared preposterous. She thought she perceived, that Montoni waspaying serious addresses to her aunt, and that she not only acceptedthem, but was jealously watchful of any appearance of neglect on hispart. --That Madame Cheron at her years should elect a second husband wasridiculous, though her vanity made it not impossible; but that Montoni, with his discernment, his figure, and pretensions, should make a choiceof Madame Cheron--appeared most wonderful. Her thoughts, however, didnot dwell long on the subject; nearer interests pressed upon them;Valancourt, rejected of her aunt, and Valancourt dancing with a gay andbeautiful partner, alternately tormented her mind. As she passed alongthe gardens she looked timidly forward, half fearing and half hopingthat he might appear in the crowd; and the disappointment she felt onnot seeing him, told her, that she had hoped more than she had feared. 

Montoni soon after joined the party. He muttered over some short speechabout regret for having been so long detained elsewhere, when he knewhe should have the pleasure of seeing Madame Cheron here; and she, receiving the apology with the air of a pettish girl, addressed herselfentirely to Cavigni, who looked archly at Montoni, as if he would havesaid, 'I will not triumph over you too much; I will have the goodness tobear my honours meekly; but look sharp, Signor, or I shall certainly runaway with your prize. '

The supper was served in different pavilions in the gardens, as well asin one large saloon of the chateau, and with more of taste, than eitherof splendour, or even of plenty. Madame Cheron and her party supped withMadame Clairval in the saloon, and Emily, with difficulty, disguised heremotion, when she saw Valancourt placed at the same table with herself. There, Madame Cheron having surveyed him with high displeasure, said tosome person who sat next to her, 'Pray, who IS that young man?' 'It isthe Chevalier Valancourt, ' was the answer. 'Yes, I am not ignorantof his name, but who is this Chevalier Valancourt that thus intrudeshimself at this table?' The attention of the person, who whom she spoke, was called off before she received a second reply. The table, at whichthey sat, was very long, and, Valancourt being seated, with his partner, near the bottom, and Emily near the top, the distance between them mayaccount for his not immediately perceiving her. She avoided looking tothat end of the table, but whenever her eyes happened to glance towardsit, she observed him conversing with his beautiful companion, and theobservation did not contribute to restore her peace, any more than theaccounts she heard of the fortune and accomplishments of this same lady. 

Madame Cheron, to whom these remarks were sometimes addressed, becausethey supported topics for trivial conversation, seemed indefatigablein her attempts to depreciate Valancourt, towards whom she felt all thepetty resentment of a narrow pride. 'I admire the lady, ' said she, 'butI must condemn her choice of a partner. ' 'Oh, the Chevalier Valancourtis one of the most accomplished young men we have, ' replied the lady, to whom this remark was addressed: 'it is whispered, that MademoiselleD'Emery, and her large fortune, are to be his. '

'Impossible!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, reddening with vexation, 'it isimpossible that she can be so destitute of taste; he has so little theair of a person of condition, that, if I did not see him at the tableof Madame Clairval, I should never have suspected him to be one. I havebesides particular reasons for believing the report to be erroneous. '

'I cannot doubt the truth of it, ' replied the lady gravely, disgustedby the abrupt contradiction she had received, concerning her opinion ofValancourt's merit. 'You will, perhaps, doubt it, ' said Madame Cheron, 'when I assure you, that it was only this morning that I rejected hissuit. ' This was said without any intention of imposing the meaning itconveyed, but simply from a habit of considering herself to be the mostimportant person in every affair that concerned her niece, and becauseliterally she had rejected Valancourt. 'Your reasons are indeed such ascannot be doubted, ' replied the lady, with an ironical smile. 'Any morethan the discernment of the Chevalier Valancourt, ' added Cavigni, whostood by the chair of Madame Cheron, and had heard her arrogate toherself, as he thought, a distinction which had been paid to her niece. 'His discernment MAY be justly questioned, Signor, ' said Madame Cheron, who was not flattered by what she understood to be an encomium on Emily. 

'Alas!' exclaimed Cavigni, surveying Madame Cheron with affectedecstasy, 'how vain is that assertion, while that face--that shape--thatair--combine to refute it! Unhappy Valancourt! his discernment has beenhis destruction. '

Emily looked surprised and embarrassed; the lady, who had latelyspoke, astonished, and Madame Cheron, who, though she did not perfectlyunderstand this speech, was very ready to believe herself complimentedby it, said smilingly, 'O Signor! you are very gallant; but those, whohear you vindicate the Chevalier's discernment, will suppose that I amthe object of it. '

'They cannot doubt it, ' replied Cavigni, bowing low. 

'And would not that be very mortifying, Signor?'

'Unquestionably it would, ' said Cavigni. 

'I cannot endure the thought, ' said Madame Cheron. 

'It is not to be endured, ' replied Cavigni. 

'What can be done to prevent so humiliating a mistake?' rejoined MadameCheron. 

'Alas! I cannot assist you, ' replied Cavigni, with a deliberatingair. 'Your only chance of refuting the calumny, and of making peopleunderstand what you wish them to believe, is to persist in yourfirst assertion; for, when they are told of the Chevalier's want ofdiscernment, it is possible they may suppose he never presumed todistress you with his admiration. --But then again--that diffidence, which renders you so insensible to your own perfections--they willconsider this, and Valancourt's taste will not be doubted, though youarraign it. In short, they will, in spite of your endeavours, continueto believe, what might very naturally have occurred to them without anyhint of mine--that the Chevalier has taste enough to admire a beautifulwoman. '

'All this is very distressing!' said Madame Cheron, with a profoundsigh. 

'May I be allowed to ask what is so distressing?' said Madame Clairval, who was struck with the rueful countenance and doleful accent, withwhich this was delivered. 

'It is a delicate subject, ' replied Madame Cheron, 'a very mortifyingone to me. ' 'I am concerned to hear it, ' said Madame Clairval, 'I hopenothing has occurred, this evening, particularly to distress you?''Alas, yes! within this half hour; and I know not where the report mayend;--my pride was never so shocked before, but I assure you the reportis totally void of foundation. ' 'Good God!' exclaimed Madame Clairval, 'what can be done? Can you point out any way, by which I can assist, orconsole you?'

'The only way, by which you can do either, ' replied Madame Cheron, 'isto contradict the report wherever you go. '

'Well! but pray inform me what I am to contradict. '

'It is so very humiliating, that I know not how to mention it, 'continued Madame Cheron, 'but you shall judge. Do you observe thatyoung man seated near the bottom of the table, who is conversing withMademoiselle D'Emery?' 'Yes, I perceive whom you mean. ' 'You observe howlittle he has the air of a person of condition; I was saying just now, that I should not have thought him a gentleman, if I had not seen himat this table. ' 'Well! but the report, ' said Madame Clairval, 'letme understand the subject of your distress. ' 'Ah! the subject of mydistress, ' replied Madame Cheron; 'this person, whom nobody knows--(Ibeg pardon, madam, I did not consider what I said)--this impertinentyoung man, having had the presumption to address my niece, has, I fear, given rise to a report, that he had declared himself my admirer. Nowonly consider how very mortifying such a report must be! You, Iknow, will feel for my situation. A woman of my condition!--think howdegrading even the rumour of such an alliance must be. '

'Degrading indeed, my poor friend!' said Madame Clairval. 'You may relyupon it I will contradict the report wherever I go;' as she said which, she turned her attention upon another part of the company; and Cavigni, who had hitherto appeared a grave spectator of the scene, now fearinghe should be unable to smother the laugh, that convulsed him, walkedabruptly away. 

'I perceive you do not know, ' said the lady who sat near Madame Cheron, 'that the gentleman you have been speaking of is Madame Clairval'snephew!' 'Impossible!' exclaimed Madame Cheron, who now began toperceive, that she had been totally mistaken in her judgment ofValancourt, and to praise him aloud with as much servility, as she hadbefore censured him with frivolous malignity. 

Emily, who, during the greater part of this conversation, had been soabsorbed in thought as to be spared the pain of hearing it, was nowextremely surprised by her aunt's praise of Valancourt, with whoserelationship to Madame Clairval she was unacquainted; but she wasnot sorry when Madame Cheron, who, though she now tried to appearunconcerned, was really much embarrassed, prepared to withdrawimmediately after supper. Montoni then came to hand Madame Cheron to hercarriage, and Cavigni, with an arch solemnity of countenance, followedwith Emily, who, as she wished them good night, and drew up the glass, saw Valancourt among the crowd at the gates. Before the carriage droveoff, he disappeared. Madame Cheron forbore to mention him to Emily, and, as soon as they reached the chateau, they separated for the night. 

On the following morning, as Emily sat at breakfast with her aunt, aletter was brought to her, of which she knew the handwriting upon thecover; and, as she received it with a trembling hand, Madame Cheronhastily enquired from whom it came. Emily, with her leave, broke theseal, and, observing the signature of Valancourt, gave it unread to heraunt, who received it with impatience; and, as she looked it over, Emilyendeavoured to read on her countenance its contents. Having returnedthe letter to her niece, whose eyes asked if she might examine it, 'Yes, read it, child, ' said Madame Cheron, in a manner less severe than shehad expected, and Emily had, perhaps, never before so willingly obeyedher aunt. In this letter Valancourt said little of the interview of thepreceding day, but concluded with declaring, that he would accept hisdismission from Emily only, and with entreating, that she would allowhim to wait upon her, on the approaching evening. When she read this, she was astonished at the moderation of Madame Cheron, and looked ather with timid expectation, as she said sorrowfully--'What am I to say, madam?'

'Why--we must see the young man, I believe, ' replied her aunt, 'and hearwhat he has further to say for himself. You may tell him he may come. 'Emily dared scarcely credit what she heard. 'Yet, stay, ' added MadameCheron, 'I will tell him so myself. ' She called for pen and ink; Emilystill not daring to trust the emotions she felt, and almost sinkingbeneath them. Her surprise would have been less had she overheard, on the preceding evening, what Madame Cheron had not forgotten--thatValancourt was the nephew of Madame Clairval. 

What were the particulars of her aunt's note Emily did not learn, butthe result was a visit from Valancourt in the evening, whom MadameCheron received alone, and they had a long conversation before Emilywas called down. When she entered the room, her aunt was conversing withcomplacency, and she saw the eyes of Valancourt, as he impatiently rose, animated with hope. 

'We have been talking over this affair, ' said Madame Cheron, 'thechevalier has been telling me, that the late Monsieur Clairval was thebrother of the Countess de Duvarney, his mother. I only wish he hadmentioned his relationship to Madame Clairval before; I certainly shouldhave considered that circumstance as a sufficient introduction to myhouse. ' Valancourt bowed, and was going to address Emily, but her auntprevented him. 'I have, therefore, consented that you shall receive hisvisits; and, though I will not bind myself by any promise, or say, thatI shall consider him as my nephew, yet I shall permit the intercourse, and shall look forward to any further connection as an event, which maypossibly take place in a course of years, provided the chevalier risesin his profession, or any circumstance occurs, which may make it prudentfor him to take a wife. But Mons. Valancourt will observe, and you too, Emily, that, till that happens, I positively forbid any thoughts ofmarrying. '

Emily's countenance, during this coarse speech, varied every instant, and, towards its conclusion, her distress had so much increased, that she was on the point of leaving the room. Valancourt, meanwhile, scarcely less embarrassed, did not dare to look at her, for whom hewas thus distressed; but, when Madame Cheron was silent, he said, 'Flattering, madam, as your approbation is to me--highly as I amhonoured by it--I have yet so much to fear, that I scarcely dare tohope. ' 'Pray, sir, explain yourself, ' said Madame Cheron; an unexpectedrequisition, which embarrassed Valancourt again, and almost overcame himwith confusion, at circumstances, on which, had he been only a spectatorof the scene, he would have smiled. 

'Till I receive Mademoiselle St. Aubert's permission to accept yourindulgence, ' said he, falteringly--'till she allows me to hope--'

'O! is that all?' interrupted Madame Cheron. 'Well, I will take upon meto answer for her. But at the same time, sir, give me leave to observeto you, that I am her guardian, and that I expect, in every instance, that my will is hers. '

As she said this, she rose and quitted the room, leaving Emily andValancourt in a state of mutual embarrassment; and, when Valancourt'shopes enabled him to overcome his fears, and to address her with thezeal and sincerity so natural to him, it was a considerable timebefore she was sufficiently recovered to hear with distinctness hissolicitations and inquiries. 

The conduct of Madame Cheron in this affair had been entirely governedby selfish vanity. Valancourt, in his first interview, had with greatcandour laid open to her the true state of his present circumstances, and his future expectancies, and she, with more prudence than humanity, had absolutely and abruptly rejected his suit. She wished her niece tomarry ambitiously, not because she desired to see her in possession ofthe happiness, which rank and wealth are usually believed to bestow, butbecause she desired to partake the importance, which such an alliancewould give. When, therefore, she discovered that Valancourt was thenephew of a person of so much consequence as Madame Clairval, she becameanxious for the connection, since the prospect it afforded of futurefortune and distinction for Emily, promised the exaltation she covetedfor herself. Her calculations concerning fortune in this alliance wereguided rather by her wishes, than by any hint of Valancourt, or strongappearance of probability; and, when she rested her expectation on thewealth of Madame Clairval, she seemed totally to have forgotten, thatthe latter had a daughter. Valancourt, however, had not forgotten thiscircumstance, and the consideration of it had made him so modest inhis expectations from Madame Clairval, that he had not even named therelationship in his first conversation with Madame Cheron. But, whatevermight be the future fortune of Emily, the present distinction, which theconnection would afford for herself, was certain, since the splendour ofMadame Clairval's establishment was such as to excite the general envyand partial imitation of the neighbourhood. Thus had she consented toinvolve her niece in an engagement, to which she saw only a distant anduncertain conclusion, with as little consideration of her happiness, as when she had so precipitately forbade it: for though she herselfpossessed the means of rendering this union not only certain, butprudent, yet to do so was no part of her present intention. 

From this period Valancourt made frequent visits to Madame Cheron, andEmily passed in his society the happiest hours she had known since thedeath of her father. They were both too much engaged by the presentmoments to give serious consideration to the future. They loved and werebeloved, and saw not, that the very attachment, which formed the delightof their present days, might possibly occasion the sufferings of years. Meanwhile, Madame Cheron's intercourse with Madame Clairval becamemore frequent than before, and her vanity was already gratified bythe opportunity of proclaiming, wherever she went, the attachment thatsubsisted between their nephew and niece. 

Montoni was now also become a daily guest at the chateau, and Emilywas compelled to observe, that he really was a suitor, and a favouredsuitor, to her aunt. 

Thus passed the winter months, not only in peace, but in happiness, to Valancourt and Emily; the station of his regiment being so nearTholouse, as to allow this frequent intercourse. The pavilion on theterrace was the favourite scene of their interviews, and there Emily, with Madame Cheron, would work, while Valancourt read aloud works ofgenius and taste, listened to her enthusiasm, expressed his own, andcaught new opportunities of observing, that their minds were formed toconstitute the happiness of each other, the same taste, the same nobleand benevolent sentiments animating each. 

CHAPTER XIII

 As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-Isles, Placed far amid the melancholy main, (Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles, Or that aerial beings sometimes deign To stand embodied to our senses plain) Sees on the naked hill, or valley low, The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain, A vast assembly moving to and fro, Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show. CASTLE OF INDOLENCE

Madame Cheron's avarice at length yielded to her vanity. Some verysplendid entertainments, which Madame Clairval had given, and thegeneral adulation, which was paid her, made the former more anxious thanbefore to secure an alliance, that would so much exalt her in her ownopinion and in that of the world. She proposed terms for the immediatemarriage of her niece, and offered to give Emily a dower, providedMadame Clairval observed equal terms, on the part of her nephew. MadameClairval listened to the proposal, and, considering that Emily was theapparent heiress of her aunt's wealth, accepted it. Meanwhile, Emilyknew nothing of the transaction, till Madame Cheron informed her, thatshe must make preparation for the nuptials, which would be celebratedwithout further delay; then, astonished and wholly unable to account forthis sudden conclusion, which Valancourt had not solicited (for he wasignorant of what had passed between the elder ladies, and had notdared to hope such good fortune), she decisively objected to it. MadameCheron, however, quite as jealous of contradiction now, as she had beenformerly, contended for a speedy marriage with as much vehemence as shehad formerly opposed whatever had the most remote possibility of leadingto it; and Emily's scruples disappeared, when she again saw Valancourt, who was now informed of the happiness, designed for him, and came toclaim a promise of it from herself. 

While preparations were making for these nuptials, Montoni became theacknowledged lover of Madame Cheron; and, though Madame Clairval wasmuch displeased, when she heard of the approaching connection, and waswilling to prevent that of Valancourt with Emily, her conscience toldher, that she had no right thus to trifle with their peace, and MadameClairval, though a woman of fashion, was far less advanced thanher friend in the art of deriving satisfaction from distinction andadmiration, rather than from conscience. 

Emily observed with concern the ascendancy, which Montoni had acquiredover Madame Cheron, as well as the increasing frequency of his visits;and her own opinion of this Italian was confirmed by that of Valancourt, who had always expressed a dislike of him. As she was, one morning, sitting at work in the pavilion, enjoying the pleasant freshness ofspring, whose colours were now spread upon the landscape, and listeningto Valancourt, who was reading, but who often laid aside the book toconverse, she received a summons to attend Madame Cheron immediately, and had scarcely entered the dressing-room, when she observed withsurprise the dejection of her aunt's countenance, and the contrastedgaiety of her dress. 'So, niece!'--said Madame, and she stopped undersome degree of embarrassment. --'I sent for you--I--I wished to see you;I have news to tell you. From this hour you must consider the SignorMontoni as your uncle--we were married this morning. '

Astonished--not so much at the marriage, as at the secrecy with whichit had been concluded, and the agitation with which it was announced, Emily, at length, attributed the privacy to the wish of Montoni, ratherthan of her aunt. His wife, however, intended, that the contrary shouldbe believed, and therefore added, 'you see I wished to avoid a bustle;but now the ceremony is over I shall do so no longer; and I wish toannounce to my servants that they must receive the Signor Montoni fortheir master. ' Emily made a feeble attempt to congratulate her on theseapparently imprudent nuptials. 'I shall now celebrate my marriage withsome splendour, ' continued Madame Montoni, 'and to save time I shallavail myself of the preparation that has been made for yours, whichwill, of course, be delayed a little while. Such of your wedding clothesas are ready I shall expect you will appear in, to do honour to thisfestival. I also wish you to inform Monsieur Valancourt, that I havechanged my name, and he will acquaint Madame Clairval. In a few daysI shall give a grand entertainment, at which I shall request theirpresence. '

Emily was so lost in surprise and various thought, that she made MadameMontoni scarcely any reply, but, at her desire, she returned to informValancourt of what had passed. Surprise was not his predominant emotionon hearing of these hasty nuptials; and, when he learned, that they wereto be the means of delaying his own, and that the very ornaments of thechateau, which had been prepared to grace the nuptial day of his Emily, were to be degraded to the celebration of Madame Montoni's, grief andindignation agitated him alternately. He could conceal neither from theobservation of Emily, whose efforts to abstract him from these seriousemotions, and to laugh at the apprehensive considerations, that assailedhim, were ineffectual; and, when, at length, he took leave, there was anearnest tenderness in his manner, that extremely affected her; she evenshed tears, when he disappeared at the end of the terrace, yet knew notexactly why she should do so. 

Montoni now took possession of the chateau, and the command of itsinhabitants, with the ease of a man, who had long considered it to behis own. His friend Cavigni, who had been extremely serviceable, in having paid Madame Cheron the attention and flattery, which sherequired, but from which Montoni too often revolted, had apartmentsassigned to him, and received from the domestics an equal degree ofobedience with the master of the mansion. 

Within a few days, Madame Montoni, as she had promised, gave amagnificent entertainment to a very numerous company, among whom wasValancourt; but at which Madame Clairval excused herself from attending. There was a concert, ball and supper. Valancourt was, of course, Emily'spartner, and though, when he gave a look to the decorations of theapartments, he could not but remember, that they were designed forother festivities, than those they now contributed to celebrate, heendeavoured to check his concern by considering, that a littlewhile only would elapse before they would be given to their originaldestination. During this evening, Madame Montoni danced, laughedand talked incessantly; while Montoni, silent, reserved and somewhathaughty, seemed weary of the parade, and of the frivolous company it haddrawn together. 

This was the first and the last entertainment, given in celebrationof their nuptials. Montoni, though the severity of his temper and thegloominess of his pride prevented him from enjoying such festivities, was extremely willing to promote them. It was seldom, that he could meetin any company a man of more address, and still seldomer one of moreunderstanding, than himself; the balance of advantage in such parties, or in the connections, which might arise from them, must, therefore, beon his side; and, knowing, as he did, the selfish purposes, for whichthey are generally frequented, he had no objection to measure histalents of dissimulation with those of any other competitor fordistinction and plunder. But his wife, who, when her own interest wasimmediately concerned, had sometimes more discernment than vanity, acquired a consciousness of her inferiority to other women, in personalattractions, which, uniting with the jealousy natural to the discovery, counteracted his readiness for mingling with all the parties Tholousecould afford. Till she had, as she supposed, the affections of anhusband to lose, she had no motive for discovering the unwelcome truth, and it had never obtruded itself upon her; but, now that it influencedher policy, she opposed her husband's inclination for company, with themore eagerness, because she believed him to be really as well receivedin the female society of the place, as, during his addresses to her, hehad affected to be. 

A few weeks only had elapsed, since the marriage, when Madame Montoniinformed Emily, that the Signor intended to return to Italy, as soon asthe necessary preparation could be made for so long a journey. 'We shallgo to Venice, ' said she, 'where the Signor has a fine mansion, and fromthence to his estate in Tuscany. Why do you look so grave, child?--You, who are so fond of a romantic country and fine views, will doubtless bedelighted with this journey. '

'Am I then to be of the party, madam?' said Emily, with extreme surpriseand emotion. 'Most certainly, ' replied her aunt, 'how could you imaginewe should leave you behind? But I see you are thinking of the Chevalier;he is not yet, I believe, informed of the journey, but he very soonwill be so. Signor Montoni is gone to acquaint Madame Clairval of ourjourney, and to say, that the proposed connection between the familiesmust from this time be thought of no more. '

The unfeeling manner, in which Madame Montoni thus informed her niece, that she must be separated, perhaps for ever, from the man, with whomshe was on the point of being united for life, added to the dismay, which she must otherwise have suffered at such intelligence. Whenshe could speak, she asked the cause of the sudden change in Madame'ssentiments towards Valancourt, but the only reply she could obtain was, that the Signor had forbade the connection, considering it to be greatlyinferior to what Emily might reasonably expect. 

'I now leave the affair entirely to the Signor, ' added Madame Montoni, 'but I must say, that M. Valancourt never was a favourite with me, andI was overpersuaded, or I should not have given my consent to theconnection. I was weak enough--I am so foolish sometimes!--to sufferother people's uneasiness to affect me, and so my better judgmentyielded to your affliction. But the Signor has very properly pointed outthe folly of this, and he shall not have to reprove me a second time. Iam determined, that you shall submit to those, who know how to guide youbetter than yourself--I am determined, that you shall be conformable. '

Emily would have been astonished at the assertions of this eloquentspeech, had not her mind been so overwhelmed by the sudden shock it hadreceived, that she scarcely heard a word of what was latterly addressedto her. Whatever were the weaknesses of Madame Montoni, she might haveavoided to accuse herself with those of compassion and tenderness to thefeelings of others, and especially to those of Emily. It was the sameambition, that lately prevailed upon her to solicit an alliance withMadame Clairval's family, which induced her to withdraw from it, nowthat her marriage with Montoni had exalted her self-consequence, and, with it, her views for her niece. 

Emily was, at this time, too much affected to employ eitherremonstrance, or entreaty on this topic; and when, at length, sheattempted the latter, her emotion overcame her speech, and she retiredto her apartment, to think, if in the present state of her mind to thinkwas possible, upon this sudden and overwhelming subject. It was verylong, before her spirits were sufficiently composed to permit thereflection, which, when it came, was dark and even terrible. She saw, that Montoni sought to aggrandise himself in his disposal of her, andit occurred, that his friend Cavigni was the person, for whom he wasinterested. The prospect of going to Italy was still rendered darker, when she considered the tumultuous situation of that country, thentorn by civil commotion, where every petty state was at war with itsneighbour, and even every castle liable to the attack of an invader. She considered the person, to whose immediate guidance she wouldbe committed, and the vast distance, that was to separate her fromValancourt, and, at the recollection of him, every other image vanishedfrom her mind, and every thought was again obscured by grief. 

In this perturbed state she passed some hours, and, when she wassummoned to dinner, she entreated permission to remain in her ownapartment; but Madame Montoni was alone, and the request was refused. Emily and her aunt said little during the repast; the one occupiedby her griefs, the other engrossed by the disappointment, which theunexpected absence of Montoni occasioned; for not only was her vanitypiqued by the neglect, but her jealousy alarmed by what she consideredas a mysterious engagement. When the cloth was drawn and they werealone, Emily renewed the mention of Valancourt; but her aunt, neithersoftened to pity, or awakened to remorse, became enraged, that her willshould be opposed, and the authority of Montoni questioned, though thiswas done by Emily with her usual gentleness, who, after a long, andtorturing conversation, retired in tears. 

As she crossed the hall, a person entered it by the great door, whom, asher eyes hastily glanced that way, she imagined to be Montoni, and shewas passing on with quicker steps, when she heard the well-known voiceof Valancourt. 

'Emily, O! my Emily!' cried he in a tone faltering with impatience, while she turned, and, as he advanced, was alarmed at the expression ofhis countenance and the eager desperation of his air. 'In tears, Emily!I would speak with you, ' said he, 'I have much to say; conduct me towhere we may converse. But you tremble--you are ill! Let me lead you toa seat. '

He observed the open door of an apartment, and hastily took her handto lead her thither; but she attempted to withdraw it, and said, with alanguid smile, 'I am better already; if you wish to see my aunt sheis in the dining-parlour. ' 'I must speak with YOU, my Emily, ' repliedValancourt, 'Good God! is it already come to this? Are you indeed sowilling to resign me?' But this is an improper place--I am overheard. Let me entreat your attention, if only for a few minutes. '--'When youhave seen my aunt, ' said Emily. 'I was wretched enough when I camehither, ' exclaimed Valancourt, 'do not increase my misery by thiscoldness--this cruel refusal. '

The despondency, with which he spoke this, affected her almost to tears, but she persisted in refusing to hear him, till he had conversed withMadame Montoni. 'Where is her husband, where, then, is Montoni?' saidValancourt, in an altered tone: 'it is he, to whom I must speak. '

Emily, terrified for the consequence of the indignation, that flashedin his eyes, tremblingly assured him, that Montoni was not at home, and entreated he would endeavour to moderate his resentment. At thetremulous accents of her voice, his eyes softened instantly fromwildness into tenderness. 'You are ill, Emily, ' said he, 'they willdestroy us both! Forgive me, that I dared to doubt your affection. '

Emily no longer opposed him, as he led her into an adjoining parlour;the manner, in which he had named Montoni, had so much alarmed herfor his own safety, that she was now only anxious to prevent theconsequences of his just resentment. He listened to her entreaties, with attention, but replied to them only with looks of despondency andtenderness, concealing, as much as possible, the sentiments hefelt towards Montoni, that he might soothe the apprehensions, whichdistressed her. But she saw the veil he had spread over his resentment, and, his assumed tranquillity only alarming her more, she urged, atlength, the impolicy of forcing an interview with Montoni, and oftaking any measure, which might render their separation irremediable. Valancourt yielded to these remonstrances, and her affecting entreatiesdrew from him a promise, that, however Montoni might persist in hisdesign of disuniting them, he would not seek to redress his wrongs byviolence. 'For my sake, ' said Emily, 'let the consideration of what Ishould suffer deter you from such a mode of revenge!' 'For your sake, Emily, ' replied Valancourt, his eyes filling with tears of tendernessand grief, while he gazed upon her. 'Yes--yes--I shall subdue myself. But, though I have given you my solemn promise to do this, do notexpect, that I can tamely submit to the authority of Montoni; if Icould, I should be unworthy of you. Yet, O Emily! how long may hecondemn me to live without you, --how long may it be before you return toFrance!'

Emily endeavoured to sooth him with assurances of her unalterableaffection, and by representing, that, in little more than a year, sheshould be her own mistress, as far as related to her aunt, from whoseguardianship her age would then release her; assurances, which gavelittle consolation to Valancourt, who considered, that she would thenbe in Italy and in the power of those, whose dominion over her would notcease with their rights; but he affected to be consoled by them. Emily, comforted by the promise she had obtained, and by his apparentcomposure, was about to leave him, when her aunt entered the room. She threw a glance of sharp reproof upon her niece, who immediatelywithdrew, and of haughty displeasure upon Valancourt. 

'This is not the conduct I should have expected from you, sir;' saidshe, 'I did not expect to see you in my house, after you had beeninformed, that your visits were no longer agreeable, much less, thatyou would seek a clandestine interview with my niece, and that she wouldgrant one. '

Valancourt, perceiving it necessary to vindicate Emily from such adesign, explained, that the purpose of his own visit had been to requestan interview with Montoni, and he then entered upon the subject of it, with the tempered spirit which the sex, rather than the respectability, of Madame Montoni, demanded. 

His expostulations were answered with severe rebuke; she lamented again, that her prudence had ever yielded to what she termed compassion, andadded, that she was so sensible of the folly of her former consent, that, to prevent the possibility of a repetition, she had committed theaffair entirely to the conduct of Signor Montoni. 

The feeling eloquence of Valancourt, however, at length, made hersensible in some measure of her unworthy conduct, and she becamesusceptible to shame, but not remorse: she hated Valancourt, whoawakened her to this painful sensation, and, in proportion as she grewdissatisfied with herself, her abhorrence of him increased. This wasalso the more inveterate, because his tempered words and manner weresuch as, without accusing her, compelled her to accuse herself, andneither left her a hope, that the odious portrait was the caricatureof his prejudice, or afforded her an excuse for expressing the violentresentment, with which she contemplated it. At length, her anger roseto such an height, that Valancourt was compelled to leave the houseabruptly, lest he should forfeit his own esteem by an intemperate reply. He was then convinced, that from Madame Montoni he had nothing to hope, for what of either pity, or justice could be expected from a person, whocould feel the pain of guilt, without the humility of repentance?

To Montoni he looked with equal despondency, since it was nearlyevident, that this plan of separation originated with him, and it wasnot probable, that he would relinquish his own views to entreaties, orremonstrances, which he must have foreseen and have been prepared toresist. Yet, remembering his promise to Emily, and more solicitous, concerning his love, than jealous of his consequence, Valancourt wascareful to do nothing that might unnecessarily irritate Montoni, hewrote to him, therefore, not to demand an interview, but to solicit one, and, having done this, he endeavoured to wait with calmness his reply. 

Madame Clairval was passive in the affair. When she gave her approbationto Valancourt's marriage, it was in the belief, that Emily would be theheiress of Madame Montoni's fortune; and, though, upon the nuptialsof the latter, when she perceived the fallacy of this expectation, herconscience had withheld her from adopting any measure to prevent theunion, her benevolence was not sufficiently active to impel her towardsany step, that might now promote it. She was, on the contrary, secretlypleased, that Valancourt was released from an engagement, which sheconsidered to be as inferior, in point of fortune, to his merit, ashis alliance was thought by Montoni to be humiliating to the beauty ofEmily; and, though her pride was wounded by this rejection of a memberof her family, she disdained to shew resentment otherwise, than bysilence. 

Montoni, in his reply to Valancourt, said, that as an interview couldneither remove the objections of the one, or overcome the wishes of theother, it would serve only to produce useless altercation between them. He, therefore, thought proper to refuse it. 

In consideration of the policy, suggested by Emily, and of his promiseto her, Valancourt restrained the impulse, that urged him to the houseof Montoni, to demand what had been denied to his entreaties. He onlyrepeated his solicitations to see him; seconding them with all thearguments his situation could suggest. Thus several days passed, inremonstrance, on one side, and inflexible denial, on the other; for, whether it was fear, or shame, or the hatred, which results from both, that made Montoni shun the man he had injured, he was peremptory inhis refusal, and was neither softened to pity by the agony, whichValancourt's letters pourtrayed, or awakened to a repentance of hisown injustice by the strong remonstrances he employed. At length, Valancourt's letters were returned unopened, and then, in the firstmoments of passionate despair, he forgot every promise to Emily, exceptthe solemn one, which bound him to avoid violence, and hastened toMontoni's chateau, determined to see him by whatever other means mightbe necessary. Montoni was denied, and Valancourt, when he afterwardsenquired for Madame, and Ma'amselle St. Aubert, was absolutely refusedadmittance by the servants. Not choosing to submit himself to a contestwith these, he, at length, departed, and, returning home in a state ofmind approaching to frenzy, wrote to Emily of what had passed, expressedwithout restraint all the agony of his heart, and entreated, that, sincehe must not otherwise hope to see her immediately, she would allow himan interview unknown to Montoni. Soon after he had dispatched this, hispassions becoming more temperate, he was sensible of the error he hadcommitted in having given Emily a new subject of distress in the strongmention of his own suffering, and would have given half the world, hadit been his, to recover the letter. Emily, however, was spared thepain she must have received from it by the suspicious policy of MadameMontoni, who had ordered, that all letters, addressed to her niece, should be delivered to herself, and who, after having perused this andindulged the expressions of resentment, which Valancourt's mention ofMontoni provoked, had consigned it to the flames. 

Montoni, meanwhile, every day more impatient to leave France, gaverepeated orders for dispatch to the servants employed in preparationsfor the journey, and to the persons, with whom he was transacting someparticular business. He preserved a steady silence to the letters inwhich Valancourt, despairing of greater good, and having subdued thepassion, that had transgressed against his policy, solicited only theindulgence of being allowed to bid Emily farewell. But, when the latter[Valancourt] learned, that she was really to set out in a very few days, and that it was designed he should see her no more, forgetting everyconsideration of prudence, he dared, in a second letter to Emily, topropose a clandestine marriage. This also was transmitted to MadameMontoni, and the last day of Emily's stay at Tholouse arrived, withoutaffording Valancourt even a line to sooth his sufferings, or a hope, that he should be allowed a parting interview. 

During this period of torturing suspense to Valancourt, Emily was sunkinto that kind of stupor, with which sudden and irremediable misfortunesometimes overwhelms the mind. Loving him with the tenderest affection, and having long been accustomed to consider him as the friend andcompanion of all her future days, she had no ideas of happiness, thatwere not connected with him. What, then, must have been her suffering, when thus suddenly they were to be separated, perhaps, for ever, certainly to be thrown into distant parts of the world, where they couldscarcely hear of each other's existence; and all this in obedience tothe will of a stranger, for such as Montoni, and of a person, who hadbut lately been anxious to hasten their nuptials! It was in vain, thatshe endeavoured to subdue her grief, and resign herself to an event, which she could not avoid. The silence of Valancourt afflicted more thanit surprised her, since she attributed it to its just occasion; but, when the day, preceding that, on which she was to quit Tholouse, arrived, and she had heard no mention of his being permitted to takeleave of her, grief overcame every consideration, that had made herreluctant to speak of him, and she enquired of Madame Montoni, whetherthis consolation had been refused. Her aunt informed her that it had, adding, that, after the provocation she had herself received fromValancourt, in their last interview, and the persecution, which theSignor had suffered from his letters, no entreaties should avail toprocure it. 

'If the Chevalier expected this favour from us, ' said she, 'he shouldhave conducted himself in a very different manner; he should have waitedpatiently, till he knew whether we were disposed to grant it, and nothave come and reproved me, because I did not think proper to bestowmy niece upon him, --and then have persisted in troubling the Signor, because he did not think proper to enter into any dispute aboutso childish an affair. His behaviour throughout has been extremelypresumptuous and impertinent, and I desire, that I may never hear hisname repeated, and that you will get the better of those foolish sorrowsand whims, and look like other people, and not appear with that dismalcountenance, as if you were ready to cry. For, though you say nothing, you cannot conceal your grief from my penetration. I can see you areready to cry at this moment, though I am reproving you for it; aye, evennow, in spite of my commands. '

Emily, having turned away to hide her tears, quitted the room to indulgethem, and the day was passed in an intensity of anguish, such as shehad, perhaps, never known before. When she withdrew to her chamber forthe night, she remained in the chair where she had placed herself, onentering the room, absorbed in her grief, till long after every memberof the family, except herself, was retired to rest. She could not divestherself of a belief, that she had parted with Valancourt to meet nomore; a belief, which did not arise merely from foreseen circumstances, for, though the length of the journey she was about to commence, the uncertainty as to the period of her return, together with theprohibitions she had received, seemed to justify it, she yielded also toan impression, which she mistook for a pre-sentiment, that she was goingfrom Valancourt for ever. How dreadful to her imagination, too, was thedistance that would separate them--the Alps, those tremendous barriers!would rise, and whole countries extend between the regions where eachmust exist! To live in adjoining provinces, to live even in the samecountry, though without seeing him, was comparative happiness to theconviction of this dreadful length of distance. 

Her mind was, at length, so much agitated by the consideration of herstate, and the belief, that she had seen Valancourt for the last time, that she suddenly became very faint, and, looking round the chamber forsomething, that might revive her, she observed the casements, and hadjust strength to throw one open, near which she seated herself. The airrecalled her spirits, and the still moon-light, that fell upon theelms of a long avenue, fronting the window, somewhat soothed them, and determined her to try whether exercise and the open air would notrelieve the intense pain that bound her temples. In the chateau all wasstill; and, passing down the great stair-case into the hall, from whencea passage led immediately to the garden, she softly and unheard, as shethought, unlocked the door, and entered the avenue. Emily passed on withsteps now hurried, and now faltering, as, deceived by the shadowsamong the trees, she fancied she saw some person move in the distantperspective, and feared, that it was a spy of Madame Montoni. Herdesire, however, to re-visit the pavilion, where she had passed so manyhappy hours with Valancourt, and had admired with him the extensiveprospect over Languedoc and her native Gascony, overcame herapprehension of being observed, and she moved on towards the terrace, which, running along the upper garden, commanded the whole of thelower one, and communicated with it by a flight of marble steps, thatterminated the avenue. 

Having reached these steps, she paused a moment to look round, for herdistance from the chateau now increased the fear, which the stillnessand obscurity of the hour had awakened. But, perceiving nothing thatcould justify it, she ascended to the terrace, where the moon-lightshewed the long broad walk, with the pavilion at its extremity, whilethe rays silvered the foliage of the high trees and shrubs, thatbordered it on the right, and the tufted summits of those, that roseto a level with the balustrade on the left, from the garden below. Herdistance from the chateau again alarming her, she paused to listen; thenight was so calm, that no sound could have escaped her, but she heardonly the plaintive sweetness of the nightingale, with the light shiverof the leaves, and she pursued her way towards the pavilion, havingreached which, its obscurity did not prevent the emotion, that a fullerview of its well-known scene would have excited. The lattices werethrown back, and shewed beyond their embowered arch the moon-lightlandscape, shadowy and soft; its groves, and plains extending graduallyand indistinctly to the eye, its distant mountains catching a strongergleam, and the nearer river reflecting the moon, and trembling to herrays. 

Emily, as she approached the lattice, was sensible of the features ofthis scene only as they served to bring Valancourt more immediately toher fancy. 'Ah!' said she, with a heavy sigh, as she threw herselfinto a chair by the window, 'how often have we sat together in thisspot--often have looked upon that landscape! Never, never more shall weview it together--never--never more, perhaps, shall we look upon eachother!'

Her tears were suddenly stopped by terror--a voice spoke near her inthe pavilion; she shrieked--it spoke again, and she distinguished thewell-known tones of Valancourt. It was indeed Valancourt who supportedher in his arms! For some moments their emotion would not suffer eitherto speak. 'Emily, ' said Valancourt at length, as he pressed her hand inhis. 'Emily!' and he was again silent, but the accent, in which he hadpronounced her name, expressed all his tenderness and sorrow. 

'O my Emily!' he resumed, after a long pause, 'I do then see you onceagain, and hear again the sound of that voice! I have haunted thisplace--these gardens, for many--many nights, with a faint, very fainthope of seeing you. This was the only chance that remained to me, andthank heaven! it has at length succeeded--I am not condemned to absolutedespair!'

Emily said something, she scarcely knew what, expressive of herunalterable affection, and endeavoured to calm the agitation ofhis mind; but Valancourt could for some time only utter incoherentexpressions of his emotions; and, when he was somewhat more composed, hesaid, 'I came hither, soon after sun-set, and have been watching in thegardens, and in this pavilion ever since; for, though I had now given upall hope of seeing you, I could not resolve to tear myself from a placeso near to you, and should probably have lingered about the chateau tillmorning dawned. O how heavily the moments have passed, yet with whatvarious emotion have they been marked, as I sometimes thought I heardfootsteps, and fancied you were approaching, and then again--perceivedonly a dead and dreary silence! But, when you opened the door of thepavilion, and the darkness prevented my distinguishing with certainty, whether it was my love--my heart beat so strongly with hopes and fears, that I could not speak. The instant I heard the plaintive accents ofyour voice, my doubts vanished, but not my fears, till you spoke ofme; then, losing the apprehension of alarming you in the excess of myemotion, I could no longer be silent. O Emily! these are moments, inwhich joy and grief struggle so powerfully for pre-eminence, that theheart can scarcely support the contest!'

Emily's heart acknowledged the truth of this assertion, but the joyshe felt on thus meeting Valancourt, at the very moment when she waslamenting, that they must probably meet no more, soon melted into grief, as reflection stole over her thoughts, and imagination prompted visionsof the future. She struggled to recover the calm dignity of mind, whichwas necessary to support her through this last interview, and whichValancourt found it utterly impossible to attain, for the transports ofhis joy changed abruptly into those of suffering, and he expressed inthe most impassioned language his horror of this separation, and hisdespair of their ever meeting again. Emily wept silently as she listenedto him, and then, trying to command her own distress, and to sooth his, she suggested every circumstance that could lead to hope. But the energyof his fears led him instantly to detect the friendly fallacies, whichshe endeavoured to impose on herself and him, and also to conjure upillusions too powerful for his reason. 

'You are going from me, ' said he, 'to a distant country, O howdistant!--to new society, new friends, new admirers, with people too, who will try to make you forget me, and to promote new connections! Howcan I know this, and not know, that you will never return for me--nevercan be mine. ' His voice was stifled by sighs. 

'You believe, then, ' said Emily, 'that the pangs I suffer proceed from atrivial and temporary interest; you believe--'

'Suffer!' interrupted Valancourt, 'suffer for me! O Emily--howsweet--how bitter are those words; what comfort, what anguish do theygive! I ought not to doubt the steadiness of your affection, yet suchis the inconsistency of real love, that it is always awake to suspicion, however unreasonable; always requiring new assurances from the objectof its interest, and thus it is, that I always feel revived, as by anew conviction, when your words tell me I am dear to you; and, wantingthese, I relapse into doubt, and too often into despondency. ' Thenseeming to recollect himself, he exclaimed, 'But what a wretch am I, thus to torture you, and in these moments, too! I, who ought to supportand comfort you!'

This reflection overcame Valancourt with tenderness, but, relapsing intodespondency, he again felt only for himself, and lamented again thiscruel separation, in a voice and words so impassioned, that Emilycould no longer struggle to repress her own grief, or to sooth his. Valancourt, between these emotions of love and pity, lost the power, andalmost the wish, of repressing his agitation; and, in the intervals ofconvulsive sobs, he, at one moment, kissed away her tears, then toldher cruelly, that possibly she might never again weep for him, and thentried to speak more calmly, but only exclaimed, 'O Emily--my heart willbreak!--I cannot--cannot leave you! Now--I gaze upon that countenance, now I hold you in my arms! a little while, and all this will appear adream. I shall look, and cannot see you; shall try to recollect yourfeatures--and the impression will be fled from my imagination;--to hearthe tones of your voice, and even memory will be silent!--I cannot, cannot leave you! why should we confide the happiness of our whole livesto the will of people, who have no right to interrupt, and, except ingiving you to me, have no power to promote it? O Emily! venture to trustyour own heart, venture to be mine for ever!' His voice trembled, andhe was silent; Emily continued to weep, and was silent also, whenValancourt proceeded to propose an immediate marriage, and that at anearly hour on the following morning, she should quit Madame Montoni'shouse, and be conducted by him to the church of the Augustines, where afriar should await to unite them. 

The silence, with which she listened to a proposal, dictated by love anddespair, and enforced at a moment, when it seemed scarcely possiblefor her to oppose it;--when her heart was softened by the sorrows ofa separation, that might be eternal, and her reason obscured by theillusions of love and terror, encouraged him to hope, that it would notbe rejected. 'Speak, my Emily!' said Valancourt eagerly, 'let me hearyour voice, let me hear you confirm my fate. ' she spoke not; her cheekwas cold, and her senses seemed to fail her, but she did not faint. ToValancourt's terrified imagination she appeared to be dying; he calledupon her name, rose to go to the chateau for assistance, and then, recollecting her situation, feared to go, or to leave her for a moment. 

After a few minutes, she drew a deep sigh, and began to revive. Theconflict she had suffered, between love and the duty she at present owedto her father's sister; her repugnance to a clandestine marriage, her fear of emerging on the world with embarrassments, such asmight ultimately involve the object of her affection in misery andrepentance;--all this various interest was too powerful for a mind, already enervated by sorrow, and her reason had suffered a transientsuspension. But duty, and good sense, however hard the conflict, atlength, triumphed over affection and mournful presentiment; above all, she dreaded to involve Valancourt in obscurity and vain regret, whichshe saw, or thought she saw, must be the too certain consequence of amarriage in their present circumstances; and she acted, perhaps, withsomewhat more than female fortitude, when she resolved to endure apresent, rather than provoke a distant misfortune. 

With a candour, that proved how truly she esteemed and loved him, and which endeared her to him, if possible, more than ever, she toldValancourt all her reasons for rejecting his proposals. Those, whichinfluenced her concerning his future welfare, he instantly refuted, orrather contradicted; but they awakened tender considerations for her, which the frenzy of passion and despair had concealed before, and love, which had but lately prompted him to propose a clandestine and immediatemarriage, now induced him to renounce it. The triumph was almost toomuch for his heart; for Emily's sake, he endeavoured to stifle hisgrief, but the swelling anguish would not be restrained. 'O Emily!' saidhe, 'I must leave you--I MUST leave you, and I know it is for ever!'

Convulsive sobs again interrupted his words, and they wept together insilence, till Emily, recollecting the danger of being discovered, andthe impropriety of prolonging an interview, which might subject her tocensure, summoned all her fortitude to utter a last farewell. 

'Stay!' said Valancourt, 'I conjure you stay, for I have much to tellyou. The agitation of my mind has hitherto suffered me to speak onlyon the subject that occupied it;--I have forborne to mention a doubt ofmuch importance, partly, lest it should appear as if I told it withan ungenerous view of alarming you into a compliance with my lateproposal. '

Emily, much agitated, did not leave Valancourt, but she led him from thepavilion, and, as they walked upon the terrace, he proceeded as follows:

'This Montoni: I have heard some strange hints concerning him. Are youcertain he is of Madame Quesnel's family, and that his fortune is whatit appears to be?'

'I have no reason to doubt either, ' replied Emily, in a voice of alarm. 'Of the first, indeed, I cannot doubt, but I have no certain meansof judging of the latter, and I entreat you will tell me all you haveheard. '

'That I certainly will, but it is very imperfect, and unsatisfactoryinformation. I gathered it by accident from an Italian, who was speakingto another person of this Montoni. They were talking of his marriage;the Italian said, that if he was the person he meant, he was not likelyto make Madame Cheron happy. He proceeded to speak of him in generalterms of dislike, and then gave some particular hints, concerning hischaracter, that excited my curiosity, and I ventured to ask him a fewquestions. He was reserved in his replies, but, after hesitating forsome time, he owned, that he had understood abroad, that Montoni was aman of desperate fortune and character. He said something of a castleof Montoni's, situated among the Apennines, and of some strangecircumstances, that might be mentioned, as to his former mode of life. I pressed him to inform me further, but I believe the strong interest Ifelt was visible in my manner, and alarmed him; for no entreaties couldprevail with him to give any explanation of the circumstances he hadalluded to, or to mention any thing further concerning Montoni. Iobserved to him, that, if Montoni was possessed of a castle in theApennines, it appeared from such a circumstance, that he was of somefamily, and also seemed to contradict the report, that he was a man ofentirely broken fortunes. He shook his head, and looked as if he couldhave said a great deal, but made no reply. 

'A hope of learning something more satisfactory, or more positive, detained me in his company a considerable time, and I renewed thesubject repeatedly, but the Italian wrapped himself up in reserve, said--that what he had mentioned he had caught only from a floatingreport, and that reports frequently arose from personal malice, and werevery little to be depended upon. I forbore to press the subject farther, since it was obvious that he was alarmed for the consequence of whathe had already said, and I was compelled to remain in uncertainty on apoint where suspense is almost intolerable. Think, Emily, what I mustsuffer to see you depart for a foreign country, committed to the powerof a man of such doubtful character as is this Montoni! But I will notalarm you unnecessarily;--it is possible, as the Italian said, at first, that this is not the Montoni he alluded to. Yet, Emily, consider wellbefore you resolve to commit yourself to him. O! I must not trustmyself to speak--or I shall renounce all the motives, which so latelyinfluenced me to resign the hope of your becoming mine immediately. '

Valancourt walked upon the terrace with hurried steps, while Emilyremained leaning on the balustrade in deep thought. The information shehad just received excited, perhaps, more alarm than it could justify, and raised once more the conflict of contrasted interests. She had neverliked Montoni. The fire and keenness of his eye, its proud exultation, its bold fierceness, its sullen watchfulness, as occasion, and evenslight occasion, had called forth the latent soul, she had oftenobserved with emotion; while from the usual expression of hiscountenance she had always shrunk. From such observations she was themore inclined to believe, that it was this Montoni, of whom the Italianhad uttered his suspicious hints. The thought of being solely in hispower, in a foreign land, was terrifying to her, but it was notby terror alone that she was urged to an immediate marriage withValancourt. The tenderest love had already pleaded his cause, but hadbeen unable to overcome her opinion, as to her duty, her disinterestedconsiderations for Valancourt, and the delicacy, which made her revoltfrom a clandestine union. It was not to be expected, that a vague terrorwould be more powerful, than the united influence of love and grief. Butit recalled all their energy, and rendered a second conquest necessary. 

With Valancourt, whose imagination was now awake to the suggestion ofevery passion; whose apprehensions for Emily had acquired strength bythe mere mention of them, and became every instant more powerful, ashis mind brooded over them--with Valancourt no second conquest wasattainable. He thought he saw in the clearest light, and love assistedthe fear, that this journey to Italy would involve Emily in misery; hedetermined, therefore, to persevere in opposing it, and in conjuring herto bestow upon him the title of her lawful protector. 

'Emily!' said he, with solemn earnestness, 'this is no time forscrupulous distinctions, for weighing the dubious and comparativelytrifling circumstances, that may affect our future comfort. I now see, much more clearly than before, the train of serious dangers you aregoing to encounter with a man of Montoni's character. Those darkhints of the Italian spoke much, but not more than the idea I have ofMontoni's disposition, as exhibited even in his countenance. I think Isee at this moment all that could have been hinted, written there. He isthe Italian, whom I fear, and I conjure you for your own sake, as wellas for mine, to prevent the evils I shudder to foresee. O Emily! let mytenderness, my arms withhold you from them--give me the right to defendyou!'

Emily only sighed, while Valancourt proceeded to remonstrate and toentreat with all the energy that love and apprehension could inspire. But, as his imagination magnified to her the possible evils she wasgoing to meet, the mists of her own fancy began to dissipate, andallowed her to distinguish the exaggerated images, which imposed on hisreason. She considered, that there was no proof of Montoni being theperson, whom the stranger had meant; that, even if he was so, theItalian had noticed his character and broken fortunes merely fromreport; and that, though the countenance of Montoni seemed to giveprobability to a part of the rumour, it was not by such circumstancesthat an implicit belief of it could be justified. These considerationswould probably not have arisen so distinctly to her mind, at thistime, had not the terrors of Valancourt presented to her such obviousexaggerations of her danger, as incited her to distrust the fallacies ofpassion. But, while she endeavoured in the gentlest manner to convincehim of his error, she plunged him into a new one. His voice andcountenance changed to an expression of dark despair. 'Emily!' saidhe, 'this, this moment is the bitterest that is yet come to me. Youdo not--cannot love me!--It would be impossible for you to reason thuscoolly, thus deliberately, if you did. I, _I_ am torn with anguish atthe prospect of our separation, and of the evils that may await you inconsequence of it; I would encounter any hazards to prevent it--to saveyou. No! Emily, no!--you cannot love me. '

'We have now little time to waste in exclamation, or assertion, ' saidEmily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion: 'if you are yet to learn howdear you are, and ever must be, to my heart, no assurances of mine cangive you conviction. '

The last words faltered on her lips, and her tears flowed fast. Thesewords and tears brought, once more, and with instantaneous force, conviction of her love to Valancourt. He could only exclaim, 'Emily!Emily!' and weep over the hand he pressed to his lips; but she, aftersome moments, again roused herself from the indulgence of sorrow, andsaid, 'I must leave you; it is late, and my absence from the chateau maybe discovered. Think of me--love me--when I am far away; the belief ofthis will be my comfort!'

'Think of you!--love you!' exclaimed Valancourt. 

'Try to moderate these transports, ' said Emily, 'for my sake, try. '

'For your sake!'

'Yes, for my sake, ' replied Emily, in a tremulous voice, 'I cannot leaveyou thus!'

'Then do not leave me!' said Valancourt, with quickness. 'Why should wepart, or part for longer than till to-morrow?'

'I am, indeed I am, unequal to these moments, ' replied Emily, 'you tearmy heart, but I never can consent to this hasty, imprudent proposal!'

'If we could command our time, my Emily, it should not be thus hasty; wemust submit to circumstances. '

'We must indeed! I have already told you all my heart--my spirits aregone. You allowed the force of my objections, till your tendernesscalled up vague terrors, which have given us both unnecessary anguish. Spare me! do not oblige me to repeat the reasons I have already urged. '

'Spare you!' cried Valancourt, 'I am a wretch--a very wretch, that havefelt only for myself!--I! who ought to have shewn the fortitude of aman, who ought to have supported you, I! have increased your sufferingsby the conduct of a child! Forgive me, Emily! think of the distractionof my mind now that I am about to part with all that is dear to me--andforgive me! When you are gone, I shall recollect with bitter remorsewhat I have made you suffer, and shall wish in vain that I could seeyou, if only for a moment, that I might sooth your grief. '

Tears again interrupted his voice, and Emily wept with him. 'I will shewmyself more worthy of your love, ' said Valancourt, at length; 'I willnot prolong these moments. My Emily--my own Emily! never forget me! Godknows when we shall meet again! I resign you to his care. --O God!--OGod!--protect and bless her!'

He pressed her hand to his heart. Emily sunk almost lifeless on hisbosom, and neither wept, nor spoke. Valancourt, now commanding his owndistress, tried to comfort and re-assure her, but she appeared totallyunaffected by what he said, and a sigh, which she uttered, now and then, was all that proved she had not fainted. 

He supported her slowly towards the chateau, weeping and speaking toher; but she answered only in sighs, till, having reached the gate, thatterminated the avenue, she seemed to have recovered her consciousness, and, looking round, perceived how near they were to the chateau. 'Wemust part here, ' said she, stopping, 'Why prolong these moments? Teachme the fortitude I have forgot. '

Valancourt struggled to assume a composed air. 'Farewell, my love!' saidhe, in a voice of solemn tenderness--'trust me we shall meet again--meetfor each other--meet to part no more!' His voice faltered, but, recovering it, he proceeded in a firmer tone. 'You know not what I shallsuffer, till I hear from you; I shall omit no opportunity of conveyingto you my letters, yet I tremble to think how few may occur. And trustme, love, for your dear sake, I will try to bear this absence withfortitude. O how little I have shewn to-night!'

'Farewell!' said Emily faintly. 'When you are gone, I shall think ofmany things I would have said to you. ' 'And I of many--many!' saidValancourt; 'I never left you yet, that I did not immediately remembersome question, or some entreaty, or some circumstance, concerning mylove, that I earnestly wished to mention, and feel wretched because Icould not. O Emily! this countenance, on which I now gaze--will, in amoment, be gone from my eyes, and not all the efforts of fancy will beable to recall it with exactness. O! what an infinite difference betweenthis moment and the next! NOW, I am in your presence, can behold you!THEN, all will be a dreary blank--and I shall be a wanderer, exiled frommy only home!'

Valancourt again pressed her to his heart, and held her there insilence, weeping. Tears once again calmed her oppressed mind. They againbade each other farewell, lingered a moment, and then parted. Valancourtseemed to force himself from the spot; he passed hastily up the avenue, and Emily, as she moved slowly towards the chateau, heard his distantsteps. She listened to the sounds, as they sunk fainter and fainter, till the melancholy stillness of night alone remained; and thenhurried to her chamber, to seek repose, which, alas! was fled from herwretchedness. 

VOLUME 2

CHAPTER I

 Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, My heart untravell'd still shall turn to thee. GOLDSMITH

The carriages were at the gates at an early hour; the bustle of thedomestics, passing to and fro in the galleries, awakened Emily fromharassing slumbers: her unquiet mind had, during the night, presentedher with terrific images and obscure circumstances, concerning heraffection and her future life. She now endeavoured to chase away theimpressions they had left on her fancy; but from imaginary evils sheawoke to the consciousness of real ones. Recollecting that she hadparted with Valancourt, perhaps for ever, her heart sickened as memoryrevived. But she tried to dismiss the dismal forebodings that crowded onher mind, and to restrain the sorrow which she could not subdue;efforts which diffused over the settled melancholy of her countenancean expression of tempered resignation, as a thin veil, thrown overthe features of beauty, renders them more interesting by a partialconcealment. But Madame Montoni observed nothing in this countenanceexcept its usual paleness, which attracted her censure. She told herniece, that she had been indulging in fanciful sorrows, and begged shewould have more regard for decorum, than to let the world see that shecould not renounce an improper attachment; at which Emily's pale cheekbecame flushed with crimson, but it was the blush of pride, and she madeno answer. Soon after, Montoni entered the breakfast room, spoke little, and seemed impatient to be gone. 

The windows of this room opened upon the garden. As Emily passed them, she saw the spot where she had parted with Valancourt on the precedingnight: the remembrance pressed heavily on her heart, and she turnedhastily away from the object that had awakened it. 

The baggage being at length adjusted, the travellers entered theircarriages, and Emily would have left the chateau without one sigh ofregret, had it not been situated in the neighbourhood of Valancourt'sresidence. 

From a little eminence she looked back upon Tholouse, and the far-seenplains of Gascony, beyond which the broken summits of the Pyreneesappeared on the distant horizon, lighted up by a morning sun. 'Dearpleasant mountains!' said she to herself, 'how long may it be ere I seeye again, and how much may happen to make me miserable in the interval!Oh, could I now be certain, that I should ever return to ye, and findthat Valancourt still lived for me, I should go in peace! He will stillgaze on ye, gaze when I am far away!'

The trees, that impended over the high banks of the road and formed aline of perspective with the distant country, now threatened to excludethe view of them; but the blueish mountains still appeared beyond thedark foliage, and Emily continued to lean from the coach window, till atlength the closing branches shut them from her sight. 

Another object soon caught her attention. She had scarcely looked ata person who walked along the bank, with his hat, in which was themilitary feather, drawn over his eyes, before, at the sound of wheels, he suddenly turned, and she perceived that it was Valancourt himself, who waved his hand, sprung into the road, and through the window of thecarriage put a letter into her hand. He endeavoured to smile throughthe despair that overspread his countenance as she passed on. Theremembrance of that smile seemed impressed on Emily's mind for ever. She leaned from the window, and saw him on a knoll of the broken bank, leaning against the high trees that waved over him, and pursuing thecarriage with his eyes. He waved his hand, and she continued to gazetill distance confused his figure, and at length another turn of theroad entirely separated him from her sight. 

Having stopped to take up Signor Cavigni at a chateau on the road, the travellers, of whom Emily was disrespectfully seated with MadameMontoni's woman in a second carriage, pursued their way over the plainsof Languedoc. The presence of this servant restrained Emily from readingValancourt's letter, for she did not choose to expose the emotions itmight occasion to the observation of any person. Yet such was her wishto read this his last communication, that her trembling hand was everymoment on the point of breaking the seal. 

At length they reached the village, where they staid only to changehorses, without alighting, and it was not till they stopped to dine, that Emily had an opportunity of reading the letter. Though she hadnever doubted the sincerity of Valancourt's affection, the freshassurances she now received of it revived her spirits; she wept over hisletter in tenderness, laid it by to be referred to when they should beparticularly depressed, and then thought of him with much less anguishthan she had done since they parted. Among some other requests, whichwere interesting to her, because expressive of his tenderness, andbecause a compliance with them seemed to annihilate for a while the painof absence, he entreated she would always think of him at sunset. 'Youwill then meet me in thought, ' said he; 'I shall constantly watch thesun-set, and I shall be happy in the belief, that your eyes are fixedupon the same object with mine, and that our minds are conversing. Youknow not, Emily, the comfort I promise myself from these moments; but Itrust you will experience it. '

It is unnecessary to say with what emotion Emily, on this evening, watched the declining sun, over a long extent of plains, on which shesaw it set without interruption, and sink towards the province whichValancourt inhabited. After this hour her mind became far more tranquiland resigned, than it had been since the marriage of Montoni and heraunt. 

During several days the travellers journeyed over the plains ofLanguedoc; and then entering Dauphiny, and winding for some time amongthe mountains of that romantic province, they quitted their carriagesand began to ascend the Alps. And here such scenes of sublimity openedupon them as no colours of language must dare to paint! Emily's mind waseven so much engaged with new and wonderful images, that they sometimesbanished the idea of Valancourt, though they more frequently revivedit. These brought to her recollection the prospects among the Pyrenees, which they had admired together, and had believed nothing could excelin grandeur. How often did she wish to express to him the new emotionswhich this astonishing scenery awakened, and that he could partakeof them! Sometimes too she endeavoured to anticipate his remarks, andalmost imagined him present. She seemed to have arisen into anotherworld, and to have left every trifling thought, every triflingsentiment, in that below; those only of grandeur and sublimity nowdilated her mind, and elevated the affections of her heart. 

With what emotions of sublimity, softened by tenderness, did she meetValancourt in thought, at the customary hour of sun-set, when, wanderingamong the Alps, she watched the glorious orb sink amid their summits, his last tints die away on their snowy points, and a solemn obscuritysteal over the scene! And when the last gleam had faded, she turnedher eyes from the west with somewhat of the melancholy regret that isexperienced after the departure of a beloved friend; while these lonelyfeelings were heightened by the spreading gloom, and by the low sounds, heard only when darkness confines attention, which make the generalstillness more impressive--leaves shook by the air, the last sigh of thebreeze that lingers after sun-set, or the murmur of distant streams. 

During the first days of this journey among the Alps, the sceneryexhibited a wonderful mixture of solitude and inhabitation, ofcultivation and barrenness. On the edge of tremendous precipices, andwithin the hollow of the cliffs, below which the clouds often floated, were seen villages, spires, and convent towers; while green pasturesand vineyards spread their hues at the feet of perpendicular rocksof marble, or of granite, whose points, tufted with alpine shrubs, orexhibiting only massy crags, rose above each other, till they terminatedin the snow-topt mountain, whence the torrent fell, that thundered alongthe valley. 

The snow was not yet melted on the summit of Mount Cenis, over whichthe travellers passed; but Emily, as she looked upon its clear lake andextended plain, surrounded by broken cliffs, saw, in imagination, theverdant beauty it would exhibit when the snows should be gone, and theshepherds, leading up the midsummer flocks from Piedmont, to pasture onits flowery summit, should add Arcadian figures to Arcadian landscape. 

As she descended on the Italian side, the precipices became still moretremendous, and the prospects still more wild and majestic, over whichthe shifting lights threw all the pomp of colouring. Emily delighted toobserve the snowy tops of the mountains under the passing influence ofthe day, blushing with morning, glowing with the brightness of noon, orjust tinted with the purple evening. The haunt of man could now only bediscovered by the simple hut of the shepherd and the hunter, or by therough pine bridge thrown across the torrent, to assist the latter in hischase of the chamois over crags where, but for this vestige of man, itwould have been believed only the chamois or the wolf dared to venture. As Emily gazed upon one of these perilous bridges, with the cataractfoaming beneath it, some images came to her mind, which she afterwardscombined in the following

 STORIED SONNET

 The weary traveller, who, all night long, Has climb'd among the Alps' tremendous steeps, Skirting the pathless precipice, where throng Wild forms of danger; as he onward creeps If, chance, his anxious eye at distance sees The mountain-shepherd's solitary home, Peeping from forth the moon-illumin'd trees, What sudden transports to his bosom come! But, if between some hideous chasm yawn, Where the cleft pine a doubtful bridge displays, In dreadful silence, on the brink, forlorn He stands, and views in the faint rays Far, far below, the torrent's rising surge, And listens to the wild impetuous roar; Still eyes the depth, still shudders on the verge, Fears to return, nor dares to venture o'er. Desperate, at length the tottering plank he tries, His weak steps slide, he shrieks, he sinks--he dies!

Emily, often as she travelled among the clouds, watched in silent awetheir billowy surges rolling below; sometimes, wholly closing upon thescene, they appeared like a world of chaos, and, at others, spreadingthinly, they opened and admitted partial catches of the landscape--thetorrent, whose astounding roar had never failed, tumbling down the rockychasm, huge cliffs white with snow, or the dark summits of the pineforests, that stretched mid-way down the mountains. But who may describeher rapture, when, having passed through a sea of vapour, she caughta first view of Italy; when, from the ridge of one of those tremendousprecipices that hang upon Mount Cenis and guard the entrance of thatenchanting country, she looked down through the lower clouds, and, asthey floated away, saw the grassy vales of Piedmont at her feet, and, beyond, the plains of Lombardy extending to the farthest distance, atwhich appeared, on the faint horizon, the doubtful towers of Turin?

The solitary grandeur of the objects that immediately surrounded her, the mountain-region towering above, the deep precipices that fellbeneath, the waving blackness of the forests of pine and oak, whichskirted their feet, or hung within their recesses, the headlong torrentsthat, dashing among their cliffs, sometimes appeared like a cloud ofmist, at others like a sheet of ice--these were features which receiveda higher character of sublimity from the reposing beauty of the Italianlandscape below, stretching to the wide horizon, where the same meltingblue tint seemed to unite earth and sky. 

Madame Montoni only shuddered as she looked down precipices near whoseedge the chairmen trotted lightly and swiftly, almost, as the chamoisbounded, and from which Emily too recoiled; but with her fears weremingled such various emotions of delight, such admiration, astonishment, and awe, as she had never experienced before. 

Meanwhile the carriers, having come to a landing-place, stopped to rest, and the travellers being seated on the point of a cliff, Montoni andCavigni renewed a dispute concerning Hannibal's passage over the Alps, Montoni contending that he entered Italy by way of Mount Cenis, andCavigni, that he passed over Mount St. Bernard. The subject broughtto Emily's imagination the disasters he had suffered in this bold andperilous adventure. She saw his vast armies winding among the defiles, and over the tremendous cliffs of the mountains, which at night werelighted up by his fires, or by the torches which he caused to be carriedwhen he pursued his indefatigable march. In the eye of fancy, sheperceived the gleam of arms through the duskiness of night, the glitterof spears and helmets, and the banners floating dimly on the twilight;while now and then the blast of a distant trumpet echoed along thedefile, and the signal was answered by a momentary clash of arms. Shelooked with horror upon the mountaineers, perched on the higher cliffs, assailing the troops below with broken fragments of the mountain; onsoldiers and elephants tumbling headlong down the lower precipices; and, as she listened to the rebounding rocks, that followed their fall, the terrors of fancy yielded to those of reality, and she shuddered tobehold herself on the dizzy height, whence she had pictured the descentof others. 

Madame Montoni, meantime, as she looked upon Italy, was contemplating inimagination the splendour of palaces and the grandeur of castles, suchas she believed she was going to be mistress of at Venice and in theApennine, and she became, in idea, little less than a princess. Beingno longer under the alarms which had deterred her from givingentertainments to the beauties of Tholouse, whom Montoni had mentionedwith more eclat to his own vanity than credit to their discretion, orregard to truth, she determined to give concerts, though she had neitherear nor taste for music; conversazioni, though she had no talents forconversation; and to outvie, if possible, in the gaieties of her partiesand the magnificence of her liveries, all the noblesse of Venice. Thisblissful reverie was somewhat obscured, when she recollected the Signor, her husband, who, though he was not averse to the profit which sometimesresults from such parties, had always shewn a contempt of the frivolousparade that sometimes attends them; till she considered that his pridemight be gratified by displaying, among his own friends, in his nativecity, the wealth which he had neglected in France; and she courted againthe splendid illusions that had charmed her before. 

The travellers, as they descended, gradually, exchanged the region ofwinter for the genial warmth and beauty of spring. The sky began toassume that serene and beautiful tint peculiar to the climate of Italy;patches of young verdure, fragrant shrubs and flowers looked gaily amongthe rocks, often fringing their rugged brows, or hanging in tuftsfrom their broken sides; and the buds of the oak and mountain ash wereexpanding into foliage. Descending lower, the orange and the myrtle, every now and then, appeared in some sunny nook, with their yellowblossoms peeping from among the dark green of their leaves, and minglingwith the scarlet flowers of the pomegranate and the paler ones of thearbutus, that ran mantling to the crags above; while, lower still, spread the pastures of Piedmont, where early flocks were cropping theluxuriant herbage of spring. 

The river Doria, which, rising on the summit of Mount Cenis, had dashedfor many leagues over the precipices that bordered the road, now beganto assume a less impetuous, though scarcely less romantic character, asit approached the green vallies of Piedmont, into which the travellersdescended with the evening sun; and Emily found herself once more amidthe tranquil beauty of pastoral scenery; among flocks and herds, andslopes tufted with woods of lively verdure and with beautiful shrubs, such as she had often seen waving luxuriantly over the alps above. Theverdure of the pasturage, now varied with the hues of early flowers, among which were yellow ranunculuses and pansey violets of deliciousfragrance, she had never seen excelled. --Emily almost wished to becomea peasant of Piedmont, to inhabit one of the pleasant embowered cottageswhich she saw peeping beneath the cliffs, and to pass her careless hoursamong these romantic landscapes. To the hours, the months, she was topass under the dominion of Montoni, she looked with apprehension; whilethose which were departed she remembered with regret and sorrow. 

In the present scenes her fancy often gave her the figure of Valancourt, whom she saw on a point of the cliffs, gazing with awe and admirationon the imagery around him; or wandering pensively along the valebelow, frequently pausing to look back upon the scenery, and then, his countenance glowing with the poet's fire, pursuing his way to someoverhanging heights. When she again considered the time and the distancethat were to separate them, that every step she now took lengthened thisdistance, her heart sunk, and the surrounding landscape charmed her nomore. 

The travellers, passing Novalesa, reached, after the evening had closed, the small and antient town of Susa, which had formerly guarded this passof the Alps into Piedmont. The heights which command it had, since theinvention of artillery, rendered its fortifications useless; but theseromantic heights, seen by moon-light, with the town below, surroundedby its walls and watchtowers, and partially illumined, exhibited aninteresting picture to Emily. Here they rested for the night at an inn, which had little accommodation to boast of; but the travellers broughtwith them the hunger that gives delicious flavour to the coarsestviands, and the weariness that ensures repose; and here Emily firstcaught a strain of Italian music, on Italian ground. As she sat aftersupper at a little window, that opened upon the country, observing aneffect of the moon-light on the broken surface of the mountains, andremembering that on such a night as this she once had sat with herfather and Valancourt, resting upon a cliff of the Pyrenees, she heardfrom below the long-drawn notes of a violin, of such tone and delicacyof expression, as harmonized exactly with the tender emotions she wasindulging, and both charmed and surprised her. Cavigni, who approachedthe window, smiled at her surprise. 'This is nothing extraordinary, 'said he, 'you will hear the same, perhaps, at every inn on our way. Itis one of our landlord's family who plays, I doubt not, ' Emily, as shelistened, thought he could be scarcely less than a professor of musicwhom she heard; and the sweet and plaintive strains soon lulled her intoa reverie, from which she was very unwillingly roused by the railleryof Cavigni, and by the voice of Montoni, who gave orders to a servant tohave the carriages ready at an early hour on the following morning; andadded, that he meant to dine at Turin. 

Madame Montoni was exceedingly rejoiced to be once more on level ground;and, after giving a long detail of the various terrors she had suffered, which she forgot that she was describing to the companions of herdangers, she added a hope, that she should soon be beyond the view ofthese horrid mountains, 'which all the world, ' said she, 'should nottempt me to cross again. ' Complaining of fatigue she soon retired torest, and Emily withdrew to her own room, when she understood fromAnnette, her aunt's woman, that Cavigni was nearly right in hisconjecture concerning the musician, who had awakened the violin withso much taste, for that he was the son of a peasant inhabiting theneighbouring valley. 'He is going to the Carnival at Venice, ' addedAnnette, 'for they say he has a fine hand at playing, and will get aworld of money; and the Carnival is just going to begin: but for mypart, I should like to live among these pleasant woods and hills, betterthan in a town; and they say Ma'moiselle, we shall see no woods, orhills, or fields, at Venice, for that it is built in the very middle ofthe sea. '

Emily agreed with the talkative Annette, that this young man was makinga change for the worse, and could not forbear silently lamenting, thathe should be drawn from the innocence and beauty of these scenes, to thecorrupt ones of that voluptuous city. 

When she was alone, unable to sleep, the landscapes of her native home, with Valancourt, and the circumstances of her departure, haunted herfancy; she drew pictures of social happiness amidst the grand simplicityof nature, such as she feared she had bade farewel to for ever; andthen, the idea of this young Piedmontese, thus ignorantly sporting withhis happiness, returned to her thoughts, and, glad to escape awhile fromthe pressure of nearer interests, she indulged her fancy in composingthe following lines. 

 THE PIEDMONTESE

 Ah, merry swain, who laugh'd along the vales, And with your gay pipe made the mountains ring, Why leave your cot, your woods, and thymy gales, And friends belov'd, for aught that wealth can bring? He goes to wake o'er moon-light seas the string, Venetian gold his untaught fancy hails! Yet oft of home his simple carols sing, And his steps pause, as the last Alp he scales. Once more he turns to view his native scene-- Far, far below, as roll the clouds away, He spies his cabin 'mid the pine-tops green, The well-known woods, clear brook, and pastures gay; And thinks of friends and parents left behind, Of sylvan revels, dance, and festive song; And hears the faint reed swelling in the wind; And his sad sighs the distant notes prolong! Thus went the swain, till mountain-shadows fell, And dimm'd the landscape to his aching sight; And must he leave the vales he loves so well! Can foreign wealth, and shows, his heart delight? No, happy vales! your wild rocks still shall hear His pipe, light sounding on the morning breeze; Still shall he lead the flocks to streamlet clear, And watch at eve beneath the western trees. Away, Venetian gold--your charm is o'er! And now his swift step seeks the lowland bow'rs, Where, through the leaves, his cottage light ONCE MORE Guides him to happy friends, and jocund hours. Ah, merry swain! that laugh along the vales, And with your gay pipe make the mountains ring, Your cot, your woods, your thymy-scented gales-- And friends belov'd--more joy than wealth can bring!

CHAPTER II

 TITANIA. If you will patiently dance in our round, And see our moon-light revels, go with us. MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

Early on the following morning, the travellers set out for Turin. The luxuriant plain, that extends from the feet of the Alps to thatmagnificent city, was not then, as now, shaded by an avenue of treesnine miles in length; but plantations of olives, mulberry and palms, festooned with vines, mingled with the pastoral scenery, through withthe rapid Po, after its descent from the mountains, wandered to meetthe humble Doria at Turin. As they advanced towards this city, the Alps, seen at some distance, began to appear in all their awful sublimity;chain rising over chain in long succession, their higher points darkenedby the hovering clouds, sometimes hid, and at others seen shooting upfar above them; while their lower steeps, broken into fantastic forms, were touched with blue and purplish tints, which, as they changed inlight and shade, seemed to open new scenes to the eye. To the eaststretched the plains of Lombardy, with the towers of Turin rising at adistance; and beyond, the Apennines, bounding the horizon. 

The general magnificence of that city, with its vistas of churches andpalaces, branching from the grand square, each opening to a landscape ofthe distant Alps or Apennines, was not only such as Emily had never seenin France, but such as she had never imagined. 

Montoni, who had been often at Turin, and cared little about views ofany kind, did not comply with his wife's request, that they might surveysome of the palaces; but staying only till the necessary refreshmentscould be obtained, they set forward for Venice with all possiblerapidity. Montoni's manner, during this journey, was grave, and evenhaughty; and towards Madame Montoni he was more especially reserved; butit was not the reserve of respect so much as of pride and discontent. Of Emily he took little notice. With Cavigni his conversations werecommonly on political or military topics, such as the convulsed stateof their country rendered at this time particularly interesting, Emilyobserved, that, at the mention of any daring exploit, Montoni's eyeslost their sullenness, and seemed instantaneously to gleam with fire;yet they still retained somewhat of a lurking cunning, and she sometimesthought that their fire partook more of the glare of malice than thebrightness of valour, though the latter would well have harmonized withthe high chivalric air of his figure, in which Cavigni, with all his gayand gallant manners, was his inferior. 

On entering the Milanese, the gentlemen exchanged their French hats forthe Italian cap of scarlet cloth, embroidered; and Emily was somewhatsurprised to observe, that Montoni added to his the military plume, while Cavigni retained only the feather: which was usually worn withsuch caps: but she at length concluded, that Montoni assumed this ensignof a soldier for convenience, as a means of passing with more safetythrough a country over-run with parties of the military. 

Over the beautiful plains of this country the devastations of warwere frequently visible. Where the lands had not been suffered to lieuncultivated, they were often tracked with the steps of the spoiler;the vines were torn down from the branches that had supported them, theolives trampled upon the ground, and even the groves of mulberry treeshad been hewn by the enemy to light fires that destroyed the hamlets andvillages of their owners. Emily turned her eyes with a sigh fromthese painful vestiges of contention, to the Alps of the Grison, thatoverlooked them to the north, whose awful solitudes seemed to offer topersecuted man a secure asylum. 

The travellers frequently distinguished troops of soldiers moving ata distance; and they experienced, at the little inns on the road, thescarcity of provision and other inconveniences, which are a part ofthe consequence of intestine war; but they had never reason to be muchalarmed for their immediate safety, and they passed on to Milan withlittle interruption of any kind, where they staid not to survey thegrandeur of the city, or even to view its vast cathedral, which was thenbuilding. 

Beyond Milan, the country wore the aspect of a ruder devastation; andthough every thing seemed now quiet, the repose was like that ofdeath, spread over features, which retain the impression of the lastconvulsions. 

It was not till they had passed the eastern limits of the Milanese, thatthe travellers saw any troops since they had left Milan, when, as theevening was drawing to a close, they descried what appeared to be anarmy winding onward along the distant plains, whose spears and otherarms caught the last rays of the sun. As the column advanced througha part of the road, contracted between two hillocks, some of thecommanders, on horseback, were distinguished on a small eminence, pointing and making signals for the march; while several of the officerswere riding along the line directing its progress, according to thesigns communicated by those above; and others, separating from thevanguard, which had emerged from the pass, were riding carelessly alongthe plains at some distance to the right of the army. 

As they drew nearer, Montoni, distinguishing the feathers that wavedin their caps, and the banners and liveries of the bands that followedthem, thought he knew this to be the small army commanded by the famouscaptain Utaldo, with whom, as well as with some of the other chiefs, hewas personally acquainted. He, therefore, gave orders that the carriagesshould draw up by the side of the road, to await their arrival, andgive them the pass. A faint strain of martial music now stole by, and, gradually strengthening as the troops approached, Emily distinguishedthe drums and trumpets, with the clash of cymbals and of arms, that werestruck by a small party, in time to the march. 

Montoni being now certain that these were the bands of the victoriousUtaldo, leaned from the carriage window, and hailed their generalby waving his cap in the air; which compliment the chief returned byraising his spear, and then letting it down again suddenly, while someof his officers, who were riding at a distance from the troops, came upto the carriage, and saluted Montoni as an old acquaintance. The captainhimself soon after arriving, his bands halted while he conversed withMontoni, whom he appeared much rejoiced to see; and from what he said, Emily understood that this was a victorious army, returning into theirown principality; while the numerous waggons, that accompanied them, contained the rich spoils of the enemy, their own wounded soldiers, andthe prisoners they had taken in battle, who were to be ransomed whenthe peace, then negociating between the neighbouring states, should beratified. The chiefs on the following day were to separate, and each, taking his share of the spoil, was to return with his own band to hiscastle. This was therefore to be an evening of uncommon and generalfestivity, in commemoration of the victory they had accomplishedtogether, and of the farewell which the commanders were about to take ofeach other. 

Emily, as these officers conversed with Montoni, observed withadmiration, tinctured with awe, their high martial air, mingled withthe haughtiness of the nobless of those days, and heightened by thegallantry of their dress, by the plumes towering on their caps, thearmorial coat, Persian sash, and ancient Spanish cloak. Utaldo, tellingMontoni that his army were going to encamp for the night near a villageat only a few miles distance, invited him to turn back and partakeof their festivity, assuring the ladies also, that they should bepleasantly accommodated; but Montoni excused himself, adding, thatit was his design to reach Verona that evening; and, after someconversation concerning the state of the country towards that city, theyparted. 

The travellers proceeded without any interruption; but it was some hoursafter sun-set before they arrived at Verona, whose beautiful environswere therefore not seen by Emily till the following morning; when, leaving that pleasant town at an early hour, they set off for Padua, where they embarked on the Brenta for Venice. Here the scene wasentirely changed; no vestiges of war, such as had deformed the plains ofthe Milanese, appeared; on the contrary, all was peace and elegance. Theverdant banks of the Brenta exhibited a continued landscape of beauty, gaiety, and splendour. Emily gazed with admiration on the villas of theVenetian noblesse, with their cool porticos and colonnades, overhungwith poplars and cypresses of majestic height and lively verdure; ontheir rich orangeries, whose blossoms perfumed the air, and on theluxuriant willows, that dipped their light leaves in the wave, andsheltered from the sun the gay parties whose music came at intervals onthe breeze. The Carnival did, indeed, appear to extend from Venice alongthe whole line of these enchanting shores; the river was gay with boatspassing to that city, exhibiting the fantastic diversity of a masqueradein the dresses of the people within them; and, towards evening, groupsof dancers frequently were seen beneath the trees. 

Cavigni, meanwhile, informed her of the names of the noblemen to whomthe several villas they passed belonged, adding light sketches of theircharacters, such as served to amuse rather than to inform, exhibitinghis own wit instead of the delineation of truth. Emily was sometimesdiverted by his conversation; but his gaiety did not entertain MadameMontoni, as it had formerly done; she was frequently grave, and Montoniretained his usual reserve. 

Nothing could exceed Emily's admiration on her first view of Venice, with its islets, palaces, and towers rising out of the sea, whose clearsurface reflected the tremulous picture in all its colours. The sun, sinking in the west, tinted the waves and the lofty mountains of Friuli, which skirt the northern shores of the Adriatic, with a saffron glow, while on the marble porticos and colonnades of St. Mark were thrownthe rich lights and shades of evening. As they glided on, the granderfeatures of this city appeared more distinctly: its terraces, crownedwith airy yet majestic fabrics, touched, as they now were, with thesplendour of the setting sun, appeared as if they had been called upfrom the ocean by the wand of an enchanter, rather than reared by mortalhands. 

The sun, soon after, sinking to the lower world, the shadow of the earthstole gradually over the waves, and then up the towering sides of themountains of Friuli, till it extinguished even the last upward beamsthat had lingered on their summits, and the melancholy purple of eveningdrew over them, like a thin veil. How deep, how beautiful was thetranquillity that wrapped the scene! All nature seemed to repose; thefinest emotions of the soul were alone awake. Emily's eyes filled withtears of admiration and sublime devotion, as she raised them over thesleeping world to the vast heavens, and heard the notes of solemnmusic, that stole over the waters from a distance. She listened in stillrapture, and no person of the party broke the charm by an enquiry. Thesounds seemed to grow on the air; for so smoothly did the barge glidealong, that its motion was not perceivable, and the fairy city appearedapproaching to welcome the strangers. They now distinguished a femalevoice, accompanied by a few instruments, singing a soft and mournfulair; and its fine expression, as sometimes it seemed pleading with theimpassioned tenderness of love, and then languishing into the cadenceof hopeless grief, declared, that it flowed from no feigned sensibility. Ah! thought Emily, as she sighed and remembered Valancourt, thosestrains come from the heart!

She looked round, with anxious enquiry; the deep twilight, that hadfallen over the scene, admitted only imperfect images to the eye, but, at some distance on the sea, she thought she perceived a gondola: achorus of voices and instruments now swelled on the air--so sweet, sosolemn! it seemed like the hymn of angels descending through the silenceof night! Now it died away, and fancy almost beheld the holy choirreascending towards heaven; then again it swelled with the breeze, trembled awhile, and again died into silence. It brought to Emily'srecollection some lines of her late father, and she repeated in a lowvoice, Oft I hear, Upon the silence of the midnight air, Celestial voices swell in holy chorus That bears the soul to heaven!

The deep stillness, that succeeded, was as expressive as the strainthat had just ceased. It was uninterrupted for several minutes, tilla general sigh seemed to release the company from their enchantment. Emily, however, long indulged the pleasing sadness, that had stolenupon her spirits; but the gay and busy scene that appeared, as the bargeapproached St. Mark's Place, at length roused her attention. The risingmoon, which threw a shadowy light upon the terraces, and illuminedthe porticos and magnificent arcades that crowned them, discovered thevarious company, whose light steps, soft guitars, and softer voices, echoed through the colonnades. 

The music they heard before now passed Montoni's barge, in one of thegondolas, of which several were seen skimming along the moon-light sea, full of gay parties, catching the cool breeze. Most of these had music, made sweeter by the waves over which it floated, and by the measuredsound of oars, as they dashed the sparkling tide. Emily gazed, andlistened, and thought herself in a fairy scene; even Madame Montoni waspleased; Montoni congratulated himself on his return to Venice, whichhe called the first city in the world, and Cavigni was more gay andanimated than ever. 

The barge passed on to the grand canal, where Montoni's mansion wassituated. And here, other forms of beauty and of grandeur, such as herimagination had never painted, were unfolded to Emily in the palaces ofSansovino and Palladio, as she glided along the waves. The air bore nosounds, but those of sweetness, echoing along each margin of the canal, and from gondolas on its surface, while groups of masks were seendancing on the moon-light terraces, and seemed almost to realize theromance of fairyland. 

The barge stopped before the portico of a large house, from whencea servant of Montoni crossed the terrace, and immediately the partydisembarked. From the portico they passed a noble hall to a stair-caseof marble, which led to a saloon, fitted up in a style of magnificencethat surprised Emily. The walls and ceilings were adorned withhistorical and allegorical paintings, in fresco; silver tripods, depending from chains of the same metal, illumined the apartment, thefloor of which was covered with Indian mats painted in a variety ofcolours and devices; the couches and drapery of the lattices were ofpale green silk, embroidered and fringed with green and gold. Balconylattices opened upon the grand canal, whence rose a confusion of voicesand of musical instruments, and the breeze that gave freshness to theapartment. Emily, considering the gloomy temper of Montoni, looked uponthe splendid furniture of this house with surprise, and remembered thereport of his being a man of broken fortune, with astonishment. 'Ah!'said she to herself, 'if Valancourt could but see this mansion, whatpeace would it give him! He would then be convinced that the report wasgroundless. '

Madame Montoni seemed to assume the air of a princess; but Montoni wasrestless and discontented, and did not even observe the civility ofbidding her welcome to her home. 

Soon after his arrival, he ordered his gondola, and, with Cavigni, wentout to mingle in the scenes of the evening. Madame then became seriousand thoughtful. Emily, who was charmed with every thing she saw, endeavoured to enliven her; but reflection had not, with Madame Montoni, subdued caprice and ill-humour, and her answers discovered so much ofboth, that Emily gave up the attempt of diverting her, and withdrew toa lattice, to amuse herself with the scene without, so new and soenchanting. 

The first object that attracted her notice was a group of dancers on theterrace below, led by a guitar and some other instruments. The girl, whostruck the guitar, and another, who flourished a tambourine, passedon in a dancing step, and with a light grace and gaiety of heart, thatwould have subdued the goddess of spleen in her worst humour. Afterthese came a group of fantastic figures, some dressed as gondolieri, others as minstrels, while others seemed to defy all description. Theysung in parts, their voices accompanied by a few soft instruments. At alittle distance from the portico they stopped, and Emily distinguishedthe verses of Ariosto. They sung of the wars of the Moors againstCharlemagne, and then of the woes of Orlando: afterwards the measurechanged, and the melancholy sweetness of Petrarch succeeded. Themagic of his grief was assisted by all that Italian music and Italianexpression, heightened by the enchantments of Venetian moonlight, couldgive. 

Emily, as she listened, caught the pensive enthusiasm; her tears flowedsilently, while her fancy bore her far away to France and to Valancourt. Each succeeding sonnet, more full of charming sadness than the last, seemed to bind the spell of melancholy: with extreme regret she saw themusicians move on, and her attention followed the strain till thelast faint warble died in air. She then remained sunk in that pensivetranquillity which soft music leaves on the mind--a state like thatproduced by the view of a beautiful landscape by moon-light, or by therecollection of scenes marked with the tenderness of friends lost forever, and with sorrows, which time has mellowed into mild regret. Suchscenes are indeed, to the mind, like 'those faint traces which thememory bears of music that is past'. 

Other sounds soon awakened her attention: it was the solemn harmony ofhorns, that swelled from a distance; and, observing the gondolas arrangethemselves along the margin of the terraces, she threw on her veil, and, stepping into the balcony, discerned, in the distant perspective of thecanal, something like a procession, floating on the light surface ofthe water: as it approached, the horns and other instruments mingledsweetly, and soon after the fabled deities of the city seemed to havearisen from the ocean; for Neptune, with Venice personified ashis queen, came on the undulating waves, surrounded by tritons andsea-nymphs. The fantastic splendour of this spectacle, together with thegrandeur of the surrounding palaces, appeared like the vision of a poetsuddenly embodied, and the fanciful images, which it awakened in Emily'smind, lingered there long after the procession had passed away. Sheindulged herself in imagining what might be the manners and delights ofa sea-nymph, till she almost wished to throw off the habit of mortality, and plunge into the green wave to participate them. 

'How delightful, ' said she, 'to live amidst the coral bowers and crystalcaverns of the ocean, with my sister nymphs, and listen to the soundingwaters above, and to the soft shells of the tritons! and then, aftersun-set, to skim on the surface of the waves round wild rocks and alongsequestered shores, where, perhaps, some pensive wanderer comes to weep!Then would I soothe his sorrows with my sweet music, and offer him froma shell some of the delicious fruit that hangs round Neptune's palace. '

She was recalled from her reverie to a mere mortal supper, and couldnot forbear smiling at the fancies she had been indulging, and at herconviction of the serious displeasure, which Madame Montoni would haveexpressed, could she have been made acquainted with them. 

After supper, her aunt sat late, but Montoni did not return, and sheat length retired to rest. If Emily had admired the magnificence of thesaloon, she was not less surprised, on observing the half-furnishedand forlorn appearance of the apartments she passed in the way to herchamber, whither she went through long suites of noble rooms, thatseemed, from their desolate aspect, to have been unoccupied for manyyears. On the walls of some were the faded remains of tapestry; fromothers, painted in fresco, the damps had almost withdrawn both coloursand design. At length she reached her own chamber, spacious, desolate, and lofty, like the rest, with high lattices that opened towards theAdriatic. It brought gloomy images to her mind, but the view of theAdriatic soon gave her others more airy, among which was that of thesea-nymph, whose delights she had before amused herself with picturing;and, anxious to escape from serious reflections, she now endeavouredto throw her fanciful ideas into a train, and concluded the hour withcomposing the following lines:

 THE SEA-NYMPH

 Down, down a thousand fathom deep, Among the sounding seas I go; Play round the foot of ev'ry steep Whose cliffs above the ocean grow. 

 There, within their secret cares, I hear the mighty rivers roar; And guide their streams through Neptune's waves To bless the green earth's inmost shore:

 And bid the freshen'd waters glide, For fern-crown'd nymphs of lake, or brook, Through winding woods and pastures wide, And many a wild, romantic nook. 

 For this the nymphs, at fall of eave, Oft dance upon the flow'ry banks, And sing my name, and garlands weave To bear beneath the wave their thanks. 

 In coral bow'rs I love to lie, And hear the surges roll above, And through the waters view on high The proud ships sail, and gay clouds move. 

 And oft at midnight's stillest hour, When summer seas the vessel lave, I love to prove my charmful pow'r While floating on the moon-light wave. 

 And when deep sleep the crew has bound, And the sad lover musing leans O'er the ship's side, I breathe around Such strains as speak no mortal means!

 O'er the dim waves his searching eye Sees but the vessel's lengthen'd shade; Above--the moon and azure sky; Entranc'd he hears, and half afraid!

 Sometimes, a single note I swell, That, softly sweet, at distance dies; Then wake the magic of my shell, And choral voices round me rise!

 The trembling youth, charm'd by my strain, Calls up the crew, who, silent, bend O'er the high deck, but list in vain; My song is hush'd, my wonders end!

 Within the mountain's woody bay, Where the tall bark at anchor rides, At twilight hour, with tritons gay, I dance upon the lapsing tides:

 And with my sister-nymphs I sport, Till the broad sun looks o'er the floods; Then, swift we seek our crystal court, Deep in the wave, 'mid Neptune's woods. 

 In cool arcades and glassy halls We pass the sultry hours of noon, Beyond wherever sun-beam falls, Weaving sea-flowers in gay festoon. 

 The while we chant our ditties sweet To some soft shell that warbles near; Join'd by the murmuring currents, fleet, That glide along our halls so clear. 

 There, the pale pearl and sapphire blue, And ruby red, and em'rald green, Dart from the domes a changing hue, And sparry columns deck the scene. 

 When the dark storm scowls o'er the deep, And long, long peals of thunder sound, On some high cliff my watch I keep O'er all the restless seas around:

 Till on the ridgy wave afar Comes the lone vessel, labouring slow, Spreading the white foam in the air, With sail and top-mast bending low. 

 Then, plunge I 'mid the ocean's roar, My way by quiv'ring lightnings shewn, To guide the bark to peaceful shore, And hush the sailor's fearful groan. 

 And if too late I reach its side To save it from the 'whelming surge, I call my dolphins o'er the tide, To bear the crew where isles emerge. 

 Their mournful spirits soon I cheer, While round the desert coast I go, With warbled songs they faintly hear, Oft as the stormy gust sinks low. 

 My music leads to lofty groves, That wild upon the sea-bank wave; Where sweet fruits bloom, and fresh spring roves, And closing boughs the tempest brave. 

 Then, from the air spirits obey My potent voice they love so well, And, on the clouds, paint visions gay, While strains more sweet at distance swell. 

 And thus the lonely hours I cheat, Soothing the ship-wreck'd sailor's heart, Till from the waves the storms retreat, And o'er the east the day-beams dart. 

 Neptune for this oft binds me fast To rocks below, with coral chain, Till all the tempest's over-past, And drowning seamen cry in vain. 

 Whoe'er ye are that love my lay, Come, when red sun-set tints the wave, To the still sands, where fairies play; There, in cool seas, I love to lave. 

CHAPTER III

 He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men: he loves no plays, he hears no music; Seldom he smiles; and smiles in such a sort, As if he mock'd himself, and scorn'd his spirit that could be mov'd to smile at any thing. Such men as he be never at heart's ease, While they behold a greater than themselves. JULIUS CAESAR

Montoni and his companion did not return home, till many hours after thedawn had blushed upon the Adriatic. The airy groups, which had dancedall night along the colonnade of St. Mark, dispersed before the morning, like so many spirits. Montoni had been otherwise engaged; his soul waslittle susceptible of light pleasures. He delighted in the energies ofthe passions; the difficulties and tempests of life, which wreck thehappiness of others, roused and strengthened all the powers of hismind, and afforded him the highest enjoyments, of which his nature wascapable. Without some object of strong interest, life was to him littlemore than a sleep; and, when pursuits of real interest failed, hesubstituted artificial ones, till habit changed their nature, and theyceased to be unreal. Of this kind was the habit of gaming, which he hadadopted, first, for the purpose of relieving him from the languor ofinaction, but had since pursued with the ardour of passion. In thisoccupation he had passed the night with Cavigni and a party of youngmen, who had more money than rank, and more vice than either. Montonidespised the greater part of these for the inferiority of their talents, rather than for their vicious inclinations, and associated with themonly to make them the instruments of his purposes. Among these, however, were some of superior abilities, and a few whom Montoni admitted tohis intimacy, but even towards these he still preserved a decisive andhaughty air, which, while it imposed submission on weak and timid minds, roused the fierce hatred of strong ones. He had, of course, many andbitter enemies; but the rancour of their hatred proved the degree of hispower; and, as power was his chief aim, he gloried more in such hatred, than it was possible he could in being esteemed. A feeling so temperedas that of esteem, he despised, and would have despised himself also hadhe thought himself capable of being flattered by it. 

Among the few whom he distinguished, were the Signors Bertolini, Orsino, and Verezzi. The first was a man of gay temper, strong passions, dissipated, and of unbounded extravagance, but generous, brave, andunsuspicious. Orsino was reserved, and haughty; loving power more thanostentation; of a cruel and suspicious temper; quick to feel an injury, and relentless in avenging it; cunning and unsearchable in contrivance, patient and indefatigable in the execution of his schemes. He had aperfect command of feature and of his passions, of which he had scarcelyany, but pride, revenge and avarice; and, in the gratification of these, few considerations had power to restrain him, few obstacles to withstandthe depth of his stratagems. This man was the chief favourite ofMontoni. Verezzi was a man of some talent, of fiery imagination, and theslave of alternate passions. He was gay, voluptuous, and daring; yet hadneither perseverance or true courage, and was meanly selfish in all hisaims. Quick to form schemes, and sanguine in his hope of success, hewas the first to undertake, and to abandon, not only his own plans, but those adopted from other persons. Proud and impetuous, he revoltedagainst all subordination; yet those who were acquainted with hischaracter, and watched the turn of his passions, could lead him like achild. 

Such were the friends whom Montoni introduced to his family and histable, on the day after his arrival at Venice. There were also of theparty a Venetian nobleman, Count Morano, and a Signora Livona, whomMontoni had introduced to his wife, as a lady of distinguished merit, and who, having called in the morning to welcome her to Venice, had beenrequested to be of the dinner party. 

Madame Montoni received with a very ill grace, the compliments ofthe Signors. She disliked them, because they were the friends of herhusband; hated them, because she believed they had contributed to detainhim abroad till so late an hour of the preceding morning; and enviedthem, since, conscious of her own want of influence, she was convinced, that he preferred their society to her own. The rank of Count Moranoprocured him that distinction which she refused to the rest of thecompany. The haughty sullenness of her countenance and manner, and theostentatious extravagance of her dress, for she had not yet adoptedthe Venetian habit, were strikingly contrasted by the beauty, modesty, sweetness and simplicity of Emily, who observed, with more attentionthan pleasure, the party around her. The beauty and fascinating mannersof Signora Livona, however, won her involuntary regard; while thesweetness of her accents and her air of gentle kindness awakened withEmily those pleasing affections, which so long had slumbered. 

In the cool of the evening the party embarked in Montoni's gondola, androwed out upon the sea. The red glow of sun-set still touched the waves, and lingered in the west, where the melancholy gleam seemed slowlyexpiring, while the dark blue of the upper aether began to twinkle withstars. Emily sat, given up to pensive and sweet emotions. The smoothnessof the water, over which she glided, its reflected images--a new heavenand trembling stars below the waves, with shadowy outlines of towers andporticos, conspired with the stillness of the hour, interrupted only bythe passing wave, or the notes of distant music, to raise those emotionsto enthusiasm. As she listened to the measured sound of the oars, and tothe remote warblings that came in the breeze, her softened mind returnedto the memory of St. Aubert and to Valancourt, and tears stole to hereyes. The rays of the moon, strengthening as the shadows deepened, soon after threw a silvery gleam upon her countenance, which was partlyshaded by a thin black veil, and touched it with inimitable softness. Hers was the CONTOUR of a Madona, with the sensibility of a Magdalen;and the pensive uplifted eye, with the tear that glittered on her cheek, confirmed the expression of the character. 

The last strain of distant music now died in air, for the gondola wasfar upon the waves, and the party determined to have music of their own. The Count Morano, who sat next to Emily, and who had been observing herfor some time in silence, snatched up a lute, and struck the chordswith the finger of harmony herself, while his voice, a fine tenor, accompanied them in a rondeau full of tender sadness. To him, indeed, might have been applied that beautiful exhortation of an English poet, had it then existed:

 Strike up, my master, But touch the strings with a religious softness! Teach sounds to languish through the night's dull ear Till Melancholy starts from off her couch, And Carelessness grows concert to attention!

With such powers of expression the Count sung the following

 RONDEAU

 Soft as yon silver ray, that sleeps Upon the ocean's trembling tide; Soft as the air, that lightly sweeps Yon sad, that swells in stately pride:

 Soft as the surge's stealing note, That dies along the distant shores, Or warbled strain, that sinks remote-- So soft the sigh my bosom pours!

 True as the wave to Cynthia's ray, True as the vessel to the breeze, True as the soul to music's sway, Or music to Venetian seas:

 Soft as yon silver beams, that sleep Upon the ocean's trembling breast; So soft, so true, fond Love shall weep, So soft, so true, with THEE shall rest. 

The cadence with which he returned from the last stanza to a repetitionof the first; the fine modulation in which his voice stole upon thefirst line, and the pathetic energy with which it pronounced the last, were such as only exquisite taste could give. When he had concluded, he gave the lute with a sigh to Emily, who, to avoid any appearance ofaffectation, immediately began to play. She sung a melancholy littleair, one of the popular songs of her native province, with a simplicityand pathos that made it enchanting. But its well-known melody broughtso forcibly to her fancy the scenes and the persons, among which she hadoften heard it, that her spirits were overcome, her voice trembled andceased--and the strings of the lute were struck with a disordered hand;till, ashamed of the emotion she had betrayed, she suddenly passed onto a song so gay and airy, that the steps of the dance seemed almostto echo to the notes. BRAVISSIMO! burst instantly from the lips of herdelighted auditors, and she was compelled to repeat the air. Amongthe compliments that followed, those of the Count were not the leastaudible, and they had not concluded, when Emily gave the instrument toSignora Livona, whose voice accompanied it with true Italian taste. 

Afterwards, the Count, Emily, Cavigni, and the Signora, sungcanzonettes, accompanied by a couple of lutes and a few otherinstruments. Sometimes the instruments suddenly ceased, and the voicesdropped from the full swell of harmony into a low chant; then, after adeep pause, they rose by degrees, the instruments one by one strikingup, till the loud and full chorus soared again to heaven!

Meanwhile, Montoni, who was weary of this harmony, was considering howhe might disengage himself from his party, or withdraw with such of itas would be willing to play, to a Casino. In a pause of the music, heproposed returning to shore, a proposal which Orsino eagerly seconded, but which the Count and the other gentlemen as warmly opposed. 

Montoni still meditated how he might excuse himself from longerattendance upon the Count, for to him only he thought excuse necessary, and how he might get to land, till the gondolieri of an empty boat, returning to Venice, hailed his people. Without troubling himself longerabout an excuse, he seized this opportunity of going thither, and, committing the ladies to the care of his friends, departed with Orsino, while Emily, for the first time, saw him go with regret; for sheconsidered his presence a protection, though she knew not what sheshould fear. He landed at St. Mark's, and, hurrying to a Casino, wassoon lost amidst a crowd of gamesters. 

Meanwhile, the Count having secretly dispatched a servant in Montoni'sboat, for his own gondola and musicians, Emily heard, without knowinghis project, the gay song of gondolieri approaching, as they sat on thestern of the boat, and saw the tremulous gleam of the moon-lightwave, which their oars disturbed. Presently she heard the sound ofinstruments, and then a full symphony swelled on the air, and, the boatsmeeting, the gondolieri hailed each other. The count then explaininghimself, the party removed into his gondola, which was embellished withall that taste could bestow. 

While they partook of a collation of fruits and ice, the whole band, following at a distance in the other boat, played the most sweet andenchanting strains, and the Count, who had again seated himself byEmily, paid her unremitted attention, and sometimes, in a lowbut impassioned voice, uttered compliments which she could notmisunderstand. To avoid them she conversed with Signora Livona, and hermanner to the Count assumed a mild reserve, which, though dignified, wastoo gentle to repress his assiduities: he could see, hear, speak to noperson, but Emily while Cavigni observed him now and then, with a lookof displeasure, and Emily, with one of uneasiness. She now wished fornothing so much as to return to Venice, but it was near mid-night beforethe gondolas approached St. Mark's Place, where the voice of gaietyand song was loud. The busy hum of mingling sounds was heard at aconsiderable distance on the water, and, had not a bright moon-lightdiscovered the city, with its terraces and towers, a stranger wouldalmost have credited the fabled wonders of Neptune's court, andbelieved, that the tumult arose from beneath the waves. 

They landed at St. Mark's, where the gaiety of the colonnades and thebeauty of the night, made Madame Montoni willingly submit to the Count'ssolicitations to join the promenade, and afterwards to take a supperwith the rest of the party, at his Casino. If any thing could havedissipated Emily's uneasiness, it would have been the grandeur, gaiety, and novelty of the surrounding scene, adorned with Palladio's palaces, and busy with parties of masqueraders. 

At length they withdrew to the Casino, which was fitted up with infinitetaste, and where a splendid banquet was prepared; but here Emily'sreserve made the Count perceive, that it was necessary for his interestto win the favour of Madame Montoni, which, from the condescension shehad already shewn to him, appeared to be an achievement of no greatdifficulty. He transferred, therefore, part of his attention from Emilyto her aunt, who felt too much flattered by the distinction even todisguise her emotion; and before the party broke up, he had entirelyengaged the esteem of Madame Montoni. Whenever he addressed her, herungracious countenance relaxed into smiles, and to whatever he proposedshe assented. He invited her, with the rest of the party, to takecoffee, in his box at the opera, on the following evening, and Emilyheard the invitation accepted, with strong anxiety, concerning the meansof excusing herself from attending Madame Montoni thither. 

It was very late before their gondola was ordered, and Emily's surprisewas extreme, when, on quitting the Casino, she beheld the broad sunrising out of the Adriatic, while St. Mark's Place was yet crowded withcompany. Sleep had long weighed heavily on her eyes, but now the freshsea-breeze revived her, and she would have quitted the scene withregret, had not the Count been present, performing the duty, which hehad imposed upon himself, of escorting them home. There they heard thatMontoni was not yet returned; and his wife, retiring in displeasureto her apartment, at length released Emily from the fatigue of furtherattendance. 

Montoni came home late in the morning, in a very ill humour, having lostconsiderably at play, and, before he withdrew to rest, had a privateconference with Cavigni, whose manner, on the following day, seemed totell, that the subject of it had not been pleasing to him. 

In the evening, Madame Montoni, who, during the day, had observed asullen silence towards her husband, received visits from some Venetianladies, with whose sweet manners Emily was particularly charmed. Theyhad an air of ease and kindness towards the strangers, as if they hadbeen their familiar friends for years; and their conversation was byturns tender, sentimental and gay. Madame, though she had no tastefor such conversation, and whose coarseness and selfishness sometimesexhibited a ludicrous contrast to their excessive refinement, could notremain wholly insensible to the captivations of their manner. 

In a pause of conversation, a lady who was called Signora Herminia tookup a lute, and began to play and sing, with as much easy gaiety, as ifshe had been alone. Her voice was uncommonly rich in tone, and variousin expression; yet she appeared to be entirely unconscious of itspowers, and meant nothing less than to display them. She sung from thegaiety of her heart, as she sat with her veil half thrown back, holdinggracefully the lute, under the spreading foliage and flowers of someplants, that rose from baskets, and interlaced one of the lattices ofthe saloon. Emily, retiring a little from the company, sketchedher figure, with the miniature scenery around her, and drew a veryinteresting picture, which, though it would not, perhaps, have bornecriticism, had spirit and taste enough to awaken both the fancy andthe heart. When she had finished it, she presented it to the beautifuloriginal, who was delighted with the offering, as well as the sentimentit conveyed, and assured Emily, with a smile of captivating sweetness, that she should preserve it as a pledge of her friendship. 

In the evening Cavigni joined the ladies, but Montoni had otherengagements; and they embarked in the gondola for St. Mark's, where thesame gay company seemed to flutter as on the preceding night. The coolbreeze, the glassy sea, the gentle sound of its waves, and the sweetermurmur of distant music; the lofty porticos and arcades, and the happygroups that sauntered beneath them; these, with every feature andcircumstance of the scene, united to charm Emily, no longer teased bythe officious attentions of Count Morano. But, as she looked upon themoon-light sea, undulating along the walls of St. Mark, and, lingeringfor a moment over those walls, caught the sweet and melancholy song ofsome gondolier as he sat in his boat below, waiting for his master, hersoftened mind returned to the memory of her home, of her friends, and ofall that was dear in her native country. 

After walking some time, they sat down at the door of a Casino, and, while Cavigni was accommodating them with coffee and ice, were joinedby Count Morano. He sought Emily with a look of impatient delight, who, remembering all the attention he had shewn her on the preceding evening, was compelled, as before, to shrink from his assiduities into a timidreserve, except when she conversed with Signora Herminia and the otherladies of her party. 

It was near midnight before they withdrew to the opera, where Emilywas not so charmed but that, when she remembered the scene she had justquitted, she felt how infinitely inferior all the splendour of art isto the sublimity of nature. Her heart was not now affected, tearsof admiration did not start to her eyes, as when she viewed the vastexpanse of ocean, the grandeur of the heavens, and listened to therolling waters, and to the faint music that, at intervals, mingledwith their roar. Remembering these, the scene before her faded intoinsignificance. 

Of the evening, which passed on without any particular incident, shewished the conclusion, that she might escape from the attentions of theCount; and, as opposite qualities frequently attract each other inour thoughts, thus Emily, when she looked on Count Morano, rememberedValancourt, and a sigh sometimes followed the recollection. 

Several weeks passed in the course of customary visits, during whichnothing remarkable occurred. Emily was amused by the manners and scenesthat surrounded her, so different from those of France, but where CountMorano, too frequently for her comfort, contrived to introduce himself. His manner, figure and accomplishments, which were generally admired, Emily would, perhaps, have admired also, had her heart been disengagedfrom Valancourt, and had the Count forborne to persecute her withofficious attentions, during which she observed some traits in hischaracter, that prejudiced her against whatever might otherwise be goodin it. 

Soon after his arrival at Venice, Montoni received a packet from M. Quesnel, in which the latter mentioned the death of his wife's uncle, at his villa on the Brenta; and that, in consequence of this event, heshould hasten to take possession of that estate and of other effectsbequeathed to him. This uncle was the brother of Madame Quesnel's latemother; Montoni was related to her by the father's side, and thoughhe could have had neither claim nor expectation concerning thesepossessions, he could scarcely conceal the envy which M. Quesnel'sletter excited. 

Emily had observed with concern, that, since they left France, Montonihad not even affected kindness towards her aunt, and that, aftertreating her, at first, with neglect, he now met her with uniformill-humour and reserve. She had never supposed, that her aunt's foiblescould have escaped the discernment of Montoni, or that her mind orfigure were of a kind to deserve his attention. Her surprise, therefore, at this match, had been extreme; but since he had made the choice, shedid not suspect that he would so openly have discovered his contempt ofit. But Montoni, who had been allured by the seeming wealth of MadameCheron, was now severely disappointed by her comparative poverty, andhighly exasperated by the deceit she had employed to conceal it, tillconcealment was no longer necessary. He had been deceived in an affair, wherein he meant to be the deceiver; out-witted by the superiorcunning of a woman, whose understanding he despised, and to whom he hadsacrificed his pride and his liberty, without saving himself from theruin, which had impended over his head. Madame Montoni had contrivedto have the greatest part of what she really did possess, settled uponherself: what remained, though it was totally inadequate both to herhusband's expectations, and to his necessities, he had converted intomoney, and brought with him to Venice, that he might a little longerdelude society, and make a last effort to regain the fortunes he hadlost. 

The hints which had been thrown out to Valancourt, concerning Montoni'scharacter and condition, were too true; but it was now left to time andoccasion, to unfold the circumstances, both of what had, and of what hadnot been hinted, and to time and occasion we commit them. 

Madame Montoni was not of a nature to bear injuries with meekness, or toresent them with dignity: her exasperated pride displayed itself in allthe violence and acrimony of a little, or at least of an ill-regulatedmind. She would not acknowledge, even to herself, that she had in anydegree provoked contempt by her duplicity, but weakly persisted inbelieving, that she alone was to be pitied, and Montoni alone to becensured; for, as her mind had naturally little perception of moralobligation, she seldom understood its force but when it happened to beviolated towards herself: her vanity had already been severely shockedby a discovery of Montoni's contempt; it remained to be farther reprovedby a discovery of his circumstances. His mansion at Venice, though itsfurniture discovered a part of the truth to unprejudiced persons, toldnothing to those who were blinded by a resolution to believe whateverthey wished. Madame Montoni still thought herself little less thana princess, possessing a palace at Venice, and a castle among theApennines. To the castle di Udolpho, indeed, Montoni sometimes talked ofgoing for a few weeks to examine into its condition, and to receive somerents; for it appeared that he had not been there for two years, andthat, during this period, it had been inhabited only by an old servant, whom he called his steward. 

Emily listened to the mention of this journey with pleasure, for shenot only expected from it new ideas, but a release from the perseveringassiduities of Count Morano. In the country, too, she would have leisureto think of Valancourt, and to indulge the melancholy, which his image, and a recollection of the scenes of La Vallee, always blessed with thememory of her parents, awakened. The ideal scenes were dearer, and moresoothing to her heart, than all the splendour of gay assemblies; theywere a kind of talisman that expelled the poison of temporary evils, and supported her hopes of happy days: they appeared like a beautifullandscape, lighted up by a gleam of sun-shine, and seen through aperspective of dark and rugged rocks. 

But Count Morano did not long confine himself to silent assiduities;he declared his passion to Emily, and made proposals to Montoni, whoencouraged, though Emily rejected, him: with Montoni for his friend, and an abundance of vanity to delude him, he did not despair of success. Emily was astonished and highly disgusted at his perseverance, after shehad explained her sentiments with a frankness that would not allow himto misunderstand them. 

He now passed the greater part of his time at Montoni's, dining therealmost daily, and attending Madame and Emily wherever they went; and allthis, notwithstanding the uniform reserve of Emily, whose aunt seemedas anxious as Montoni to promote this marriage; and would never dispensewith her attendance at any assembly where the Count proposed to bepresent. 

Montoni now said nothing of his intended journey, of which Emily waitedimpatiently to hear; and he was seldom at home but when the Count, orSignor Orsino, was there, for between himself and Cavigni a coolnessseemed to subsist, though the latter remained in his house. With Orsino, Montoni was frequently closeted for hours together, and, whatevermight be the business, upon which they consulted, it appeared to be ofconsequence, since Montoni often sacrificed to it his favourite passionfor play, and remained at home the whole night. There was somewhat ofprivacy, too, in the manner of Orsino's visits, which had never beforeoccurred, and which excited not only surprise, but some degree of alarmin Emily's mind, who had unwillingly discovered much of his characterwhen he had most endeavoured to disguise it. After these visits, Montoniwas often more thoughtful than usual; sometimes the deep workings of hismind entirely abstracted him from surrounding objects, and threw a gloomover his visage that rendered it terrible; at others, his eyes seemedalmost to flash fire, and all the energies of his soul appeared tobe roused for some great enterprise. Emily observed these writtencharacters of his thoughts with deep interest, and not without somedegree of awe, when she considered that she was entirely in his power;but forbore even to hint her fears, or her observations, to MadameMontoni, who discerned nothing in her husband, at these times, but hisusual sternness. 

A second letter from M. Quesnel announced the arrival of himself andhis lady at the Villa Miarenti; stated several circumstances of hisgood fortune, respecting the affair that had brought him into Italy; andconcluded with an earnest request to see Montoni, his wife and niece, athis new estate. 

Emily received, about the same period, a much more interesting letter, and which soothed for a while every anxiety of her heart. Valancourt, hoping she might be still at Venice, had trusted a letter to theordinary post, that told her of his health, and of his unceasing andanxious affection. He had lingered at Tholouse for some time after herdeparture, that he might indulge the melancholy pleasure of wanderingthrough the scenes where he had been accustomed to behold her, and hadthence gone to his brother's chateau, which was in the neighbourhood ofLa Vallee. Having mentioned this, he added, 'If the duty of attendingmy regiment did not require my departure, I know not when I should haveresolution enough to quit the neighbourhood of a place which is endearedby the remembrance of you. The vicinity to La Vallee has alone detainedme thus long at Estuviere: I frequently ride thither early in themorning, that I may wander, at leisure, through the day, among scenes, which were once your home, where I have been accustomed to see you, andto hear you converse. I have renewed my acquaintance with the good oldTheresa, who rejoiced to see me, that she might talk of you: I neednot say how much this circumstance attached me to her, or how eagerlyI listened to her upon her favourite subject. You will guess the motivethat first induced me to make myself known to Theresa: it was, indeed, no other than that of gaining admittance into the chateau and gardens, which my Emily had so lately inhabited: here, then, I wander, and meetyour image under every shade: but chiefly I love to sit beneath thespreading branches of your favourite plane, where once, Emily, we sattogether; where I first ventured to tell you, that I loved. O Emily!the remembrance of those moments overcomes me--I sit lost in reverie--Iendeavour to see you dimly through my tears, in all the heaven ofpeace and innocence, such as you then appeared to me; to hear again theaccents of that voice, which then thrilled my heart with tenderness andhope. I lean on the wall of the terrace, where we together watched therapid current of the Garonne below, while I described the wild sceneryabout its source, but thought only of you. O Emily! are these momentspassed for ever--will they never more return?'

In another part of his letter he wrote thus. 'You see my letter is datedon many different days, and, if you look back to the first, you willperceive, that I began to write soon after your departure from France. To write was, indeed, the only employment that withdrew me from my ownmelancholy, and rendered your absence supportable, or rather, it seemedto destroy absence; for, when I was conversing with you on paper, and telling you every sentiment and affection of my heart, you almostappeared to be present. This employment has been from time to time mychief consolation, and I have deferred sending off my packet, merelyfor the comfort of prolonging it, though it was certain, that what Ihad written, was written to no purpose till you received it. Whenever mymind has been more than usually depressed I have come to pour forth itssorrows to you, and have always found consolation; and, when any littleoccurrence has interested my heart, and given a gleam of joy to myspirits, I have hastened to communicate it to you, and have receivedreflected satisfaction. Thus, my letter is a kind of picture of my lifeand of my thoughts for the last month, and thus, though it has beendeeply interesting to me, while I wrote it, and I dare hope will, forthe same reason, be not indifferent to you, yet to other readers itwould seem to abound only in frivolities. Thus it is always, when weattempt to describe the finer movements of the heart, for they are toofine to be discerned, they can only be experienced, and are thereforepassed over by the indifferent observer, while the interested one feels, that all description is imperfect and unnecessary, except as it mayprove the sincerity of the writer, and sooth his own sufferings. Youwill pardon all this egotism--for I am a lover. '

'I have just heard of a circumstance, which entirely destroys all myfairy paradise of ideal delight, and which will reconcile me to thenecessity of returning to my regiment, for I must no longer wanderbeneath the beloved shades, where I have been accustomed to meet youin thought. --La Vallee is let! I have reason to believe this is withoutyour knowledge, from what Theresa told me this morning, and, therefore, I mention the circumstance. She shed tears, while she related, that shewas going to leave the service of her dear mistress, and the chateauwhere she had lived so many happy years; and all this, added she, without even a letter from Mademoiselle to soften the news; but it isall Mons. Quesnel's doings, and I dare say she does not even know whatis going forward. '

'Theresa added, That she had received a letter from him, informingher the chateau was let, and that, as her services would no longer berequired, she must quit the place, on that day week, when the new tenantwould arrive. '

'Theresa had been surprised by a visit from M. Quesnel, some time beforethe receipt of this letter, who was accompanied by a stranger thatviewed the premises with much curiosity. '

Towards the conclusion of his letter, which is dated a week after thissentence, Valancourt adds, 'I have received a summons from my regiment, and I join it without regret, since I am shut out from the scenes thatare so interesting to my heart. I rode to La Vallee this morning, andheard that the new tenant was arrived, and that Theresa was gone. Ishould not treat the subject thus familiarly if I did not believe youto be uninformed of this disposal of your house; for your satisfaction Ihave endeavoured to learn something of the character and fortune of yourtenant, but without success. He is a gentleman, they say, and this isall I can hear. The place, as I wandered round the boundaries, appearedmore melancholy to my imagination, than I had ever seen it. I wishedearnestly to have got admittance, that I might have taken another leaveof your favourite plane-tree, and thought of you once more beneathits shade: but I forbore to tempt the curiosity of strangers: thefishing-house in the woods, however, was still open to me; thither Iwent, and passed an hour, which I cannot even look back upon withoutemotion. O Emily! surely we are not separated for ever--surely we shalllive for each other!'

This letter brought many tears to Emily's eyes; tears of tenderness andsatisfaction on learning that Valancourt was well, and that time andabsence had in no degree effaced her image from his heart. There werepassages in this letter which particularly affected her, such as thosedescribing his visits to La Vallee, and the sentiments of delicateaffection that its scenes had awakened. It was a considerable timebefore her mind was sufficiently abstracted from Valancourt to feelthe force of his intelligence concerning La Vallee. That Mons. Quesnelshould let it, without even consulting her on the measure, bothsurprised and shocked her, particularly as it proved the absoluteauthority he thought himself entitled to exercise in her affairs. It istrue, he had proposed, before she left France, that the chateau shouldbe let, during her absence, and to the oeconomical prudence of this shehad nothing to object; but the committing what had been her father'svilla to the power and caprice of strangers, and the depriving herselfof a sure home, should any unhappy circumstances make her look back toher home as an asylum, were considerations that made her, even then, strongly oppose the measure. Her father, too, in his last hour, hadreceived from her a solemn promise never to dispose of La Vallee; andthis she considered as in some degree violated if she suffered the placeto be let. But it was now evident with how little respect M. Quesnelhad regarded these objections, and how insignificant he considered everyobstacle to pecuniary advantage. It appeared, also, that he had not evencondescended to inform Montoni of the step he had taken, since no motivewas evident for Montoni's concealing the circumstance from her, if ithad been made known to him: this both displeased and surprised her; butthe chief subjects of her uneasiness were--the temporary disposal ofLa Vallee, and the dismission of her father's old and faithfulservant. --'Poor Theresa, ' said Emily, 'thou hadst not saved much in thyservitude, for thou wast always tender towards the poor, and believd'stthou shouldst die in the family, where thy best years had been spent. Poor Theresa!--now thou art turned out in thy old age to seek thybread!'

Emily wept bitterly as these thoughts passed over her mind, and shedetermined to consider what could be done for Theresa, and to talk veryexplicitly to M. Quesnel on the subject; but she much feared that hiscold heart could feel only for itself. She determined also to enquirewhether he had made any mention of her affairs, in his letter toMontoni, who soon gave her the opportunity she sought, by desiringthat she would attend him in his study. She had little doubt, that theinterview was intended for the purpose of communicating to her a partof M. Quesnel's letter concerning the transactions at La Vallee, and sheobeyed him immediately. Montoni was alone. 

'I have just been writing to Mons. Quesnel, ' said he when Emilyappeared, 'in reply to the letter I received from him a few days ago, and I wished to talk to you upon a subject that occupied part of it. '

'I also wished to speak with you on this topic, sir, ' said Emily. 

'It is a subject of some interest to you, undoubtedly, ' rejoinedMontoni, 'and I think you must see it in the light that I do; indeedit will not bear any other. I trust you will agree with me, that anyobjection founded on sentiment, as they call it, ought to yield tocircumstances of solid advantage. '

'Granting this, sir, ' replied Emily, modestly, 'those of humanity oughtsurely to be attended to. But I fear it is now too late to deliberateupon this plan, and I must regret, that it is no longer in my power toreject it. '

'It is too late, ' said Montoni; 'but since it is so, I am pleased toobserve, that you submit to reason and necessity without indulginguseless complaint. I applaud this conduct exceedingly, the more, perhaps, since it discovers a strength of mind seldom observable in yoursex. When you are older you will look back with gratitude to the friendswho assisted in rescuing you from the romantic illusions of sentiment, and will perceive, that they are only the snares of childhood, andshould be vanquished the moment you escape from the nursery. I have notclosed my letter, and you may add a few lines to inform your uncle ofyour acquiescence. You will soon see him, for it is my intention to takeyou, with Madame Montoni, in a few days to Miarenti, and you can thentalk over the affair. '

Emily wrote on the opposite page of the paper as follows:

'It is now useless, sir, for me to remonstrate upon the circumstancesof which Signor Montoni informs me that he has written. I couldhave wished, at least, that the affair had been concluded withless precipitation, that I might have taught myself to subdue someprejudices, as the Signor calls them, which still linger in my heart. Asit is, I submit. In point of prudence nothing certainly can be objected;but, though I submit, I have yet much to say on some other points of thesubject, when I shall have the honour of seeing you. In the meantime Ientreat you will take care of Theresa, for the sake of, Sir, Your affectionate niece, EMILY ST. AUBERT. '

Montoni smiled satirically at what Emily had written, but did not objectto it, and she withdrew to her own apartment, where she sat down tobegin a letter to Valancourt, in which she related the particularsof her journey, and her arrival at Venice, described some of the moststriking scenes in the passage over the Alps; her emotions on her firstview of Italy; the manners and characters of the people around her, andsome few circumstances of Montoni's conduct. But she avoided even namingCount Morano, much more the declaration he had made, since she well knewhow tremblingly alive to fear is real love, how jealously watchful ofevery circumstance that may affect its interest; and she scrupulouslyavoided to give Valancourt even the slightest reason for believing hehad a rival. 

On the following day Count Morano dined again at Montoni's. He was inan uncommon flow of spirits, and Emily thought there was somewhat ofexultation in his manner of addressing her, which she had never observedbefore. She endeavoured to repress this by more than her usual reserve, but the cold civility of her air now seemed rather to encourage than todepress him. He appeared watchful of an opportunity of speaking with heralone, and more than once solicited this; but Emily always replied, thatshe could hear nothing from him which he would be unwilling to repeatbefore the whole company. 

In the evening, Madame Montoni and her party went out upon the sea, andas the Count led Emily to his zendaletto, he carried her hand to hislips, and thanked her for the condescension she had shown him. Emily, in extreme surprise and displeasure, hastily withdrew her hand, andconcluded that he had spoken ironically; but, on reaching the stepsof the terrace, and observing by the livery, that it was the Count'szendaletto which waited below, while the rest of the party, havingarranged themselves in the gondolas, were moving on, she determinednot to permit a separate conversation, and, wishing him a good evening, returned to the portico. The Count followed to expostulate and entreat, and Montoni, who then came out, rendered solicitation unnecessary, for, without condescending to speak, he took her hand, and led her to thezendaletto. Emily was not silent; she entreated Montoni, in a low voice, to consider the impropriety of these circumstances, and that he wouldspare her the mortification of submitting to them; he, however, wasinflexible. 

'This caprice is intolerable, ' said he, 'and shall not be indulged:there is no impropriety in the case. '

At this moment, Emily's dislike of Count Morano rose to abhorrence. Thathe should, with undaunted assurance, thus pursue her, notwithstandingall she had expressed on the subject of his addresses, and think, as itwas evident he did, that her opinion of him was of no consequence, solong as his pretensions were sanctioned by Montoni, added indignation tothe disgust which she had felt towards him. She was somewhat relieved byobserving that Montoni was to be of the party, who seated himself on oneside of her, while Morano placed himself on the other. There was apause for some moments as the gondolieri prepared their oars, and Emilytrembled from apprehension of the discourse that might follow thissilence. At length she collected courage to break it herself, in thehope of preventing fine speeches from Morano, and reproof from Montoni. To some trivial remark which she made, the latter returned a shortand disobliging reply; but Morano immediately followed with a generalobservation, which he contrived to end with a particular compliment, and, though Emily passed it without even the notice of a smile, he wasnot discouraged. 

'I have been impatient, ' said he, addressing Emily, 'to express mygratitude; to thank you for your goodness; but I must also thank SignorMontoni, who has allowed me this opportunity of doing so. '

Emily regarded the Count with a look of mingled astonishment anddispleasure. 

'Why, ' continued he, 'should you wish to diminish the delight of thismoment by that air of cruel reserve?--Why seek to throw me again intothe perplexities of doubt, by teaching your eyes to contradict thekindness of your late declaration? You cannot doubt the sincerity, the ardour of my passion; it is therefore unnecessary, charmingEmily! surely unnecessary, any longer to attempt a disguise of yoursentiments. '

'If I ever had disguised them, sir, ' said Emily, with recollectedspirit, 'it would certainly be unnecessary any longer to do so. I hadhoped, sir, that you would have spared me any farther necessity ofalluding to them; but, since you do not grant this, hear me declare, andfor the last time, that your perseverance has deprived you even of theesteem, which I was inclined to believe you merited. '

'Astonishing!' exclaimed Montoni: 'this is beyond even my expectation, though I have hitherto done justice to the caprice of the sex! Butyou will observe, Mademoiselle Emily, that I am no lover, though CountMorano is, and that I will not be made the amusement of your capriciousmoments. Here is the offer of an alliance, which would do honour to anyfamily; yours, you will recollect, is not noble; you long resisted myremonstrances, but my honour is now engaged, and it shall not be trifledwith. --You shall adhere to the declaration, which you have made me anagent to convey to the Count. '

'I must certainly mistake you, sir, ' said Emily; 'my answers on thesubject have been uniform; it is unworthy of you to accuse me ofcaprice. If you have condescended to be my agent, it is an honour Idid not solicit. I myself have constantly assured Count Morano, and youalso, sir, that I never can accept the honour he offers me, and I nowrepeat the declaration. '

The Count looked with an air of surprise and enquiry at Montoni, whosecountenance also was marked with surprise, but it was surprise mingledwith indignation. 

'Here is confidence, as well as caprice!' said the latter. 'Will youdeny your own words, Madam?'

'Such a question is unworthy of an answer, sir;' said Emily blushing;'you will recollect yourself, and be sorry that you have asked it. '

'Speak to the point, ' rejoined Montoni, in a voice of increasingvehemence. 'Will you deny your own words; will you deny, that youacknowledged, only a few hours ago, that it was too late to recede fromyour engagements, and that you accepted the Count's hand?'

'I will deny all this, for no words of mine ever imported it. '

'Astonishing! Will you deny what you wrote to Mons. Quesnel, your uncle?if you do, your own hand will bear testimony against you. What have younow to say?' continued Montoni, observing the silence and confusion ofEmily. 

'I now perceive, sir, that you are under a very great error, and that Ihave been equally mistaken. '

'No more duplicity, I entreat; be open and candid, if it be possible. '

'I have always been so, sir; and can claim no merit in such conduct, forI have had nothing to conceal. '

'How is this, Signor?' cried Morano, with trembling emotion. 

'Suspend your judgment, Count, ' replied Montoni, 'the wiles of a femaleheart are unsearchable. Now, Madame, your EXPLANATION. '

'Excuse me, sir, if I withhold my explanation till you appear willingto give me your confidence; assertion as present can only subject me toinsult. '

'Your explanation, I entreat you!' said Morano. 

'Well, well, ' rejoined Montoni, 'I give you my confidence; let us hearthis explanation. '

'Let me lead to it then, by asking a question. '

'As many as you please, ' said Montoni, contemptuously. 

'What, then, was the subject of your letter to Mons. Quesnel?'

'The same that was the subject of your note to him, certainly. You didwell to stipulate for my confidence before you demanded that question. '

'I must beg you will be more explicit, sir; what was that subject?'

'What could it be, but the noble offer of Count Morano, ' said Montoni. 

'Then, sir, we entirely misunderstood each other, ' replied Emily. 

'We entirely misunderstood each other too, I suppose, ' rejoined Montoni, 'in the conversation which preceded the writing of that note? I must doyou the justice to own, that you are very ingenious at this same art ofmisunderstanding. '

Emily tried to restrain the tears that came to her eyes, and to answerwith becoming firmness. 'Allow me, sir, to explain myself fully, or tobe wholly silent. '

'The explanation may now be dispensed with; it is anticipated. If CountMorano still thinks one necessary, I will give him an honest one--Youhave changed your intention since our last conversation; and, if hecan have patience and humility enough to wait till to-morrow, he willprobably find it changed again: but as I have neither the patience orthe humility, which you expect from a lover, I warn you of the effect ofmy displeasure!'

'Montoni, you are too precipitate, ' said the Count, who had listenedto this conversation in extreme agitation and impatience;--'Signora, Ientreat your own explanation of this affair!'

'Signor Montoni has said justly, ' replied Emily, 'that all explanationmay now be dispensed with; after what has passed I cannot suffer myselfto give one. It is sufficient for me, and for you, sir, that I repeat mylate declaration; let me hope this is the last time it will be necessaryfor me to repeat it--I never can accept the honour of your alliance. '

'Charming Emily!' exclaimed the Count in an impassioned tone, 'letnot resentment make you unjust; let me not suffer for the offence ofMontoni!--Revoke--'

'Offence!' interrupted Montoni--'Count, this language is ridiculous, this submission is childish!--speak as becomes a man, not as the slaveof a pretty tyrant. '

'You distract me, Signor; suffer me to plead my own cause; you havealready proved insufficient to it. '

'All conversation on this subject, sir, ' said Emily, 'is worse thanuseless, since it can bring only pain to each of us: if you would obligeme, pursue it no farther. '

'It is impossible, Madam, that I can thus easily resign the object ofa passion, which is the delight and torment of my life. --I must stilllove--still pursue you with unremitting ardour;--when you shall beconvinced of the strength and constancy of my passion, your heart mustsoften into pity and repentance. '

'Is this generous, sir? is this manly? can it either deserve or obtainthe esteem you solicit, thus to continue a persecution from which I haveno present means of escaping?'

A gleam of moonlight that fell upon Morano's countenance, revealed thestrong emotions of his soul; and, glancing on Montoni discovered thedark resentment, which contrasted his features. 

'By heaven this is too much!' suddenly exclaimed the Count; 'SignorMontoni, you treat me ill; it is from you that I shall look forexplanation. '

'From me, sir! you shall have it;' muttered Montoni, 'if yourdiscernment is indeed so far obscured by passion, as to make explanationnecessary. And for you, Madam, you should learn, that a man of honour isnot to be trifled with, though you may, perhaps, with impunity, treat aBOY like a puppet. '

This sarcasm roused the pride of Morano, and the resentment which hehad felt at the indifference of Emily, being lost in indignation of theinsolence of Montoni, he determined to mortify him, by defending her. 

'This also, ' said he, replying to Montoni's last words, 'this also, shall not pass unnoticed. I bid you learn, sir, that you have a strongerenemy than a woman to contend with: I will protect Signora St. Aubertfrom your threatened resentment. You have misled me, and would revengeyour disappointed views upon the innocent. '

'Misled you!' retorted Montoni with quickness, 'is my conduct--myword'--then pausing, while he seemed endeavouring to restrain theresentment, that flashed in his eyes, in the next moment he added, in asubdued voice, 'Count Morano, this is a language, a sort of conduct towhich I am not accustomed: it is the conduct of a passionate boy--assuch, I pass it over in contempt. '

'In contempt, Signor?'

'The respect I owe myself, ' rejoined Montoni, 'requires, that I shouldconverse more largely with you upon some points of the subject indispute. Return with me to Venice, and I will condescend to convince youof your error. '

'Condescend, sir! but I will not condescend to be so conversed with. '

Montoni smiled contemptuously; and Emily, now terrified for theconsequences of what she saw and heard, could no longer be silent. Sheexplained the whole subject upon which she had mistaken Montoni in themorning, declaring, that she understood him to have consulted her solelyconcerning the disposal of La Vallee, and concluding with entreating, that he would write immediately to M. Quesnel, and rectify the mistake. 

But Montoni either was, or affected to be, still incredulous; andCount Morano was still entangled in perplexity. While she was speaking, however, the attention of her auditors had been diverted from theimmediate occasion of their resentment, and their passion consequentlybecame less. Montoni desired the Count would order his servants to rowback to Venice, that he might have some private conversation with him;and Morano, somewhat soothed by his softened voice and manner, and eagerto examine into the full extent of his difficulties, complied. 

Emily, comforted by this prospect of release, employed the presentmoments in endeavouring, with conciliating care, to prevent any fatalmischief between the persons who so lately had persecuted and insultedher. 

Her spirits revived, when she heard once more the voice of song andlaughter, resounding from the grand canal, and at length enteredagain between its stately piazzas. The zendaletto stopped at Montoni'smansion, and the Count hastily led her into the hall, where Montoni tookhis arm, and said something in a low voice, on which Morano kissedthe hand he held, notwithstanding Emily's effort to disengage it, and, wishing her a good evening, with an accent and look she could notmisunderstand, returned to his zendaletto with Montoni. 

Emily, in her own apartment, considered with intense anxiety all theunjust and tyrannical conduct of Montoni, the dauntless perseveranceof Morano, and her own desolate situation, removed from her friends andcountry. She looked in vain to Valancourt, confined by his professionto a distant kingdom, as her protector; but it gave her comfort to know, that there was, at least, one person in the world, who would sympathizein her afflictions, and whose wishes would fly eagerly to release her. Yet she determined not to give him unavailing pain by relating thereasons she had to regret the having rejected his better judgmentconcerning Montoni; reasons, however, which could not induce her tolament the delicacy and disinterested affection that had made her rejecthis proposal for a clandestine marriage. The approaching interview withher uncle she regarded with some degree of hope, for she determined torepresent to him the distresses of her situation, and to entreat that hewould allow her to return to France with him and Madame Quesnel. Then, suddenly remembering that her beloved La Vallee, her only home, was nolonger at her command, her tears flowed anew, and she feared that shehad little pity to expect from a man who, like M. Quesnel, could disposeof it without deigning to consult with her, and could dismiss an agedand faithful servant, destitute of either support or asylum. But, thoughit was certain, that she had herself no longer a home in France, andfew, very few friends there, she determined to return, if possible, that she might be released from the power of Montoni, whose particularlyoppressive conduct towards herself, and general character as to others, were justly terrible to her imagination. She had no wish to reside withher uncle, M. Quesnel, since his behaviour to her late father and toherself, had been uniformly such as to convince her, that in flying tohim she could only obtain an exchange of oppressors; neither had she theslightest intention of consenting to the proposal of Valancourt for animmediate marriage, though this would give her a lawful and a generousprotector, for the chief reasons, which had formerly influenced herconduct, still existed against it, while others, which seemed to justifythe step, would not be done away; and his interest, his fame were at alltimes too dear to her, to suffer her to consent to a union, which, atthis early period of their lives, would probably defeat both. One sure, and proper asylum, however, would still be open to her in France. She knew that she could board in the convent, where she had formerlyexperienced so much kindness, and which had an affecting and solemnclaim upon her heart, since it contained the remains of her late father. Here she could remain in safety and tranquillity, till the term, forwhich La Vallee might be let, should expire; or, till the arrangementof M. Motteville's affairs enabled her so far to estimate the remains ofher fortune, as to judge whether it would be prudent for her to residethere. 

Concerning Montoni's conduct with respect to his letters to M. Quesnel, she had many doubts; however he might be at first mistaken on thesubject, she much suspected that he wilfully persevered in his error, asa means of intimidating her into a compliance with his wishes of unitingher to Count Morano. Whether this was or was not the fact, she wasextremely anxious to explain the affair to M. Quesnel, and lookedforward with a mixture of impatience, hope and fear, to her approachingvisit. 

On the following day, Madame Montoni, being alone with Emily, introducedthe mention of Count Morano, by expressing her surprise, that she hadnot joined the party on the water the preceding evening, and ather abrupt departure to Venice. Emily then related what had passed, expressed her concern for the mutual mistake that had occurred betweenMontoni and herself, and solicited her aunt's kind offices in urging himto give a decisive denial to the count's further addresses; but shesoon perceived, that Madame Montoni had not been ignorant of the lateconversation, when she introduced the present. 

'You have no encouragement to expect from me, ' said her aunt, 'in thesenotions. I have already given my opinion on the subject, and thinkSignor Montoni right in enforcing, by any means, your consent. If youngpersons will be blind to their interest, and obstinately oppose it, why, the greatest blessings they can have are friends, who will oppose theirfolly. Pray what pretensions of any kind do you think you have to such amatch as is now offered you?'

'Not any whatever, Madam, ' replied Emily, 'and, therefore, at least, suffer me to be happy in my humility. '

'Nay, niece, it cannot be denied, that you have pride enough; my poorbrother, your father, had his share of pride too; though, let me add, his fortune did not justify it. '

Emily, somewhat embarrassed by the indignation, which this malevolentallusion to her father excited, and by the difficulty of rendering heranswer as temperate as it should be reprehensive, hesitated for somemoments, in a confusion, which highly gratified her aunt. At length shesaid, 'My father's pride, Madam, had a noble object--the happiness whichhe knew could be derived only from goodness, knowledge and charity. As it never consisted in his superiority, in point of fortune, to somepersons, it was not humbled by his inferiority, in that respect, toothers. He never disdained those, who were wretched by povertyand misfortune; he did sometimes despise persons, who, with manyopportunities of happiness, rendered themselves miserable by vanity, ignorance and cruelty. I shall think it my highest glory to emulate suchpride. '

'I do not pretend to understand any thing of these high-flownsentiments, niece; you have all that glory to yourself: I would teachyou a little plain sense, and not have you so wise as to despisehappiness. '

'That would indeed not be wisdom, but folly, ' said Emily, 'for wisdomcan boast no higher attainment than happiness; but you will allow, Madam, that our ideas of happiness may differ. I cannot doubt, that youwish me to be happy, but I must fear you are mistaken in the means ofmaking me so. '

'I cannot boast of a learned education, niece, such as your fatherthought proper to give you, and, therefore, do not pretend to understandall these fine speeches about happiness. I must be contented tounderstand only common sense, and happy would it have been for you andyour father, if that had been included in his education. '

Emily was too much shocked by these reflections on her father's memory, to despise this speech as it deserved. 

Madame Montoni was about to speak, but Emily quitted the room, andretired to her own, where the little spirit she had lately exertedyielded to grief and vexation, and left her only to her tears. Fromevery review of her situation she could derive, indeed, only new sorrow. To the discovery, which had just been forced upon her, of Montoni'sunworthiness, she had now to add, that of the cruel vanity, for thegratification of which her aunt was about to sacrifice her; of theeffrontery and cunning, with which, at the time that she meditated thesacrifice, she boasted of her tenderness, or insulted her victim; and ofthe venomous envy, which, as it did not scruple to attack her father'scharacter, could scarcely be expected to withhold from her own. 

During the few days that intervened between this conversation and thedeparture for Miarenti, Montoni did not once address himself to Emily. His looks sufficiently declared his resentment; but that he shouldforbear to renew a mention of the subject of it, exceedingly surprisedher, who was no less astonished, that, during three days, Count Moranoneither visited Montoni, or was named by him. Several conjectures arosein her mind. Sometimes she feared that the dispute between them had beenrevived, and had ended fatally to the Count. Sometimes she was inclinedto hope, that weariness, or disgust at her firm rejection of his suithad induced him to relinquish it; and, at others, she suspected thathe had now recourse to stratagem, and forbore his visits, and prevailedwith Montoni to forbear the repetition of his name, in the expectationthat gratitude and generosity would prevail with her to give him theconsent, which he could not hope from love. 

Thus passed the time in vain conjecture, and alternate hopes and fears, till the day arrived when Montoni was to set out for the villa ofMiarenti, which, like the preceding ones, neither brought the Count, orthe mention of him. 

Montoni having determined not to leave Venice, till towards evening, that he might avoid the heats, and catch the cool breezes of night, embarked about an hour before sun-set, with his family, in a barge, forthe Brenta. Emily sat alone near the stern of the vessel, and, as itfloated slowly on, watched the gay and lofty city lessening from herview, till its palaces seemed to sink in the distant waves, while itsloftier towers and domes, illumined by the declining sun, appeared onthe horizon, like those far-seen clouds which, in more northern climes, often linger on the western verge, and catch the last light of asummer's evening. Soon after, even these grew dim, and faded in distancefrom her sight; but she still sat gazing on the vast scene ofcloudless sky, and mighty waters, and listening in pleasing awe tothe deep-sounding waves, while, as her eyes glanced over the Adriatic, towards the opposite shores, which were, however, far beyond the reachof sight, she thought of Greece, and, a thousand classical remembrancesstealing to her mind, she experienced that pensive luxury which is felton viewing the scenes of ancient story, and on comparing their presentstate of silence and solitude with that of their former grandeur andanimation. The scenes of the Illiad illapsed in glowing colours to herfancy--scenes, once the haunt of heroes--now lonely, and in ruins;but which still shone, in the poet's strain, in all their youthfulsplendour. 

As her imagination painted with melancholy touches, the deserted plainsof Troy, such as they appeared in this after-day, she reanimated thelandscape with the following little story. 

 STANZAS

 O'er Ilion's plains, where once the warrior bled, And once the poet rais'd his deathless strain, O'er Ilion's plains a weary driver led His stately camels: For the ruin'd fane

 Wide round the lonely scene his glance he threw, For now the red cloud faded in the west, And twilight o'er the silent landscape drew Her deep'ning veil; eastward his course he prest:

 There, on the grey horizon's glimm'ring bound, Rose the proud columns of deserted Troy, And wandering shepherds now a shelter found Within those walls, where princes wont to joy. 

 Beneath a lofty porch the driver pass'd, Then, from his camels heav'd the heavy load; Partook with them the simple, cool repast, And in short vesper gave himself to God. 

 From distant lands with merchandise he came, His all of wealth his patient servants bore; Oft deep-drawn sighs his anxious wish proclaim To reach, again, his happy cottage door;

 For there, his wife, his little children, dwell; Their smiles shall pay the toil of many an hour: Ev'n now warm tears to expectation swell, As fancy o'er his mind extends her pow'r. 

 A death-like stillness reign'd, where once the song, The song of heroes, wak'd the midnight air, Save, when a solemn murmur roll'd along, That seem'd to say--'for future worlds prepare. '

 For Time's imperious voice was frequent heard Shaking the marble temple to its fall, (By hands he long had conquer'd, vainly rear'd), And distant ruins answer'd to his call. 

 While Hamet slept, his camels round him lay, Beneath him, all his store of wealth was piled; And here, his cruse and empty wallet lay, And there, the flute that chear'd him in the wild. 

 The robber Tartar on his slumber stole, For o'er the waste, at eve, he watch'd his train; Ah! who his thirst of plunder shall control? Who calls on him for mercy--calls in vain!

 A poison'd poignard in his belt he wore, A crescent sword depended at his side, The deathful quiver at his back he bore, And infants--at his very look had died!

 The moon's cold beam athwart the temple fell, And to his sleeping prey the Tartar led; But soft!--a startled camel shook his bell, Then stretch'd his limbs, and rear'd his drowsy head. 

 Hamet awoke! the poignard glitter'd high! Swift from his couch he sprung, and 'scap'd the blow; When from an unknown hand the arrows fly, That lay the ruffian, in his vengeance, low. 

 He groan'd, he died! from forth a column'd gate A fearful shepherd, pale and silent, crept, Who, as he watch'd his folded flock star-late, Had mark'd the robber steal where Hamet slept. 

 He fear'd his own, and sav'd a stranger's life! Poor Hamet clasp'd him to his grateful heart; Then, rous'd his camels for the dusty strife, And, with the shepherd, hasten'd to depart. 

 And now, aurora breathes her fresh'ning gale, And faintly trembles on the eastern cloud; And now, the sun, from under twilight's veil, Looks gaily forth, and melts her airy shroud. 

 Wide o'er the level plains, his slanting beams Dart their long lines on Ilion's tower'd site; The distant Hellespont with morning gleams, And old Scamander winds his waves in light. 

 All merry sound the camel bells, so gay, And merry beats fond Hamet's heart, for he, E'er the dim evening steals upon the day, His children, wife and happy home shall see. 

As Emily approached the shores of Italy she began to discriminate therich features and varied colouring of the landscape--the purple hills, groves of orange pine and cypress, shading magnificent villas, and townsrising among vineyards and plantations. The noble Brenta, pouring itsbroad waves into the sea, now appeared, and, when she reached its mouth, the barge stopped, that the horses might be fastened which were now totow it up the stream. This done, Emily gave a last look to the Adriatic, and to the dim sail, that from the sky-mix'd wave Dawns on the sight, and the barge slowly glided between the green and luxuriant slopesof the river. The grandeur of the Palladian villas, that adorn theseshores, was considerably heightened by the setting rays, which threwstrong contrasts of light and shade upon the porticos and long arcades, and beamed a mellow lustre upon the orangeries and the tall groves ofpine and cypress, that overhung the buildings. The scent of oranges, offlowering myrtles, and other odoriferous plants was diffused upon theair, and often, from these embowered retreats, a strain of music stoleon the calm, and 'softened into silence. '

The sun now sunk below the horizon, twilight fell over the landscape, and Emily, wrapt in musing silence, continued to watch its featuresgradually vanishing into obscurity. She remembered her many happyevenings, when with St. Aubert she had observed the shades of twilightsteal over a scene as beautiful as this, from the gardens of La Vallee, and a tear fell to the memory of her father. Her spirits were softenedinto melancholy by the influence of the hour, by the low murmur ofthe wave passing under the vessel, and the stillness of the air, thattrembled only at intervals with distant music:--why else should she, atthese moments, have looked on her attachment to Valancourt with presagesso very afflicting, since she had but lately received letters from him, that had soothed for a while all her anxieties? It now seemed to heroppressed mind, that she had taken leave of him for ever, and that thecountries, which separated them, would never more be re-traced by her. She looked upon Count Morano with horror, as in some degree the causeof this; but apart from him, a conviction, if such that may be called, which arises from no proof, and which she knew not how to account for, seized her mind--that she should never see Valancourt again. Though sheknew, that neither Morano's solicitations, nor Montoni's commandshad lawful power to enforce her obedience, she regarded both with asuperstitious dread, that they would finally prevail. 

Lost in this melancholy reverie, and shedding frequent tears, Emily wasat length roused by Montoni, and she followed him to the cabin, whererefreshments were spread, and her aunt was seated alone. The countenanceof Madame Montoni was inflamed with resentment, that appeared to bethe consequence of some conversation she had held with her husband, whoregarded her with a kind of sullen disdain, and both preserved, for sometime, a haughty silence. Montoni then spoke to Emily of Mons. Quesnel:'You will not, I hope, persist in disclaiming your knowledge of thesubject of my letter to him?'

'I had hoped, sir, that it was no longer necessary for me to disclaimit, ' said Emily, 'I had hoped, from your silence, that you was convincedof your error. '

'You have hoped impossibilities then, ' replied Montoni; 'I might asreasonably have expected to find sincerity and uniformity of conduct inone of your sex, as you to convict me of error in this affair. '

Emily blushed, and was silent; she now perceived too clearly, that shehad hoped an impossibility, for, where no mistake had been committed noconviction could follow; and it was evident, that Montoni's conduct hadnot been the consequence of mistake, but of design. 

Anxious to escape from conversation, which was both afflicting andhumiliating to her, she soon returned to the deck, and resumed herstation near the stern, without apprehension of cold, for no vapour rosefrom the water, and the air was dry and tranquil; here, at least, thebenevolence of nature allowed her the quiet which Montoni had denied herelsewhere. It was now past midnight. The stars shed a kind of twilight, that served to shew the dark outline of the shores on either hand, andthe grey surface of the river; till the moon rose from behind a highpalm grove, and shed her mellow lustre over the scene. The vessel glidedsmoothly on: amid the stillness of the hour Emily heard, now and then, the solitary voice of the barge-men on the bank, as they spoke to theirhorses; while, from a remote part of the vessel, with melancholy song, The sailor sooth'd, Beneath the trembling moon, the midnight wave. 

Emily, meanwhile, anticipated her reception by Mons, and Madame Quesnel;considered what she should say on the subject of La Vallee; and then, towith-hold her mind from more anxious topics, tried to amuse herself bydiscriminating the faint-drawn features of the landscape, reposing inthe moon-light. While her fancy thus wandered, she saw, at a distance, a building peeping between the moon-light trees, and, as the bargeapproached, heard voices speaking, and soon distinguished the loftyportico of a villa, overshadowed by groves of pine and sycamore, whichshe recollected to be the same, that had formerly been pointed out toher, as belonging to Madame Quesnel's relative. 

The barge stopped at a flight of marble steps, which led up the bank toa lawn. Lights appeared between some pillars beyond the portico. Montonisent forward his servant, and then disembarked with his family. Theyfound Mons. And Madame Quesnel, with a few friends, seated on sofas inthe portico, enjoying the cool breeze of the night, and eating fruitsand ices, while some of their servants at a little distance, onthe river's bank, were performing a simple serenade. Emily was nowaccustomed to the way of living in this warm country, and was notsurprised to find Mons. And Madame Quesnel in their portico, two hoursafter midnight. 

The usual salutations being over, the company seated themselves in theportico, and refreshments were brought them from the adjoining hall, where a banquet was spread, and servants attended. When the bustleof this meeting had subsided, and Emily had recovered from the littleflutter into which it had thrown her spirits, she was struck with thesingular beauty of the hall, so perfectly accommodated to the luxuriesof the season. It was of white marble, and the roof, rising into anopen cupola, was supported by columns of the same material. Two oppositesides of the apartment, terminating in open porticos, admitted to thehall a full view of the gardens, and of the river scenery; in the centrea fountain continually refreshed the air, and seemed to heighten thefragrance, that breathed from the surrounding orangeries, while itsdashing waters gave an agreeable and soothing sound. Etruscan lamps, suspended from the pillars, diffused a brilliant light over the interiorpart of the hall, leaving the remoter porticos to the softer lustre ofthe moon. 

Mons. Quesnel talked apart to Montoni of his own affairs, in his usualstrain of self-importance; boasted of his new acquisitions, andthen affected to pity some disappointments, which Montoni had latelysustained. Meanwhile, the latter, whose pride at least enabled him todespise such vanity as this, and whose discernment at once detectedunder this assumed pity, the frivolous malignity of Quesnel's mind, listened to him in contemptuous silence, till he named his niece, andthen they left the portico, and walked away into the gardens. 

Emily, however, still attended to Madame Quesnel, who spoke of France(for even the name of her native country was dear to her) and she foundsome pleasure in looking at a person, who had lately been in it. Thatcountry, too, was inhabited by Valancourt, and she listened to themention of it, with a faint hope, that he also would be named. MadameQuesnel, who, when she was in France, had talked with rapture of Italy, now, that she was in Italy, talked with equal praise of France, andendeavoured to excite the wonder and the envy of her auditors byaccounts of places, which they had not been happy enough to see. Inthese descriptions she not only imposed upon them, but upon herself, forshe never thought a present pleasure equal to one, that was passed;and thus the delicious climate, the fragrant orangeries and all theluxuries, which surrounded her, slept unnoticed, while her fancywandered over the distant scenes of a northern country. 

Emily listened in vain for the name of Valancourt. Madame Montoni spokein her turn of the delights of Venice, and of the pleasure she expectedfrom visiting the fine castle of Montoni, on the Apennine; which lattermention, at least, was merely a retaliating boast, for Emily well knew, that her aunt had no taste for solitary grandeur, and, particularly, for such as the castle of Udolpho promised. Thus the party continued toconverse, and, as far as civility would permit, to torture each otherby mutual boasts, while they reclined on sofas in the portico, and wereenvironed with delights both from nature and art, by which any honestminds would have been tempered to benevolence, and happy imaginationswould have been soothed into enchantment. 

The dawn, soon after, trembled in the eastern horizon, and the lighttints of morning, gradually expanding, shewed the beautifully decliningforms of the Italian mountains and the gleaming landscapes, stretchedat their feet. Then the sun-beams, shooting up from behind the hills, spread over the scene that fine saffron tinge, which seems to impartrepose to all it touches. The landscape no longer gleamed; all itsglowing colours were revealed, except that its remoter features werestill softened and united in the mist of distance, whose sweet effectwas heightened to Emily by the dark verdure of the pines and cypresses, that over-arched the foreground of the river. 

The market people, passing with their boats to Venice, now formed amoving picture on the Brenta. Most of these had little painted awnings, to shelter their owners from the sun-beams, which, together withthe piles of fruit and flowers, displayed beneath, and the tastefulsimplicity of the peasant girls, who watched the rural treasures, rendered them gay and striking objects. The swift movement of the boatsdown the current, the quick glance of oars in the water, and now andthen the passing chorus of peasants, who reclined under the sail oftheir little bark, or the tones of some rustic instrument, played bya girl, as she sat near her sylvan cargo, heightened the animation andfestivity of the scene. 

When Montoni and M. Quesnel had joined the ladies, the party leftthe portico for the gardens, where the charming scenery soon withdrewEmily's thoughts from painful subjects. The majestic forms and richverdure of cypresses she had never seen so perfect before: groves ofcedar, lemon, and orange, the spiry clusters of the pine and poplar, theluxuriant chesnut and oriental plane, threw all their pomp of shade overthese gardens; while bowers of flowering myrtle and other spicy shrubsmingled their fragrance with that of flowers, whose vivid and variouscolouring glowed with increased effect beneath the contrasted umbrage ofthe groves. The air also was continually refreshed by rivulets, which, with more taste than fashion, had been suffered to wander among thegreen recesses. 

Emily often lingered behind the party, to contemplate the distantlandscape, that closed a vista, or that gleamed beneath the dark foliageof the foreground;--the spiral summits of the mountains, touched witha purple tint, broken and steep above, but shelving gradually to theirbase; the open valley, marked by no formal lines of art; and the tallgroves of cypress, pine and poplar, sometimes embellished by a ruinedvilla, whose broken columns appeared between the branches of a pine, that seemed to droop over their fall. 

From other parts of the gardens, the character of the view was entirelychanged, and the fine solitary beauty of the landscape shifted for thecrowded features and varied colouring of inhabitation. 

The sun was now gaining fast upon the sky, and the party quitted thegardens, and retired to repose. 

CHAPTER IV

 And poor Misfortune feels the lash of Vice. THOMSON

Emily seized the first opportunity of conversing alone with Mons. Quesnel, concerning La Vallee. His answers to her enquiries wereconcise, and delivered with the air of a man, who is conscious ofpossessing absolute power and impatient of hearing it questioned. Hedeclared, that the disposal of the place was a necessary measure; andthat she might consider herself indebted to his prudence for even thesmall income that remained for her. 'But, however, ' added he, 'whenthis Venetian Count (I have forgot his name) marries you, your presentdisagreeable state of dependence will cease. As a relation to you Irejoice in the circumstance, which is so fortunate for you, and, I mayadd, so unexpected by your friends. ' For some moments Emily was chilledinto silence by this speech; and, when she attempted to undeceive him, concerning the purport of the note she had inclosed in Montoni's letter, he appeared to have some private reason for disbelieving her assertion, and, for a considerable time, persevered in accusing her of capriciousconduct. Being, at length, however, convinced that she really dislikedMorano and had positively rejected his suit, his resentment wasextravagant, and he expressed it in terms equally pointed and inhuman;for, secretly flattered by the prospect of a connection with a nobleman, whose title he had affected to forget, he was incapable of feelingpity for whatever sufferings of his niece might stand in the way of hisambition. 

Emily saw at once in his manner all the difficulties, that awaitedher, and, though no oppression could have power to make her renounceValancourt for Morano, her fortitude now trembled at an encounter withthe violent passions of her uncle. 

She opposed his turbulence and indignation only by the mild dignity ofa superior mind; but the gentle firmness of her conduct served toexasperate still more his resentment, since it compelled him to feelhis own inferiority, and, when he left her, he declared, that, if shepersisted in her folly, both himself and Montoni would abandon her tothe contempt of the world. 

The calmness she had assumed in his presence failed Emily, when alone, and she wept bitterly, and called frequently upon the name of herdeparted father, whose advice to her from his death-bed she thenremembered. 'Alas!' said she, 'I do indeed perceive how much morevaluable is the strength of fortitude than the grace of sensibility, and I will also endeavour to fulfil the promise I then made; I willnot indulge in unavailing lamentation, but will try to endure, withfirmness, the oppression I cannot elude. '

Somewhat soothed by the consciousness of performing a part of St. Aubert's last request, and of endeavouring to pursue the conduct whichhe would have approved, she overcame her tears, and, when the companymet at dinner, had recovered her usual serenity of countenance. 

In the cool of the evening, the ladies took the FRESCO along the bank ofthe Brenta in Madame Quesnel's carriage. The state of Emily's mind wasin melancholy contrast with the gay groups assembled beneath the shadesthat overhung this enchanting stream. Some were dancing under the trees, and others reclining on the grass, taking ices and coffee and calmlyenjoying the effect of a beautiful evening, on a luxuriant landscape. Emily, when she looked at the snow-capt Apennines, ascending in thedistance, thought of Montoni's castle, and suffered some terror, lest heshould convey her thither, for the purpose of enforcing her obedience;but the thought vanished, when she considered, that she was as much inhis power at Venice as she could be elsewhere. 

It was moonlight before the party returned to the villa, where supperwas spread in the airy hall, which had so much enchanted Emily's fancy, on the preceding night. The ladies seated themselves in the portico, till Mons. Quesnel, Montoni, and other gentlemen should join them attable, and Emily endeavoured to resign herself to the tranquillity ofthe hour. Presently, a barge stopped at the steps that led into thegardens, and, soon after, she distinguished the voices of Montoni andQuesnel, and then that of Morano, who, in the next moment, appeared. Hiscompliments she received in silence, and her cold air seemed at first todiscompose him; but he soon recovered his usual gaiety of manner, though the officious kindness of M. And Madame Quesnel Emily perceiveddisgusted him. Such a degree of attention she had scarcely believedcould be shewn by M. Quesnel, for she had never before seen himotherwise than in the presence of his inferiors or equals. 

When she could retire to her own apartment, her mind almostinvoluntarily dwelt on the most probable means of prevailing with theCount to withdraw his suit, and to her liberal mind none appeared moreprobable, than that of acknowledging to him a prior attachment andthrowing herself upon his generosity for a release. When, however, on the following day, he renewed his addresses, she shrunk from theadoption of the plan she had formed. There was something so repugnant toher just pride, in laying open the secret of her heart to such a manas Morano, and in suing to him for compassion, that she impatientlyrejected this design and wondered, that she could have paused uponit for a moment. The rejection of his suit she repeated in the mostdecisive terms she could select, mingling with it a severe censureof his conduct; but, though the Count appeared mortified by this, hepersevered in the most ardent professions of admiration, till he wasinterrupted and Emily released by the presence of Madame Quesnel. 

During her stay at this pleasant villa, Emily was thus renderedmiserable by the assiduities of Morano, together with the cruellyexerted authority of M. Quesnel and Montoni, who, with her aunt, seemednow more resolutely determined upon this marriage than they had evenappeared to be at Venice. M. Quesnel, finding, that both argument andmenace were ineffectual in enforcing an immediate conclusion to it, atlength relinquished his endeavours, and trusted to the power of Montoniand to the course of events at Venice. Emily, indeed, looked to Venicewith hope, for there she would be relieved in some measure from thepersecution of Morano, who would no longer be an inhabitant of the samehouse with herself, and from that of Montoni, whose engagements wouldnot permit him to be continually at home. But amidst the pressure of herown misfortunes, she did not forget those of poor Theresa, for whom shepleaded with courageous tenderness to Quesnel, who promised, in slightand general terms, that she should not be forgotten. 

Montoni, in a long conversation with M. Quesnel, arranged the plan tobe pursued respecting Emily, and M. Quesnel proposed to be at Venice, assoon as he should be informed, that the nuptials were concluded. 

It was new to Emily to part with any person, with whom she wasconnected, without feeling of regret; the moment, however, in which shetook leave of M. And Madame Quesnel, was, perhaps, the only satisfactoryone she had known in their presence. 

Morano returned in Montoni's barge, and Emily, as she watched hergradual approach to that magic city, saw at her side the only person, who occasioned her to view it with less than perfect delight. Theyarrived there about midnight, when Emily was released from the presenceof the Count, who, with Montoni, went to a Casino, and she was sufferedto retire to her own apartment. 

On the following day, Montoni, in a short conversation, which he heldwith Emily, informed her, that he would no longer be TRIFLED with, andthat, since her marriage with the Count would be so highly advantageousto her, that folly only could object to it, and folly of such extentas was incapable of conviction, it should be celebrated without furtherdelay, and, if that was necessary, without her consent. 

Emily, who had hitherto tried remonstrance, had now recourse tosupplication, for distress prevented her from foreseeing, that, with aman of Montoni's disposition, supplication would be equally useless. Sheafterwards enquired by what right he exerted this unlimited authorityover her? a question, which her better judgment would have with-heldher, in a calmer moment, from making, since it could avail her nothing, and would afford Montoni another opportunity of triumphing over herdefenceless condition. 

'By what right!' cried Montoni, with a malicious smile, 'by the right ofmy will; if you can elude that, I will not inquire by what right you doso. I now remind you, for the last time, that you are a stranger, in aforeign country, and that it is your interest to make me your friend;you know the means; if you compel me to become your enemy--I willventure to tell you, that the punishment shall exceed your expectation. You may know _I_ am not to be trifled with. '

Emily continued, for some time after Montoni had left her, in a state ofdespair, or rather stupefaction; a consciousness of misery was all thatremained in her mind. In this situation Madame Montoni found her, at thesound of whose voice Emily looked up, and her aunt, somewhat softened bythe expression of despair, that fixed her countenance, spoke in a mannermore kind than she had ever yet done. Emily's heart was touched; sheshed tears, and, after weeping for some time, recovered sufficientcomposure to speak on the subject of her distress, and to endeavour tointerest Madame Montoni in her behalf. But, though the compassion of heraunt had been surprised, her ambition was not to be overcome, andher present object was to be the aunt of a Countess. Emily's efforts, therefore, were as unsuccessful as they had been with Montoni, and shewithdrew to her apartment to think and weep alone. How often did sheremember the parting scene with Valancourt, and wish, that the Italianhad mentioned Montoni's character with less reserve! When her mind, however, had recovered from the first shock of this behaviour, sheconsidered, that it would be impossible for him to compel her alliancewith Morano, if she persisted in refusing to repeat any part of themarriage ceremony; and she persevered in her resolution to awaitMontoni's threatened vengeance rather than give herself for life to aman, whom she must have despised for his present conduct, had she nevereven loved Valancourt; yet she trembled at the revenge she thus resolvedto brave. 

An affair, however, soon after occurred, which somewhat called offMontoni's attention from Emily. The mysterious visits of Orsino wererenewed with more frequency since the return of the former to Venice. There were others, also, besides Orsino, admitted to these midnightcouncils, and among them Cavigni and Verezzi. Montoni became morereserved and austere in his manner than ever; and Emily, if her owninterests had not made her regardless of his, might have perceived, thatsomething extraordinary was working in his mind. 

One night, on which a council was not held, Orsino came in greatagitation of spirits, and dispatched his confidential servant toMontoni, who was at a Casino, desiring that he would return homeimmediately; but charging the servant not to mention his name. Montoniobeyed the summons, and, on meeting Orsino, was informed of thecircumstances, that occasioned his visit and his visible alarm, with apart of which he was already acquainted. 

A Venetian nobleman, who had, on some late occasion, provoked the hatredof Orsino, had been way-laid and poniarded by hired assassins: and, asthe murdered person was of the first connections, the Senate hadtaken up the affair. One of the assassins was now apprehended, who hadconfessed, that Orsino was his employer in the atrocious deed; and thelatter, informed of his danger, had now come to Montoni to consult onthe measures necessary to favour his escape. He knew, that, at thistime, the officers of the police were upon the watch for him, all overthe city; to leave it, at present, therefore, was impracticable, andMontoni consented to secrete him for a few days till the vigilance ofjustice should relax, and then to assist him in quitting Venice. He knewthe danger he himself incurred by permitting Orsino to remain in hishouse, but such was the nature of his obligations to this man, that hedid not think it prudent to refuse him an asylum. 

Such was the person whom Montoni had admitted to his confidence, and forwhom he felt as much friendship as was compatible with his character. 

While Orsino remained concealed in his house, Montoni was unwilling toattract public observation by the nuptials of Count Morano; but thisobstacle was, in a few days, overcome by the departure of his criminalvisitor, and he then informed Emily, that her marriage was to becelebrated on the following morning. To her repeated assurances, thatit should not take place, he replied only by a malignant smile; and, telling her that the Count and a priest would be at his house, earlyin the morning, he advised her no further to dare his resentment, byopposition to his will and to her own interest. 'I am now going out forthe evening, ' said he, 'remember, that I shall give your hand to CountMorano in the morning. ' Emily, having, ever since his late threats, expected, that her trials would at length arrive to this crisis, wasless shocked by the declaration, that she otherwise would have been, and she endeavoured to support herself by the belief, that the marriagecould not be valid, so long as she refused before the priest to repeatany part of the ceremony. Yet, as the moment of trial approached, herlong-harassed spirits shrunk almost equally from the encounter of hisvengeance, and from the hand of Count Morano. She was not even perfectlycertain of the consequence of her steady refusal at the altar, andshe trembled, more than ever, at the power of Montoni, which seemedunlimited as his will, for she saw, that he would not scruple totransgress any law, if, by so doing, he could accomplish his project. 

While her mind was thus suffering and in a state little short ofdistraction, she was informed that Morano asked permission to seeher, and the servant had scarcely departed with an excuse, before sherepented that she had sent one. In the next moment, reverting toher former design, and determining to try, whether expostulation andentreaty would not succeed, where a refusal and a just disdain hadfailed, she recalled the servant, and, sending a different message, prepared to go down to the Count. 

The dignity and assumed composure with which she met him, and thekind of pensive resignation, that softened her countenance, werecircumstances not likely to induce him to relinquish her, serving, as they did, to heighten a passion, which had already intoxicated hisjudgment. He listened to all she said with an appearance of complacencyand of a wish to oblige her; but his resolution remained invariably thesame, and he endeavoured to win her admiration by every insinuating arthe so well knew how to practise. Being, at length, assured, that shehad nothing to hope from his justice, she repeated, in a solemn andimpressive manner, her absolute rejection of his suit, and quitted himwith an assurance, that her refusal would be effectually maintainedagainst every circumstance, that could be imagined for subduing it. Ajust pride had restrained her tears in his presence, but now they flowedfrom the fulness of her heart. She often called upon the name of herlate father, and often dwelt with unutterable anguish on the idea ofValancourt. 

She did not go down to supper, but remained alone in her apartment, sometimes yielding to the influence of grief and terror, and, at others, endeavouring to fortify her mind against them, and to prepare herselfto meet, with composed courage, the scene of the following morning, whenall the stratagem of Morano and the violence of Montoni would be unitedagainst her. 

The evening was far advanced, when Madame Montoni came to her chamberwith some bridal ornaments, which the Count had sent to Emily. Shehad, this day, purposely avoided her niece; perhaps, because her usualinsensibility failed her, and she feared to trust herself with a view ofEmily's distress; or possibly, though her conscience was seldom audible, it now reproached her with her conduct to her brother's orphan child, whose happiness had been entrusted to her care by a dying father. 

Emily could not look at these presents, and made a last, though almosthopeless, effort to interest the compassion of Madame Montoni, who, ifshe did feel any degree of pity, or remorse, successfully concealed it, and reproached her niece with folly in being miserable, concerning amarriage, which ought only to make her happy. 'I am sure, ' said she, 'ifI was unmarried, and the Count had proposed to me, I should have beenflattered by the distinction: and if I should have been so, I am sure, niece, you, who have no fortune, ought to feel yourself highly honoured, and shew a proper gratitude and humility towards the Count, for hiscondescension. I am often surprised, I must own, to observe how humblyhe deports himself to you, notwithstanding the haughty airs you giveyourself; I wonder he has patience to humour you so: if I was he, I know, I should often be ready to reprehend you, and make you knowyourself a little better. I would not have flattered you, I can tellyou, for it is this absurd flattery that makes you fancy yourself ofso much consequence, that you think nobody can deserve you, and I oftentell the Count so, for I have no patience to hear him pay you suchextravagant compliments, which you believe every word of!'

'Your patience, madam, cannot suffer more cruelly on such occasions, than my own, ' said Emily. 

'O! that is all mere affectation, ' rejoined her aunt. 'I know that hisflattery delights you, and makes you so vain, that you think you mayhave the whole world at your feet. But you are very much mistaken; Ican assure you, niece, you will not meet with many such suitors as theCount: every other person would have turned upon his heel, and left youto repent at your leisure, long ago. '

'O that the Count had resembled every other person, then!' said Emily, with a heavy sigh. 

'It is happy for you, that he does not, ' rejoined Madame Montoni;'and what I am now saying is from pure kindness. I am endeavouring toconvince you of your good fortune, and to persuade you to submit tonecessity with a good grace. It is nothing to me, you know, whether youlike this marriage or not, for it must be; what I say, therefore, isfrom pure kindness. I wish to see you happy, and it is your own fault ifyou are not so. I would ask you, now, seriously and calmly, what kind ofa match you can expect, since a Count cannot content your ambition?'

'I have no ambition whatever, madam, ' replied Emily, 'my only wish is toremain in my present station. '

'O! that is speaking quite from the purpose, ' said her aunt, 'I seeyou are still thinking of Mons. Valancourt. Pray get rid of allthose fantastic notions about love, and this ridiculous pride, and besomething like a reasonable creature. But, however, this is nothing tothe purpose--for your marriage with the Count takes place tomorrow, youknow, whether you approve it or not. The Count will be trifled with nolonger. '

Emily made no attempt to reply to this curious speech; she felt itwould be mean, and she knew it would be useless. Madame Montoni laid theCount's presents upon the table, on which Emily was leaning, and then, desiring she would be ready early in the morning, bade her good-night. 'Good-night, madam, ' said Emily, with a deep sigh, as the door closedupon her aunt, and she was left once more to her own sad reflections. For some time she sat so lost in thought, as to be wholly unconsciouswhere she was; at length, raising her head, and looking round the room, its gloom and profound stillness awed her. She fixed her eyes on thedoor, through which her aunt had disappeared, and listened anxiously forsome sound, that might relieve the deep dejection of her spirits; but itwas past midnight, and all the family except the servant, who sat up forMontoni, had retired to bed. Her mind, long harassed by distress, nowyielded to imaginary terrors; she trembled to look into the obscurityof her spacious chamber, and feared she knew not what; a state of mind, which continued so long, that she would have called up Annette, heraunt's woman, had her fears permitted her to rise from her chair, and tocross the apartment. 

These melancholy illusions at length began to disperse, and she retiredto her bed, not to sleep, for that was scarcely possible, but to try, atleast, to quiet her disturbed fancy, and to collect strength of spiritssufficient to bear her through the scene of the approaching morning. 

CHAPTER V

 Dark power! with shudd'ring, meek submitted thought Be mine to read the visions old Which thy awak'ning bards have told, And, lest they meet my blasted view, Hold each strange tale devoutly true. COLLINS' ODE TO FEAR

Emily was recalled from a kind of slumber, into which she had, atlength, sunk, by a quick knocking at her chamber door. She started upin terror, for Montoni and Count Morano instantly came to her mind; but, having listened in silence for some time, and recognizing the voiceof Annette, she rose and opened the door. 'What brings you hither soearly?' said Emily, trembling excessively. She was unable to supportherself, and sat down on the bed. 

'Dear ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'do not look so pale. I am quitefrightened to see you. Here is a fine bustle below stairs, all theservants running to and fro, and none of them fast enough! Here is abustle, indeed, all of a sudden, and nobody knows for what!'

'Who is below besides them?' said Emily, 'Annette, do not trifle withme!'

'Not for the world, ma'amselle, I would not trifle for the world; butone cannot help making one's remarks, and there is the Signor in sucha bustle, as I never saw him before; and he has sent me to tell you, ma'am, to get ready immediately. '

'Good God support me!' cried Emily, almost fainting, 'Count Morano isbelow, then!'

'No, ma'amselle, he is not below that I know of, ' replied Annette, 'onlyhis excellenza sent me to desire you would get ready directly to leaveVenice, for that the gondolas would be at the steps of the canal in afew minutes: but I must hurry back to my lady, who is just at her witsend, and knows not which way to turn for haste. '

'Explain, Annette, explain the meaning of all this before you go, ' saidEmily, so overcome with surprise and timid hope, that she had scarcelybreath to speak. 

'Nay, ma'amselle, that is more than I can do. I only know that theSignor is just come home in a very ill humour, that he has had usall called out of our beds, and tells us we are all to leave Veniceimmediately. '

'Is Count Morano to go with the signor?' said Emily, 'and whither are wegoing?'

'I know neither, ma'am, for certain; but I heard Ludovico say somethingabout going, after we get to terra-firma, to the signor's castle amongsome mountains, that he talked of. '

'The Apennines!' said Emily, eagerly, 'O! then I have little to hope!'

'That is the very place, ma'am. But cheer up, and do not take it so muchto heart, and think what a little time you have to get ready in, and howimpatient the Signor is. Holy St. Mark! I hear the oars on the canal;and now they come nearer, and now they are dashing at the steps below;it is the gondola, sure enough. '

Annette hastened from the room; and Emily prepared for this unexpectedflight, as fast as her trembling hands would permit, not perceiving, that any change in her situation could possibly be for the worse. Shehad scarcely thrown her books and clothes into her travellingtrunk, when, receiving a second summons, she went down to her aunt'sdressing-room, where she found Montoni impatiently reproving his wifefor delay. He went out, soon after, to give some further orders to hispeople, and Emily then enquired the occasion of this hasty journey; buther aunt appeared to be as ignorant as herself, and to undertake thejourney with more reluctance. 

The family at length embarked, but neither Count Morano, nor Cavigni, was of the party. Somewhat revived by observing this, Emily, when thegondolieri dashed their oars in the water, and put off from the stepsof the portico, felt like a criminal, who receives a short reprieve. Herheart beat yet lighter, when they emerged from the canal into the ocean, and lighter still, when they skimmed past the walls of St. Mark, withouthaving stopped to take up Count Morano. 

The dawn now began to tint the horizon, and to break upon the shores ofthe Adriatic. Emily did not venture to ask any questions of Montoni, whosat, for some time, in gloomy silence, and then rolled himself up in hiscloak, as if to sleep, while Madame Montoni did the same; but Emily, whocould not sleep, undrew one of the little curtains of the gondola, and looked out upon the sea. The rising dawn now enlightened themountain-tops of Friuli, but their lower sides, and the distant waves, that rolled at their feet, were still in deep shadow. Emily, sunk intranquil melancholy, watched the strengthening light spreading upon theocean, shewing successively Venice and her islets, and the shores ofItaly, along which boats, with their pointed latin sails, began to move. 

The gondolieri were frequently hailed, at this early hour, by themarket-people, as they glided by towards Venice, and the lagunesoon displayed a gay scene of innumerable little barks, passing fromterra-firma with provisions. Emily gave a last look to that splendidcity, but her mind was then occupied by considering the probable events, that awaited her, in the scenes, to which she was removing, and withconjectures, concerning the motive of this sudden journey. It appeared, upon calmer consideration, that Montoni was removing her to his secludedcastle, because he could there, with more probability of success, attempt to terrify her into obedience; or, that, should its gloomy andsequestered scenes fail of this effect, her forced marriage with theCount could there be solemnized with the secrecy, which was necessaryto the honour of Montoni. The little spirit, which this reprieve hadrecalled, now began to fail, and, when Emily reached the shore, her mindhad sunk into all its former depression. 

Montoni did not embark on the Brenta, but pursued his way in carriagesacross the country, towards the Apennine; during which journey, hismanner to Emily was so particularly severe, that this alone would haveconfirmed her late conjecture, had any such confirmation been necessary. Her senses were now dead to the beautiful country, through which shetravelled. Sometimes she was compelled to smile at the naivete ofAnnette, in her remarks on what she saw, and sometimes to sigh, as ascene of peculiar beauty recalled Valancourt to her thoughts, who wasindeed seldom absent from them, and of whom she could never hope to hearin the solitude, to which she was hastening. 

At length, the travellers began to ascend among the Apennines. Theimmense pine-forests, which, at that period, overhung these mountains, and between which the road wound, excluded all view but of the cliffsaspiring above, except, that, now and then, an opening through the darkwoods allowed the eye a momentary glimpse of the country below. Thegloom of these shades, their solitary silence, except when the breezeswept over their summits, the tremendous precipices of the mountains, that came partially to the eye, each assisted to raise the solemnity ofEmily's feelings into awe; she saw only images of gloomy grandeur, or ofdreadful sublimity, around her; other images, equally gloomy and equallyterrible, gleamed on her imagination. She was going she scarcelyknew whither, under the dominion of a person, from whose arbitrarydisposition she had already suffered so much, to marry, perhaps, a manwho possessed neither her affection, or esteem; or to endure, beyond thehope of succour, whatever punishment revenge, and that Italian revenge, might dictate. --The more she considered what might be the motive of thejourney, the more she became convinced, that it was for the purpose ofconcluding her nuptials with Count Morano, with that secrecy, whichher resolute resistance had made necessary to the honour, if not tothe safety, of Montoni. From the deep solitudes, into which she wasimmerging, and from the gloomy castle, of which she had heardsome mysterious hints, her sick heart recoiled in despair, and sheexperienced, that, though her mind was already occupied by peculiardistress, it was still alive to the influence of new and localcircumstance; why else did she shudder at the idea of this desolatecastle?

As the travellers still ascended among the pine forests, steep rose oversteep, the mountains seemed to multiply, as they went, and what was thesummit of one eminence proved to be only the base of another. At length, they reached a little plain, where the drivers stopped to rest themules, whence a scene of such extent and magnificence opened below, asdrew even from Madame Montoni a note of admiration. Emily lost, for amoment, her sorrows, in the immensity of nature. Beyond the amphitheatreof mountains, that stretched below, whose tops appeared as numerousalmost, as the waves of the sea, and whose feet were concealed by theforests--extended the campagna of Italy, where cities and rivers, andwoods and all the glow of cultivation were mingled in gay confusion. TheAdriatic bounded the horizon, into which the Po and the Brenta, afterwinding through the whole extent of the landscape, poured their fruitfulwaves. Emily gazed long on the splendours of the world she was quitting, of which the whole magnificence seemed thus given to her sight only toincrease her regret on leaving it; for her, Valancourt alone was in thatworld; to him alone her heart turned, and for him alone fell her bittertears. 

From this sublime scene the travellers continued to ascend among thepines, till they entered a narrow pass of the mountains, which shut outevery feature of the distant country, and, in its stead, exhibited onlytremendous crags, impending over the road, where no vestige of humanity, or even of vegetation, appeared, except here and there the trunk andscathed branches of an oak, that hung nearly headlong from the rock, into which its strong roots had fastened. This pass, which led into theheart of the Apennine, at length opened to day, and a scene of mountainsstretched in long perspective, as wild as any the travellers had yetpassed. Still vast pine-forests hung upon their base, and crowned theridgy precipice, that rose perpendicularly from the vale, while, above, the rolling mists caught the sun-beams, and touched their cliffswith all the magical colouring of light and shade. The scene seemedperpetually changing, and its features to assume new forms, as thewinding road brought them to the eye in different attitudes; while theshifting vapours, now partially concealing their minuter beauties andnow illuminating them with splendid tints, assisted the illusions of thesight. 

Though the deep vallies between these mountains were, for the most part, clothed with pines, sometimes an abrupt opening presented a perspectiveof only barren rocks, with a cataract flashing from their summit amongbroken cliffs, till its waters, reaching the bottom, foamed along withunceasing fury; and sometimes pastoral scenes exhibited their 'greendelights' in the narrow vales, smiling amid surrounding horror. Thereherds and flocks of goats and sheep, browsing under the shade of hangingwoods, and the shepherd's little cabin, reared on the margin of a clearstream, presented a sweet picture of repose. 

Wild and romantic as were these scenes, their character had far lessof the sublime, that had those of the Alps, which guard the entranceof Italy. Emily was often elevated, but seldom felt those emotionsof indescribable awe which she had so continually experienced, in herpassage over the Alps. 

Towards the close of day, the road wound into a deep valley. Mountains, whose shaggy steeps appeared to be inaccessible, almost surroundedit. To the east, a vista opened, that exhibited the Apennines in theirdarkest horrors; and the long perspective of retiring summits, risingover each other, their ridges clothed with pines, exhibited a strongerimage of grandeur, than any that Emily had yet seen. The sun had justsunk below the top of the mountains she was descending, whose longshadow stretched athwart the valley, but his sloping rays, shootingthrough an opening of the cliffs, touched with a yellow gleam thesummits of the forest, that hung upon the opposite steeps, and streamedin full splendour upon the towers and battlements of a castle, thatspread its extensive ramparts along the brow of a precipice above. Thesplendour of these illumined objects was heightened by the contrastedshade, which involved the valley below. 

'There, ' said Montoni, speaking for the first time in several hours, 'isUdolpho. '

Emily gazed with melancholy awe upon the castle, which she understood tobe Montoni's; for, though it was now lighted up by the setting sun, thegothic greatness of its features, and its mouldering walls of dark greystone, rendered it a gloomy and sublime object. As she gazed, the lightdied away on its walls, leaving a melancholy purple tint, which spreaddeeper and deeper, as the thin vapour crept up the mountain, while thebattlements above were still tipped with splendour. From those, too, the rays soon faded, and the whole edifice was invested with the solemnduskiness of evening. Silent, lonely, and sublime, it seemed to standthe sovereign of the scene, and to frown defiance on all, who dared toinvade its solitary reign. As the twilight deepened, its featuresbecame more awful in obscurity, and Emily continued to gaze, till itsclustering towers were alone seen, rising over the tops of the woods, beneath whose thick shade the carriages soon after began to ascend. 

The extent and darkness of these tall woods awakened terrific images inher mind, and she almost expected to see banditti start up from underthe trees. At length, the carriages emerged upon a heathy rock, and, soon after, reached the castle gates, where the deep tone of the portalbell, which was struck upon to give notice of their arrival, increasedthe fearful emotions, that had assailed Emily. While they waited tillthe servant within should come to open the gates, she anxiouslysurveyed the edifice: but the gloom, that overspread it, allowed her todistinguish little more than a part of its outline, with the massy wallsof the ramparts, and to know, that it was vast, ancient and dreary. Fromthe parts she saw, she judged of the heavy strength and extent of thewhole. The gateway before her, leading into the courts, was of giganticsize, and was defended by two round towers, crowned by overhangingturrets, embattled, where, instead of banners, now waved long grass andwild plants, that had taken root among the mouldering stones, and whichseemed to sigh, as the breeze rolled past, over the desolation aroundthem. The towers were united by a curtain, pierced and embattled also, below which appeared the pointed arch of a huge portcullis, surmountingthe gates: from these, the walls of the ramparts extended to othertowers, overlooking the precipice, whose shattered outline, appearing ona gleam, that lingered in the west, told of the ravages of war. --Beyondthese all was lost in the obscurity of evening. 

While Emily gazed with awe upon the scene, footsteps were heard withinthe gates, and the undrawing of bolts; after which an ancient servant ofthe castle appeared, forcing back the huge folds of the portal, to admithis lord. As the carriage-wheels rolled heavily under the portcullis, Emily's heart sunk, and she seemed, as if she was going into her prison;the gloomy court, into which she passed, served to confirm the idea, and her imagination, ever awake to circumstance, suggested even moreterrors, than her reason could justify. 

Another gate delivered them into the second court, grass-grown, and morewild than the first, where, as she surveyed through the twilight itsdesolation--its lofty walls, overtopt with briony, moss and nightshade, and the embattled towers that rose above, --long-suffering and murdercame to her thoughts. One of those instantaneous and unaccountableconvictions, which sometimes conquer even strong minds, impressed herwith its horror. The sentiment was not diminished, when she entered anextensive gothic hall, obscured by the gloom of evening, which a light, glimmering at a distance through a long perspective of arches, onlyrendered more striking. As a servant brought the lamp nearer partialgleams fell upon the pillars and the pointed arches, forming a strongcontrast with their shadows, that stretched along the pavement and thewalls. 

The sudden journey of Montoni had prevented his people from making anyother preparations for his reception, than could be had in the shortinterval, since the arrival of the servant, who had been sent forwardfrom Venice; and this, in some measure, may account for the air ofextreme desolation, that everywhere appeared. 

The servant, who came to light Montoni, bowed in silence, and themuscles of his countenance relaxed with no symptom of joy. --Montoninoticed the salutation by a slight motion of his hand, and passed on, while his lady, following, and looking round with a degree of surpriseand discontent, which she seemed fearful of expressing, and Emily, surveying the extent and grandeur of the hall in timid wonder, approached a marble stair-case. The arches here opened to a lofty vault, from the centre of which hung a tripod lamp, which a servant was hastilylighting; and the rich fret-work of the roof, a corridor, leading intoseveral upper apartments, and a painted window, stretching nearly fromthe pavement to the ceiling of the hall, became gradually visible. 

Having crossed the foot of the stair-case, and passed through anante-room, they entered a spacious apartment, whose walls, wainscotedwith black larch-wood, the growth of the neighbouring mountains, werescarcely distinguishable from darkness itself. 'Bring more light, 'said Montoni, as he entered. The servant, setting down his lamp, waswithdrawing to obey him, when Madame Montoni observing, that the eveningair of this mountainous region was cold, and that she should like afire, Montoni ordered that wood might be brought. 

While he paced the room with thoughtful steps, and Madame Montoni satsilently on a couch, at the upper end of it, waiting till the servantreturned, Emily was observing the singular solemnity and desolation ofthe apartment, viewed, as it now was, by the glimmer of the single lamp, placed near a large Venetian mirror, that duskily reflected the scene, with the tall figure of Montoni passing slowly along, his arms folded, and his countenance shaded by the plume, that waved in his hat. 

From the contemplation of this scene, Emily's mind proceeded to theapprehension of what she might suffer in it, till the remembrance ofValancourt, far, far distant! came to her heart, and softened it intosorrow. A heavy sigh escaped her: but, trying to conceal her tears, shewalked away to one of the high windows, that opened upon the ramparts, below which, spread the woods she had passed in her approach to thecastle. But the night-shade sat deeply on the mountains beyond, andtheir indented outline alone could be faintly traced on the horizon, where a red streak yet glimmered in the west. The valley between wassunk in darkness. 

The scene within, upon which Emily turned on the opening of the door, was scarcely less gloomy. The old servant, who had received them at thegates, now entered, bending under a load of pine-branches, while two ofMontoni's Venetian servants followed with lights. 

'Your excellenza is welcome to the castle, ' said the old man, as heraised himself from the hearth, where he had laid the wood: 'it has beena lonely place a long while; but you will excuse it, Signor, knowing wehad but short notice. It is near two years, come next feast of St. Mark, since your excellenza was within these walls. '

'You have a good memory, old Carlo, ' said Montoni: 'it is there-about;and how hast thou contrived to live so long?'

'A-well-a-day, sir, with much ado; the cold winds, that blow through thecastle in winter, are almost too much for me; and I thought sometimes ofasking your excellenza to let me leave the mountains, and go down intothe lowlands. But I don't know how it is--I am loth to quit these oldwalls I have lived in so long. '

'Well, how have you gone on in the castle, since I left it?' saidMontoni. 

'Why much as usual, Signor, only it wants a good deal of repairing. There is the north tower--some of the battlements have tumbled down, andhad liked one day to have knocked my poor wife (God rest her soul!) onthe head. Your excellenza must know'--

'Well, but the repairs, ' interrupted Montoni. 

'Aye, the repairs, ' said Carlo: 'a part of the roof of the great hallhas fallen in, and all the winds from the mountains rushed through itlast winter, and whistled through the whole castle so, that there was nokeeping one's self warm, be where one would. There, my wife and I usedto sit shivering over a great fire in one corner of the little hall, ready to die with cold, and'--

'But there are no more repairs wanted, ' said Montoni, impatiently. 

'O Lord! Your excellenza, yes--the wall of the rampart has tumbled downin three places; then, the stairs, that lead to the west gallery, havebeen a long time so bad, that it is dangerous to go up them; and thepassage leading to the great oak chamber, that overhangs the northrampart--one night last winter I ventured to go there by myself, andyour excellenza'--

'Well, well, enough of this, ' said Montoni, with quickness: 'I will talkmore with thee to-morrow. '

The fire was now lighted; Carlo swept the hearth, placed chairs, wipedthe dust from a large marble table that stood near it, and then left theroom. 

Montoni and his family drew round the fire. Madame Montoni made severalattempts at conversation, but his sullen answers repulsed her, whileEmily sat endeavouring to acquire courage enough to speak to him. Atlength, in a tremulous voice, she said, 'May I ask, sir, the motiveof this sudden journey?'--After a long pause, she recovered sufficientcourage to repeat the question. 

'It does not suit me to answer enquiries, ' said Montoni, 'nor does itbecome you to make them; time may unfold them all: but I desire I maybe no further harassed, and I recommend it to you to retire to yourchamber, and to endeavour to adopt a more rational conduct, than thatof yielding to fancies, and to a sensibility, which, to call it by thegentlest name, is only a weakness. '

Emily rose to withdraw. 'Good night, madam, ' said she to her aunt, withan assumed composure, that could not disguise her emotion. 

'Good night, my dear, ' said Madame Montoni, in a tone of kindness, whichher niece had never before heard from her; and the unexpected endearmentbrought tears to Emily's eyes. She curtsied to Montoni, and wasretiring; 'But you do not know the way to your chamber, ' said her aunt. Montoni called the servant, who waited in the ante-room, and badehim send Madame Montoni's woman, with whom, in a few minutes, Emilywithdrew. 

'Do you know which is my room?' said she to Annette, as they crossed thehall. 

'Yes, I believe I do, ma'amselle; but this is such a strange ramblingplace! I have been lost in it already: they call it the double chamber, over the south rampart, and I went up this great stair-case to it. Mylady's room is at the other end of the castle. '

Emily ascended the marble staircase, and came to the corridor, as theypassed through which, Annette resumed her chat--'What a wild lonelyplace this is, ma'am! I shall be quite frightened to live in it. Howoften, and often have I wished myself in France again! I little thought, when I came with my lady to see the world, that I should ever be shut upin such a place as this, or I would never have left my own country!This way, ma'amselle, down this turning. I can almost believe in giantsagain, and such like, for this is just like one of their castles; and, some night or other, I suppose I shall see fairies too, hopping aboutin that great old hall, that looks more like a church, with its hugepillars, than any thing else. '

'Yes, ' said Emily, smiling, and glad to escape from more seriousthought, 'if we come to the corridor, about midnight, and look down intothe hall, we shall certainly see it illuminated with a thousand lamps, and the fairies tripping in gay circles to the sound of delicious music;for it is in such places as this, you know, that they come to holdtheir revels. But I am afraid, Annette, you will not be able to pay thenecessary penance for such a sight: and, if once they hear your voice, the whole scene will vanish in an instant. '

'O! if you will bear me company, ma'amselle, I will come to thecorridor, this very night, and I promise you I will hold my tongue; itshall not be my fault if the show vanishes. --But do you think they willcome?'

'I cannot promise that with certainty, but I will venture to say, itwill not be your fault if the enchantment should vanish. '

'Well, ma'amselle, that is saying more than I expected of you: but I amnot so much afraid of fairies, as of ghosts, and they say there are aplentiful many of them about the castle: now I should be frightened todeath, if I should chance to see any of them. But hush! ma'amselle, walksoftly! I have thought, several times, something passed by me. '

'Ridiculous!' said Emily, 'you must not indulge such fancies. '

'O ma'am! they are not fancies, for aught I know; Benedetto says thesedismal galleries and halls are fit for nothing but ghosts to livein; and I verily believe, if I LIVE long in them I shall turn to onemyself!'

'I hope, ' said Emily, 'you will not suffer Signor Montoni to hear ofthese weak fears; they would highly displease him. '

'What, you know then, ma'amselle, all about it!' rejoined Annette. 'No, no, I do know better than to do so; though, if the Signor can sleepsound, nobody else in the castle has any right to lie awake, I am sure. 'Emily did not appear to notice this remark. 

'Down this passage, ma'amselle; this leads to a back stair-case. O! if Isee any thing, I shall be frightened out of my wits!'

'That will scarcely be possible, ' said Emily smiling, as she followedthe winding of the passage, which opened into another gallery: and thenAnnette, perceiving that she had missed her way, while she had beenso eloquently haranguing on ghosts and fairies, wandered about throughother passages and galleries, till, at length, frightened by theirintricacies and desolation, she called aloud for assistance: but theywere beyond the hearing of the servants, who were on the other side ofthe castle, and Emily now opened the door of a chamber on the left. 

'O! do not go in there, ma'amselle, ' said Annette, 'you will only loseyourself further. '

'Bring the light forward, ' said Emily, 'we may possibly find our waythrough these rooms. '

Annette stood at the door, in an attitude of hesitation, with the lightheld up to shew the chamber, but the feeble rays spread through not halfof it. 'Why do you hesitate?' said Emily, 'let me see whither this roomleads. '

Annette advanced reluctantly. It opened into a suite of spacious andancient apartments, some of which were hung with tapestry, and otherswainscoted with cedar and black larch-wood. What furniture there was, seemed to be almost as old as the rooms, and retained an appearanceof grandeur, though covered with dust, and dropping to pieces with thedamps, and with age. 

'How cold these rooms are, ma'amselle!' said Annette: 'nobody has livedin them for many, many years, they say. Do let us go. '

'They may open upon the great stair-case, perhaps, ' said Emily, passingon till she came to a chamber, hung with pictures, and took the lightto examine that of a soldier on horseback in a field of battle. --He wasdarting his spear upon a man, who lay under the feet of the horse, andwho held up one hand in a supplicating attitude. The soldier, whose beaver was up, regarded him with a look of vengeance, and thecountenance, with that expression, struck Emily as resembling Montoni. She shuddered, and turned from it. Passing the light hastily overseveral other pictures, she came to one concealed by a veil of blacksilk. The singularity of the circumstance struck her, and she stoppedbefore it, wishing to remove the veil, and examine what could thuscarefully be concealed, but somewhat wanting courage. 'Holy Virgin! whatcan this mean?' exclaimed Annette. 'This is surely the picture they toldme of at Venice. '

'What picture?' said Emily. 'Why a picture--a picture, ' replied Annette, hesitatingly--'but I never could make out exactly what it was about, either. '

'Remove the veil, Annette. '

'What! I, ma'amselle!--I! not for the world!' Emily, turning round, sawAnnette's countenance grow pale. 'And pray, what have you heard ofthis picture, to terrify you so, my good girl?' said she. 'Nothing, ma'amselle: I have heard nothing, only let us find our way out. '

'Certainly: but I wish first to examine the picture; take the light, Annette, while I lift the veil. ' Annette took the light, and immediatelywalked away with it, disregarding Emily's call to stay, who, notchoosing to be left alone in the dark chamber, at length followed her. 'What is the reason of this, Annette?' said Emily, when she overtookher, 'what have you heard concerning that picture, which makes you sounwilling to stay when I bid you?'

'I don't know what is the reason, ma'amselle, replied Annette, 'norany thing about the picture, only I have heard there is something verydreadful belonging to it--and that it has been covered up in black EVERSINCE--and that nobody has looked at it for a great many years--and itsomehow has to do with the owner of this castle before Signor Montonicame to the possession of it--and'---

'Well, Annette, ' said Emily, smiling, 'I perceive it is as you say--thatyou know nothing about the picture. '

'No, nothing, indeed, ma'amselle, for they made me promise never totell:--but'--

'Well, ' rejoined Emily, who observed that she was struggling betweenher inclination to reveal a secret, and her apprehension for theconsequence, 'I will enquire no further'---

'No, pray, ma'am, do not. '

'Lest you should tell all, ' interrupted Emily. 

Annette blushed, and Emily smiled, and they passed on to the extremityof this suite of apartments, and found themselves, after some furtherperplexity, once more at the top of the marble stair-case, where Annetteleft Emily, while she went to call one of the servants of the castle toshew them to the chamber, for which they had been seeking. 

While she was absent, Emily's thoughts returned to the picture; anunwillingness to tamper with the integrity of a servant, had checked herenquiries on this subject, as well as concerning some alarming hints, which Annette had dropped respecting Montoni; though her curiositywas entirely awakened, and she had perceived, that her questions mighteasily be answered. She was now, however, inclined to go back to theapartment and examine the picture; but the loneliness of the hour andof the place, with the melancholy silence that reigned around her, conspired with a certain degree of awe, excited by the mystery attendingthis picture, to prevent her. She determined, however, when day-lightshould have re-animated her spirits, to go thither and remove the veil. As she leaned from the corridor, over the stair-case, and her eyeswandered round, she again observed, with wonder, the vast strength ofthe walls, now somewhat decayed, and the pillars of solid marble, thatrose from the hall, and supported the roof. 

A servant now appeared with Annette, and conducted Emily to her chamber, which was in a remote part of the castle, and at the very end of thecorridor, from whence the suite of apartments opened, through which theyhad been wandering. The lonely aspect of her room made Emily unwillingthat Annette should leave her immediately, and the dampness of itchilled her with more than fear. She begged Caterina, the servant of thecastle, to bring some wood and light a fire. 

'Aye, lady, it's many a year since a fire was lighted here, ' saidCaterina. 

'You need not tell us that, good woman, ' said Annette; 'every room inthe castle feels like a well. I wonder how you contrive to live here;for my part, I wish myself at Venice again. ' Emily waved her hand forCaterina to fetch the wood. 

'I wonder, ma'am, why they call this the double chamber?' said Annette, while Emily surveyed it in silence and saw that it was lofty andspacious, like the others she had seen, and, like many of them, too, hadits walls lined with dark larch-wood. The bed and other furniture wasvery ancient, and had an air of gloomy grandeur, like all that shehad seen in the castle. One of the high casements, which she opened, overlooked a rampart, but the view beyond was hid in darkness. 

In the presence of Annette, Emily tried to support her spirits, and torestrain the tears, which, every now and then, came to her eyes. Shewished much to enquire when Count Morano was expected at the castle, but an unwillingness to ask unnecessary questions, and to mention familyconcerns to a servant, withheld her. Meanwhile, Annette's thoughts wereengaged upon another subject: she dearly loved the marvellous, andhad heard of a circumstance, connected with the castle, that highlygratified this taste. Having been enjoined not to mention it, herinclination to tell it was so strong, that she was every instant on thepoint of speaking what she had heard. Such a strange circumstance, too, and to be obliged to conceal it, was a severe punishment; but she knew, that Montoni might impose one much severer, and she feared to incur itby offending him. 

Caterina now brought the wood, and its bright blaze dispelled, for awhile, the gloom of the chamber. She told Annette, that her ladyhad enquired for her, and Emily was once again left to her own sadreflections. Her heart was not yet hardened against the stern mannersof Montoni, and she was nearly as much shocked now, as she had been whenshe first witnessed them. The tenderness and affection, to which she hadbeen accustomed, till she lost her parents, had made her particularlysensible to any degree of unkindness, and such a reverse as this noapprehension had prepared her to support. 

To call off her attention from subjects, that pressed heavily on herspirits, she rose and again examined her room and its furniture. Asshe walked round it, she passed a door, that was not quite shut, and, perceiving, that it was not the one, through which she entered, shebrought the light forward to discover whither it led. She opened it, and, going forward, had nearly fallen down a steep, narrow stair-casethat wound from it, between two stone walls. She wished to know to whatit led, and was the more anxious, since it communicated so immediatelywith her apartment; but, in the present state of her spirits, she wantedcourage to venture into the darkness alone. Closing the door, therefore, she endeavoured to fasten it, but, upon further examination, perceived, that it had no bolts on the chamber side, though it had two on theother. By placing a heavy chair against it, she in some measure remediedthe defect; yet she was still alarmed at the thought of sleeping in thisremote room alone, with a door opening she knew not whither, and whichcould not be perfectly fastened on the inside. Sometimes she wished toentreat of Madame Montoni, that Annette might have leave to remain withher all night, but was deterred by an apprehension of betraying whatwould be thought childish fears, and by an unwillingness to increase theapt terrors of Annette. 

Her gloomy reflections were, soon after, interrupted by a footstep inthe corridor, and she was glad to see Annette enter with some supper, sent by Madame Montoni. Having a table near the fire, she made the goodgirl sit down and sup with her; and, when their little repast was over, Annette, encouraged by her kindness and stirring the wood into a blaze, drew her chair upon the hearth, nearer to Emily, and said--'Did you everhear, ma'amselle, of the strange accident, that made the Signor lord ofthis castle?'

'What wonderful story have you now to tell?' said Emily, concealing thecuriosity, occasioned by the mysterious hints she had formerly heard onthat subject. 

'I have heard all about it, ma'amselle, ' said Annette, looking roundthe chamber and drawing closer to Emily; 'Benedetto told it me as wetravelled together: says he, "Annette, you don't know about this castlehere, that we are going to?" No, says I, Mr. Benedetto, pray what do youknow? But, ma'amselle, you can keep a secret, or I would not tell ityou for the world; for I promised never to tell, and they say, that theSignor does not like to have it talked of. '

'If you promised to keep this secret, ' said Emily, 'you do right not tomention it. '

Annette paused a moment, and then said, 'O, but to you, ma'amselle, toyou I may tell it safely, I know. '

Emily smiled, 'I certainly shall keep it as faithful as yourself, Annette. '

Annette replied very gravely, that would do, and proceeded--'Thiscastle, you must know, ma'amselle, is very old, and very strong, andhas stood out many sieges as they say. Now it was not Signor Montoni'salways, nor his father's; no; but, by some law or other, it was to cometo the Signor, if the lady died unmarried. '

'What lady?' said Emily. 

'I am not come to that yet, ' replied Annette, 'it is the lady I am goingto tell you about, ma'amselle: but, as I was saying, this lady lived inthe castle, and had everything very grand about her, as you may suppose, ma'amselle. The Signor used often to come to see her, and was in lovewith her, and offered to marry her; for, though he was somehow related, that did not signify. But she was in love with somebody else, and wouldnot have him, which made him very angry, as they say, and you know, ma'amselle, what an ill-looking gentleman he is, when he is angry. Perhaps she saw him in a passion, and therefore would not have him. But, as I was saying, she was very melancholy and unhappy, and all that, fora long while, and--Holy Virgin! what noise is that? did not you hear asound, ma'amselle?'

'It was only the wind, ' said Emily, 'but do come to the end of yourstory. '

'As I was saying--O, where was I?--as I was saying--she was verymelancholy and unhappy a long while, and used to walk about upon theterrace, there, under the windows, by herself, and cry so! it would havedone your heart good to hear her. That is--I don't mean good, but itwould have made you cry too, as they tell me. '

'Well, but, Annette, do tell me the substance of your tale. '

'All in good time, ma'am; all this I heard before at Venice, but what isto come I never heard till to-day. This happened a great many years ago, when Signor Montoni was quite a young man. The lady--they called herSignora Laurentini, was very handsome, but she used to be in greatpassions, too, sometimes, as well as the Signor. Finding he could notmake her listen to him--what does he do, but leave the castle, and nevercomes near it for a long time! but it was all one to her; she was justas unhappy whether he was here or not, till one evening, Holy St. Peter!ma'amselle, ' cried Annette, 'look at that lamp, see how blue it burns!'She looked fearfully round the chamber. 'Ridiculous girl!' said Emily, 'why will you indulge those fancies? Pray let me hear the end of yourstory, I am weary. '

Annette still kept her eyes on the lamp, and proceeded in a lower voice. 'It was one evening, they say, at the latter end of the year, itmight be about the middle of September, I suppose, or the beginning ofOctober; nay, for that matter, it might be November, for that, too, isthe latter end of the year, but that I cannot say for certain, becausethey did not tell me for certain themselves. However, it was at thelatter end of the year, this grand lady walked out of the castle intothe woods below, as she had often done before, all alone, only her maidwas with her. The wind blew cold, and strewed the leaves about, andwhistled dismally among those great old chesnut trees, that we passed, ma'amselle, as we came to the castle--for Benedetto shewed me thetrees as he was talking--the wind blew cold, and her woman would havepersuaded her to return: but all would not do, for she was fond ofwalking in the woods, at evening time, and, if the leaves were fallingabout her, so much the better. 

'Well, they saw her go down among the woods, but night came, and shedid not return: ten o'clock, eleven o'clock, twelve o'clock came, and nolady! Well, the servants thought to be sure, some accident had befallenher, and they went out to seek her. They searched all night long, butcould not find her, or any trace of her; and, from that day to this, ma'amselle, she has never been heard of. '

'Is this true, Annette?' said Emily, in much surprise. 

'True, ma'am!' said Annette, with a look of horror, 'yes, it is true, indeed. But they do say, ' she added, lowering her voice, 'they do say, that the Signora has been seen, several times since, walking in thewoods and about the castle in the night: several of the old servants, who remained here some time after, declare they saw her; and, sincethen, she has been seen by some of the vassals, who have happened to bein the castle, at night. Carlo, the old steward, could tell such things, they say, if he would. '

'How contradictory is this, Annette!' said Emily, 'you say nothing hasbeen since known of her, and yet she has been seen!'

'But all this was told me for a great secret, ' rejoined Annette, withoutnoticing the remark, 'and I am sure, ma'am, you would not hurt eitherme or Benedetto, so much as to go and tell it again. ' Emily remainedsilent, and Annette repeated her last sentence. 

'You have nothing to fear from my indiscretion, ' replied Emily, 'and letme advise you, my good Annette, be discreet yourself, and never mentionwhat you have just told me to any other person. Signor Montoni, asyou say, may be angry if he hears of it. But what inquiries were madeconcerning the lady?'

'O! a great deal, indeed, ma'amselle, for the Signor laid claim to thecastle directly, as being the next heir, and they said, that is, thejudges, or the senators, or somebody of that sort, said, he could nottake possession of it till so many years were gone by, and then, if, after all, the lady could not be found, why she would be as good asdead, and the castle would be his own; and so it is his own. But thestory went round, and many strange reports were spread, so very strange, ma'amselle, that I shall not tell them. '

'That is stranger still, Annette, ' said Emily, smiling, and rousingherself from her reverie. 'But, when Signora Laurentini was afterwardsseen in the castle, did nobody speak to her?'

'Speak--speak to her!' cried Annette, with a look of terror; 'no, to besure. '

'And why not?' rejoined Emily, willing to hear further. 

'Holy Mother! speak to a spirit!'

'But what reason had they to conclude it was a spirit, unless they hadapproached, and spoken to it?' 'O ma'amselle, I cannot tell. How can youask such shocking questions? But nobody ever saw it come in, or go outof the castle; and it was in one place now, and then the next minute inquite another part of the castle; and then it never spoke, and, if itwas alive, what should it do in the castle if it never spoke? Severalparts of the castle have never been gone into since, they say, for thatvery reason. '

'What, because it never spoke?' said Emily, trying to laugh away thefears that began to steal upon her. --'No, ma'amselle, no;' repliedAnnette, rather angrily 'but because something has been seen there. Theysay, too, there is an old chapel adjoining the west side of the castle, where, any time at midnight, you may hear such groans!--it makes oneshudder to think of them!--and strange sights have been seen there--'

'Pr'ythee, Annette, no more of these silly tales, ' said Emily. 

'Silly tales, ma'amselle! O, but I will tell you one story about this, if you please, that Caterina told me. It was one cold winter's nightthat Caterina (she often came to the castle then, she says, to keep oldCarlo and his wife company, and so he recommended her afterwards to theSignor, and she has lived here ever since) Caterina was sitting withthem in the little hall, says Carlo, "I wish we had some of those figsto roast, that lie in the store-closet, but it is a long way off, and Iam loath to fetch them; do, Caterina, " says he, "for you are young andnimble, do bring us some, the fire is in nice trim for roasting them;they lie, " says he, "in such a corner of the store-room, at the end ofthe north-gallery; here, take the lamp, " says he, "and mind, as you goup the great stair-case, that the wind, through the roof, does not blowit out. " So, with that, Caterina took the lamp--Hush! ma'amselle, Isurely heard a noise!'

Emily, whom Annette had now infected with her own terrors, listenedattentively; but every thing was still, and Annette proceeded:

'Caterina went to the north-gallery, that is the wide gallery we passed, ma'am, before we came to the corridor, here. As she went with the lampin her hand, thinking of nothing at all--There, again!' cried Annettesuddenly--'I heard it again!--it was not fancy, ma'amselle!'

'Hush!' said Emily, trembling. They listened, and, continuing to sitquite still, Emily heard a low knocking against the wall. It camerepeatedly. Annette then screamed loudly, and the chamber door slowlyopened. --It was Caterina, come to tell Annette, that her lady wantedher. Emily, though she now perceived who it was, could not immediatelyovercome her terror; while Annette, half laughing, half crying, scoldedCaterina heartily for thus alarming them; and was also terrified lestwhat she had told had been overheard. --Emily, whose mind was deeplyimpressed by the chief circumstance of Annette's relation, was unwillingto be left alone, in the present state of her spirits; but, to avoidoffending Madame Montoni, and betraying her own weakness, she struggledto overcome the illusions of fear, and dismissed Annette for the night. 

When she was alone, her thoughts recurred to the strange history ofSignora Laurentini and then to her own strange situation, in the wildand solitary mountains of a foreign country, in the castle, and thepower of a man, to whom, only a few preceding months, she was an entirestranger; who had already exercised an usurped authority over her, andwhose character she now regarded, with a degree of terror, apparentlyjustified by the fears of others. She knew, that he had invention equalto the conception and talents to the execution of any project, andshe greatly feared he had a heart too void of feeling to oppose theperpetration of whatever his interest might suggest. She had longobserved the unhappiness of Madame Montoni, and had often been witnessto the stern and contemptuous behaviour she received from her husband. To these circumstances, which conspired to give her just cause foralarm, were now added those thousand nameless terrors, which exist onlyin active imaginations, and which set reason and examination equally atdefiance. 

Emily remembered all that Valancourt had told her, on the eve of herdeparture from Languedoc, respecting Montoni, and all that he had saidto dissuade her from venturing on the journey. His fears had often sinceappeared to her prophetic--now they seemed confirmed. Her heart, asit gave her back the image of Valancourt, mourned in vain regret, butreason soon came with a consolation which, though feeble at first, acquired vigour from reflection. She considered, that, whatever might beher sufferings, she had withheld from involving him in misfortune, andthat, whatever her future sorrows could be, she was, at least, free fromself-reproach. 

Her melancholy was assisted by the hollow sighings of the wind along thecorridor and round the castle. The cheerful blaze of the wood had longbeen extinguished, and she sat with her eyes fixed on the dying embers, till a loud gust, that swept through the corridor, and shook the doorsand casements, alarmed her, for its violence had moved the chair she hadplaced as a fastening, and the door, leading to the private stair-casestood half open. Her curiosity and her fears were again awakened. Shetook the lamp to the top of the steps, and stood hesitating whether togo down; but again the profound stillness and the gloom of the placeawed her, and, determining to enquire further, when day-light mightassist the search, she closed the door, and placed against it a strongerguard. 

She now retired to her bed, leaving the lamp burning on the table; butits gloomy light, instead of dispelling her fear, assisted it; for, by its uncertain rays, she almost fancied she saw shapes flit past hercurtains and glide into the remote obscurity of her chamber. --The castleclock struck one before she closed her eyes to sleep. 

CHAPTER VI

 I think it is the weakness of mine eyes, That shapes this monstrous apparition. It comes upon me! JULIUS CAESAR

Daylight dispelled from Emily's mind the glooms of superstition, butnot those of apprehension. The Count Morano was the first image, thatoccurred to her waking thoughts, and then came a train of anticipatedevils, which she could neither conquer, nor avoid. She rose, and, torelieve her mind from the busy ideas, that tormented it, compelledherself to notice external objects. From her casement she looked outupon the wild grandeur of the scene, closed nearly on all sides byalpine steeps, whose tops, peeping over each other, faded from the eyein misty hues, while the promontories below were dark with woods, thatswept down to their base, and stretched along the narrow vallies. Therich pomp of these woods was particularly delightful to Emily; and sheviewed with astonishment the fortifications of the castle spreadingalong a vast extent of rock, and now partly in decay, the grandeur ofthe ramparts below, and the towers and battlements and various featuresof the fabric above. From these her sight wandered over the cliffs andwoods into the valley, along which foamed a broad and rapid stream, seenfalling among the crags of an opposite mountain, now flashing in thesun-beams, and now shadowed by over-arching pines, till it was entirelyconcealed by their thick foliage. Again it burst from beneath thisdarkness in one broad sheet of foam, and fell thundering into the vale. Nearer, towards the west, opened the mountain-vista, which Emily hadviewed with such sublime emotion, on her approach to the castle: a thindusky vapour, that rose from the valley, overspread its features with asweet obscurity. As this ascended and caught the sun-beams, it kindledinto a crimson tint, and touched with exquisite beauty the woods andcliffs, over which it passed to the summit of the mountains; then, asthe veil drew up, it was delightful to watch the gleaming objects, thatprogressively disclosed themselves in the valley--the green turf--darkwoods--little rocky recesses--a few peasants' huts--the foamingstream--a herd of cattle, and various images of pastoral beauty. Then, the pine-forests brightened, and then the broad breast of the mountains, till, at length, the mist settled round their summit, touching them witha ruddy glow. The features of the vista now appeared distinctly, and thebroad deep shadows, that fell from the lower cliffs, gave strong effectto the streaming splendour above; while the mountains, gradually sinkingin the perspective, appeared to shelve into the Adriatic sea, for suchEmily imagined to be the gleam of blueish light, that terminated theview. 

Thus she endeavoured to amuse her fancy, and was not unsuccessful. The breezy freshness of the morning, too, revived her. She raised herthoughts in prayer, which she felt always most disposed to do, whenviewing the sublimity of nature, and her mind recovered its strength. 

When she turned from the casement, her eyes glanced upon the door shehad so carefully guarded, on the preceding night, and she now determinedto examine whither it led; but, on advancing to remove the chairs, she perceived, that they were already moved a little way. Her surprisecannot be easily imagined, when, in the next minute, she perceived thatthe door was fastened. --She felt, as if she had seen an apparition. Thedoor of the corridor was locked as she had left it, but this door, whichcould be secured only on the outside, must have been bolted, during thenight. She became seriously uneasy at the thought of sleeping again ina chamber, thus liable to intrusion, so remote, too, as it was fromthe family, and she determined to mention the circumstance to MadameMontoni, and to request a change. 

After some perplexity she found her way into the great hall, and to theroom, which she had left, on the preceding night, where breakfast wasspread, and her aunt was alone, for Montoni had been walking over theenvirons of the castle, examining the condition of its fortifications, and talking for some time with Carlo. Emily observed that her aunt hadbeen weeping, and her heart softened towards her, with an affection, that shewed itself in her manner, rather than in words, while shecarefully avoided the appearance of having noticed, that she wasunhappy. She seized the opportunity of Montoni's absence to mention thecircumstance of the door, to request that she might be allowed anotherapartment, and to enquire again, concerning the occasion of theirsudden journey. On the first subject her aunt referred her to Montoni, positively refusing to interfere in the affair; on the last, sheprofessed utter ignorance. 

Emily, then, with a wish of making her aunt more reconciled to hersituation, praised the grandeur of the castle and the surroundingscenery, and endeavoured to soften every unpleasing circumstanceattending it. But, though misfortune had somewhat conquered theasperities of Madame Montoni's temper, and, by increasing her caresfor herself, had taught her to feel in some degree for others, thecapricious love of rule, which nature had planted and habit hadnourished in her heart, was not subdued. She could not now deny herselfthe gratification of tyrannizing over the innocent and helpless Emily, by attempting to ridicule the taste she could not feel. 

Her satirical discourse was, however, interrupted by the entrance ofMontoni, and her countenance immediately assumed a mingled expression offear and resentment, while he seated himself at the breakfast-table, asif unconscious of there being any person but himself in the room. 

Emily, as she observed him in silence, saw, that his countenance wasdarker and sterner than usual. 'O could I know, ' said she to herself, 'what passes in that mind; could I know the thoughts, that are knownthere, I should no longer be condemned to this torturing suspense!'Their breakfast passed in silence, till Emily ventured to request, thatanother apartment might be allotted to her, and related the circumstancewhich made her wish it. 

'I have no time to attend to these idle whims, ' said Montoni, 'thatchamber was prepared for you, and you must rest contented with it. Itis not probable, that any person would take the trouble of going to thatremote stair-case, for the purpose of fastening a door. If it was notfastened, when you entered the chamber, the wind, perhaps, shook thedoor and made the bolts slide. But I know not why I should undertake toaccount for so trifling an occurrence. '

This explanation was by no means satisfactory to Emily, who hadobserved, that the bolts were rusted, and consequently could not be thuseasily moved; but she forbore to say so, and repeated her request. 

'If you will not release yourself from the slavery of these fears, ' saidMontoni, sternly, 'at least forbear to torment others by the mentionof them. Conquer such whims, and endeavour to strengthen your mind. Noexistence is more contemptible than that, which is embittered by fear. 'As he said this, his eye glanced upon Madame Montoni, who colouredhighly, but was still silent. Emily, wounded and disappointed, thoughther fears were, in this instance, too reasonable to deserve ridicule;but, perceiving, that, however they might oppress her, she must endurethem, she tried to withdraw her attention from the subject. 

Carlo soon after entered with some fruit:

'Your excellenza is tired after your long ramble, ' said he, as he setthe fruit upon the table; 'but you have more to see after breakfast. There is a place in the vaulted passage leading to--'

Montoni frowned upon him, and waved his hand for him to leave theroom. Carlo stopped, looked down, and then added, as he advanced to thebreakfast-table, and took up the basket of fruit, 'I made bold, yourexcellenza, to bring some cherries, here, for my honoured lady andmy young mistress. Will your ladyship taste them, madam?' said Carlo, presenting the basket, 'they are very fine ones, though I gathered themmyself, and from an old tree, that catches all the south sun; they areas big as plums, your ladyship. '

'Very well, old Carlo, ' said Madame Montoni; 'I am obliged to you. '

'And the young Signora, too, she may like some of them, ' rejoined Carlo, turning with the basket to Emily, 'it will do me good to see her eatsome. '

'Thank you, Carlo, ' said Emily, taking some cherries, and smilingkindly. 

'Come, come, ' said Montoni, impatiently, 'enough of this. Leave theroom, but be in waiting. I shall want you presently. '

Carlo obeyed, and Montoni, soon after, went out to examine further intothe state of the castle; while Emily remained with her aunt, patientlyenduring her ill humour, and endeavouring, with much sweetness, tosoothe her affliction, instead of resenting its effect. 

When Madame Montoni retired to her dressing-room, Emily endeavoured toamuse herself by a view of the castle. Through a folding door she passedfrom the great hall to the ramparts, which extended along the brow ofthe precipice, round three sides of the edifice; the fourth was guardedby the high walls of the courts, and by the gateway, through whichshe had passed, on the preceding evening. The grandeur of the broadramparts, and the changing scenery they overlooked, excited her highadmiration; for the extent of the terraces allowed the features of thecountry to be seen in such various points of view, that they appeared toform new landscapes. She often paused to examine the gothic magnificenceof Udolpho, its proud irregularity, its lofty towers and battlements, its high-arched casements, and its slender watch-towers, perched uponthe corners of turrets. Then she would lean on the wall of the terrace, and, shuddering, measure with her eye the precipice below, till thedark summits of the woods arrested it. Wherever she turned, appearedmountain-tops, forests of pine and narrow glens, opening among theApennines and retiring from the sight into inaccessible regions. 

While she thus leaned, Montoni, followed by two men, appeared, ascendinga winding path, cut in the rock below. He stopped upon a cliff, and, pointing to the ramparts, turned to his followers, and talked with mucheagerness of gesticulation. --Emily perceived, that one of these men wasCarlo; the other was in the dress of a peasant, and he alone seemed tobe receiving the directions of Montoni. 

She withdrew from the walls, and pursued her walk, till she heard ata distance the sound of carriage wheels, and then the loud bell ofthe portal, when it instantly occurred to her, that Count Morano wasarrived. As she hastily passed the folding doors from the terrace, towards her own apartment, several persons entered the hall by anopposite door. She saw them at the extremities of the arcades, andimmediately retreated; but the agitation of her spirits, and the extentand duskiness of the hall, had prevented her from distinguishing thepersons of the strangers. Her fears, however, had but one object, andthey had called up that object to her fancy:--she believed that she hadseen Count Morano. 

When she thought that they had passed the hall, she ventured again tothe door, and proceeded, unobserved, to her room, where she remained, agitated with apprehensions, and listening to every distant sound. Atlength, hearing voices on the rampart, she hastened to her window, and observed Montoni, with Signor Cavigni, walking below, conversingearnestly, and often stopping and turning towards each other, at whichtime their discourse seemed to be uncommonly interesting. 

Of the several persons who had appeared in the hall, here was Cavignialone: but Emily's alarm was soon after heightened by the steps of someone in the corridor, who, she apprehended, brought a message from theCount. In the next moment, Annette appeared. 

'Ah! ma'amselle, ' said she, 'here is the Signor Cavigni arrived! I amsure I rejoiced to see a christian person in this place; and then he isso good natured too, he always takes so much notice of me!--And here isalso Signor Verezzi, and who do you think besides, ma'amselle?'

'I cannot guess, Annette; tell me quickly. '

'Nay, ma'am, do guess once. '

'Well, then, ' said Emily, with assumed composure, 'it is--Count Morano, I suppose. '

'Holy Virgin!' cried Annette, 'are you ill, ma'amselle? you are going tofaint! let me get some water. '

Emily sunk into a chair. 'Stay, Annette, ' said she, feebly, 'do notleave me--I shall soon be better; open the casement. --The Count, yousay--he is come, then?'

'Who, I!--the Count! No, ma'amselle, I did not say so. ' 'He is NOT comethen?' said Emily eagerly. 'No, ma'amselle. '

'You are sure of it?'

'Lord bless me!' said Annette, 'you recover very suddenly, ma'am! why, Ithought you was dying, just now. '

'But the Count--you are sure, is not come?'

'O yes, quite sure of that, ma'amselle. Why, I was looking out throughthe grate in the north turret, when the carriages drove into thecourt-yard, and I never expected to see such a goodly sight in thisdismal old castle! but here are masters and servants, too, enough tomake the place ring again. O! I was ready to leap through the rusty oldbars for joy!--O! who would ever have thought of seeing a christianface in this huge dreary house? I could have kissed the very horses thatbrought them. '

'Well, Annette, well, I am better now. '

'Yes, ma'amselle, I see you are. O! all the servants will lead merrylives here, now; we shall have singing and dancing in the little hall, for the Signor cannot hear us there--and droll stories--Ludovico's come, ma'am; yes, there is Ludovico come with them! You remember Ludovico, ma'am--a tall, handsome young man--Signor Cavigni's lacquey--who alwayswears his cloak with such a grace, thrown round his left arm, and hishat set on so smartly, all on one side, and--'

'No, ' said Emily, who was wearied by her loquacity. 

'What, ma'amselle, don't you remember Ludovico--who rowed theCavaliero's gondola, at the last regatta, and won the prize? Andwho used to sing such sweet verses about Orlandos and about theBlack-a-moors, too; and Charly--Charly--magne, yes, that was the name, all under my lattice, in the west portico, on the moon-light nights atVenice? O! I have listened to him!'---

'I fear, to thy peril, my good Annette, ' said Emily; 'for it seems hisverses have stolen thy heart. But let me advise you; if it is so, keepthe secret; never let him know it. '

'Ah--ma'amselle!--how can one keep such a secret as that?'

'Well, Annette, I am now so much better, that you may leave me. '

'O, but, ma'amselle, I forgot to ask--how did you sleep in thisdreary old chamber last night?'--'As well as usual. '--'Did you hearno noises?'--'None. '--'Nor see anything?'--'Nothing. '--'Well, that issurprising!'--'Not in the least: and now tell me, why you ask thesequestions. '

'O, ma'amselle! I would not tell you for the world, nor all I have heardabout this chamber, either; it would frighten you so. '

'If that is all, you have frightened me already, and may therefore tellme what you know, without hurting your conscience. '

'O Lord! they say the room is haunted, and has been so these manyyears. '

'It is by a ghost, then, who can draw bolts, ' said Emily, endeavouringto laugh away her apprehensions; 'for I left the door open, last night, and found it fastened this morning. '

Annette turned pale, and said not a word. 

'Do you know whether any of the servants fastened this door in themorning, before I rose?'

'No, ma'am, that I will be bound they did not; but I don't know: shallI go and ask, ma'amselle?' said Annette, moving hastily towards thecorridor. 

'Stay, Annette, I have another question to ask; tell me what you haveheard concerning this room, and whither that stair-case leads. '

'I will go and ask it all directly, ma'am; besides, I am sure my ladywants me. I cannot stay now, indeed, ma'am. '

She hurried from the room, without waiting Emily's reply, whose heart, lightened by the certainty, that Morano was not arrived, allowed herto smile at the superstitious terror, which had seized on Annette; for, though she sometimes felt its influence herself, she could smile at it, when apparent in other persons. 

Montoni having refused Emily another chamber, she determined to bearwith patience the evil she could not remove, and, in order to make theroom as comfortable as possible, unpacked her books, her sweet delightin happier days, and her soothing resource in the hours of moderatesorrow: but there were hours when even these failed of their effect;when the genius, the taste, the enthusiasm of the sublimest writers werefelt no longer. 

Her little library being arranged on a high chest, part of the furnitureof the room, she took out her drawing utensils, and was tranquil enoughto be pleased with the thought of sketching the sublime scenes, beheldfrom her windows; but she suddenly checked this pleasure, rememberinghow often she had soothed herself by the intention of obtainingamusement of this kind, and had been prevented by some new circumstanceof misfortune. 

'How can I suffer myself to be deluded by hope, ' said she, 'and, becauseCount Morano is not yet arrived, feel a momentary happiness? Alas! whatis it to me, whether he is here to-day, or to-morrow, if he comes atall?--and that he will come--it were weakness to doubt. '

To withdraw her thoughts, however, from the subject of her misfortunes, she attempted to read, but her attention wandered from the page, and, at length, she threw aside the book, and determined to explore theadjoining chambers of the castle. Her imagination was pleased with theview of ancient grandeur, and an emotion of melancholy awe awakened allits powers, as she walked through rooms, obscure and desolate, where nofootsteps had passed probably for many years, and remembered the strangehistory of the former possessor of the edifice. This brought to herrecollection the veiled picture, which had attracted her curiosity, on the preceding night, and she resolved to examine it. As she passedthrough the chambers, that led to this, she found herself somewhatagitated; its connection with the late lady of the castle, and theconversation of Annette, together with the circumstance of the veil, throwing a mystery over the subject, that excited a faint degree ofterror. But a terror of this nature, as it occupies and expands themind, and elevates it to high expectation, is purely sublime, and leadsus, by a kind of fascination, to seek even the object, from which weappear to shrink. 

Emily passed on with faltering steps, and having paused a moment atthe door, before she attempted to open it, she then hastily entered thechamber, and went towards the picture, which appeared to be enclosedin a frame of uncommon size, that hung in a dark part of the room. She paused again, and then, with a timid hand, lifted the veil; butinstantly let it fall--perceiving that what it had concealed was nopicture, and, before she could leave the chamber, she dropped senselesson the floor. 

When she recovered her recollection, the remembrance of what she hadseen had nearly deprived her of it a second time. She had scarcelystrength to remove from the room, and regain her own; and, when arrivedthere, wanted courage to remain alone. Horror occupied her mind, andexcluded, for a time, all sense of past, and dread of future misfortune:she seated herself near the casement, because from thence she heardvoices, though distant, on the terrace, and might see people pass, andthese, trifling as they were, were reviving circumstances. When herspirits had recovered their tone, she considered, whether she shouldmention what she had seen to Madame Montoni, and various and importantmotives urged her to do so, among which the least was the hope of therelief, which an overburdened mind finds in speaking of the subject ofits interest. But she was aware of the terrible consequences, which sucha communication might lead to; and, dreading the indiscretion of heraunt, at length, endeavoured to arm herself with resolution to observe aprofound silence, on the subject. Montoni and Verezzi soon after passedunder the casement, speaking cheerfully, and their voices revived her. Presently the Signors Bertolini and Cavigni joined the party on theterrace, and Emily, supposing that Madame Montoni was then alone, wentto seek her; for the solitude of her chamber, and its proximity to thatwhere she had received so severe a shock, again affected her spirit. 

She found her aunt in her dressing-room, preparing for dinner. Emily'spale and affrighted countenance alarmed even Madame Montoni; but she hadsufficient strength of mind to be silent on the subject, that still madeher shudder, and which was ready to burst from her lips. In her aunt'sapartment she remained, till they both descended to dinner. There shemet the gentlemen lately arrived, who had a kind of busy seriousness intheir looks, which was somewhat unusual with them, while their thoughtsseemed too much occupied by some deep interest, to suffer them to bestowmuch attention either on Emily, or Madame Montoni. They spoke little, and Montoni less. Emily, as she now looked on him, shuddered. The horrorof the chamber rushed on her mind. Several times the colour faded fromher cheeks, and she feared, that illness would betray her emotions, and compel her to leave the room; but the strength of her resolutionremedied the weakness of her frame; she obliged herself to converse, andeven tried to look cheerful. 

Montoni evidently laboured under some vexation, such as would probablyhave agitated a weaker mind, or a more susceptible heart, but whichappeared, from the sternness of his countenance, only to bend up hisfaculties to energy and fortitude. 

It was a comfortless and silent meal. The gloom of the castle seemed tohave spread its contagion even over the gay countenance of Cavigni, andwith this gloom was mingled a fierceness, such as she had seldom seenhim indicate. Count Morano was not named, and what conversation therewas, turned chiefly upon the wars, which at that time agitated theItalian states, the strength of the Venetian armies, and the charactersof their generals. 

After dinner, when the servants had withdrawn, Emily learned, that thecavalier, who had drawn upon himself the vengeance of Orsino, had sincedied of his wounds, and that strict search was still making for hismurderer. The intelligence seemed to disturb Montoni, who mused, andthen enquired, where Orsino had concealed himself. His guests, who all, except Cavigni, were ignorant, that Montoni had himself assisted himto escape from Venice, replied, that he had fled in the night with suchprecipitation and secrecy, that his most intimate companions knew notwhither. Montoni blamed himself for having asked the question, for asecond thought convinced him, that a man of Orsino's suspicious temperwas not likely to trust any of the persons present with the knowledgeof his asylum. He considered himself, however, as entitled to his utmostconfidence, and did not doubt, that he should soon hear of him. 

Emily retired with Madame Montoni, soon after the cloth was withdrawn, and left the cavaliers to their secret councils, but not before thesignificant frowns of Montoni had warned his wife to depart, who passedfrom the hall to the ramparts, and walked, for some time, in silence, which Emily did not interrupt, for her mind was also occupied byinterests of its own. It required all her resolution, to forbearcommunicating to Madame Montoni the terrible subject, which stillthrilled her every nerve with horror; and sometimes she was on the pointof doing so, merely to obtain the relief of a moment; but she knewhow wholly she was in the power of Montoni, and, considering, that theindiscretion of her aunt might prove fatal to them both, she compelledherself to endure a present and an inferior evil, rather than to tempt afuture and a heavier one. A strange kind of presentiment frequently, onthis day, occurred to her;--it seemed as if her fate rested here, andwas by some invisible means connected with this castle. 

'Let me not accelerate it, ' said she to herself: 'for whatever I may bereserved, let me, at least, avoid self-reproach. '

As she looked on the massy walls of the edifice, her melancholy spiritsrepresented it to be her prison; and she started as at a new suggestion, when she considered how far distant she was from her native country, from her little peaceful home, and from her only friend--how remote washer hope of happiness, how feeble the expectation of again seeing him!Yet the idea of Valancourt, and her confidence in his faithful love, hadhitherto been her only solace, and she struggled hard to retain them. A few tears of agony started to her eyes, which she turned aside toconceal. 

While she afterwards leaned on the wall of the rampart, some peasants, at a little distance, were seen examining a breach, before which laya heap of stones, as if to repair it, and a rusty old cannon, thatappeared to have fallen from its station above. Madame Montoni stoppedto speak to the men, and enquired what they were going to do. 'To repairthe fortifications, your ladyship, ' said one of them; a labour whichshe was somewhat surprised, that Montoni should think necessary, particularly since he had never spoken of the castle, as of a place, atwhich he meant to reside for any considerable time; but she passed ontowards a lofty arch, that led from the south to the east rampart, and which adjoined the castle, on one side, while, on the other, itsupported a small watch-tower, that entirely commanded the deep valleybelow. As she approached this arch, she saw, beyond it, winding alongthe woody descent of a distant mountain, a long troop of horse and foot, whom she knew to be soldiers, only by the glitter of their pikes andother arms, for the distance did not allow her to discover the colourof their liveries. As she gazed, the vanguard issued from the woods intothe valley, but the train still continued to pour over the remotesummit of the mountain, in endless succession; while, in the front, the military uniform became distinguishable, and the commanders, ridingfirst, and seeming, by their gestures, to direct the march of those thatfollowed, at length, approached very near to the castle. 

Such a spectacle, in these solitary regions, both surprised and alarmedMadame Montoni, and she hastened towards some peasants, who wereemployed in raising bastions before the south rampart, where the rockwas less abrupt than elsewhere. These men could give no satisfactoryanswers to her enquiries, but, being roused by them, gazed in stupidastonishment upon the long cavalcade. Madame Montoni, then thinking itnecessary to communicate further the object of her alarm, sent Emily tosay, that she wished to speak to Montoni; an errand her niece did notapprove, for she dreaded his frowns, which she knew this message wouldprovoke; but she obeyed in silence. 

As she drew near the apartment, in which he sat with his guests, she heard them in earnest and loud dispute, and she paused a moment, trembling at the displeasure, which her sudden interruption wouldoccasion. In the next, their voices sunk all together; she then venturedto open the door, and, while Montoni turned hastily and looked at her, without speaking, she delivered her message. 

'Tell Madam Montoni I am engaged, ' said he. 

Emily then thought it proper to mention the subject of her alarm. Montoni and his companions rose instantly and went to the windows, but, these not affording them a view of the troops, they at length proceededto the ramparts, where Cavigni conjectured it to be a legion ofcondottieri, on their march towards Modena. 

One part of the cavalcade now extended along the valley, and anotherwound among the mountains towards the north, while some troops stilllingered on the woody precipices, where the first had appeared, so thatthe great length of the procession seemed to include an whole army. While Montoni and his family watched its progress, they heard the soundof trumpets and the clash of cymbals in the vale, and then others, answering from the heights. Emily listened with emotion to the shrillblast, that woke the echoes of the mountains, and Montoni explained thesignals, with which he appeared to be well acquainted, and which meantnothing hostile. The uniforms of the troops, and the kind of armsthey bore, confirmed to him the conjecture of Cavigni, and he had thesatisfaction to see them pass by, without even stopping to gaze upon hiscastle. He did not, however, leave the rampart, till the bases ofthe mountains had shut them from his view, and the last murmur of thetrumpet floated away on the wind. Cavigni and Verezzi were inspiritedby this spectacle, which seemed to have roused all the fire of theirtemper; Montoni turned into the castle in thoughtful silence. 

Emily's mind had not yet sufficiently recovered from its late shock, to endure the loneliness of her chamber, and she remained upon theramparts; for Madame Montoni had not invited her to her dressing-room, whither she had gone evidently in low spirits, and Emily, from herlate experience, had lost all wish to explore the gloomy and mysteriousrecesses of the castle. The ramparts, therefore, were almost her onlyretreat, and here she lingered, till the gray haze of evening was againspread over the scene. 

The cavaliers supped by themselves, and Madame Montoni remained in herapartment, whither Emily went, before she retired to her own. She foundher aunt weeping, and in much agitation. The tenderness of Emily wasnaturally so soothing, that it seldom failed to give comfort to thedrooping heart: but Madame Montoni's was torn, and the softest accentsof Emily's voice were lost upon it. With her usual delicacy, she didnot appear to observe her aunt's distress, but it gave an involuntarygentleness to her manners, and an air of solicitude to her countenance, which Madame Montoni was vexed to perceive, who seemed to feel the pityof her niece to be an insult to her pride, and dismissed her as soonas she properly could. Emily did not venture to mention again thereluctance she felt to her gloomy chamber, but she requested thatAnnette might be permitted to remain with her till she retired to rest;and the request was somewhat reluctantly granted. Annette, however, wasnow with the servants, and Emily withdrew alone. 

With light and hasty steps she passed through the long galleries, whilethe feeble glimmer of the lamp she carried only shewed the gloomaround her, and the passing air threatened to extinguish it. The lonelysilence, that reigned in this part of the castle, awed her; now andthen, indeed, she heard a faint peal of laughter rise from a remote partof the edifice, where the servants were assembled, but it was soon lost, and a kind of breathless stillness remained. As she passed the suite ofrooms which she had visited in the morning, her eyes glanced fearfullyon the door, and she almost fancied she heard murmuring sounds within, but she paused not a moment to enquire. 

Having reached her own apartment, where no blazing wood on thehearth dissipated the gloom, she sat down with a book, to enliven herattention, till Annette should come, and a fire could be kindled. Shecontinued to read till her light was nearly expired, but Annette did notappear, and the solitude and obscurity of her chamber again affected herspirits, the more, because of its nearness to the scene of horror, thatshe had witnessed in the morning. Gloomy and fantastic images came toher mind. She looked fearfully towards the door of the stair-case, andthen, examining whether it was still fastened, found that it was so. Unable to conquer the uneasiness she felt at the prospect of sleepingagain in this remote and insecure apartment, which some person seemed tohave entered during the preceding night, her impatience to see Annette, whom she had bidden to enquire concerning this circumstance, becameextremely painful. She wished also to question her, as to the object, which had excited so much horror in her own mind, and which Annette onthe preceding evening had appeared to be in part acquainted with, thoughher words were very remote from the truth, and it appeared plainly toEmily, that the girl had been purposely misled by a false report: aboveall she was surprised, that the door of the chamber, which containedit, should be left unguarded. Such an instance of negligence almostsurpassed belief. But her light was now expiring; the faint flashes itthrew upon the walls called up all the terrors of fancy, and she roseto find her way to the habitable part of the castle, before it was quiteextinguished. As she opened the chamber door, she heard remote voices, and, soon after, saw a light issue upon the further end of the corridor, which Annette and another servant approached. 'I am glad you arecome, ' said Emily: 'what has detained you so long? Pray light me a fireimmediately. '

'My lady wanted me, ma'amselle, ' replied Annette in some confusion; 'Iwill go and get the wood. '

'No, ' said Caterina, 'that is my business, ' and left the room instantly, while Annette would have followed; but, being called back, she beganto talk very loud, and laugh, and seemed afraid to trust a pause ofsilence. 

Caterina soon returned with the wood, and then, when the cheerful blazeonce more animated the room, and this servant had withdrawn, Emilyasked Annette, whether she had made the enquiry she bade her. 'Yes, ma'amselle, ' said Annette, 'but not a soul knows any thing about thematter: and old Carlo--I watched him well, for they say he knows strangethings--old Carlo looked so as I don't know how to tell, and he asked meagain and again, if I was sure the door was ever unfastened. Lord, saysI--am I sure I am alive? And as for me, ma'am, I am all astounded, asone may say, and would no more sleep in this chamber, than I would onthe great cannon at the end of the east rampart. '

'And what objection have you to that cannon, more than to any of therest?' said Emily smiling: 'the best would be rather a hard bed. '

'Yes, ma'amselle, any of them would be hard enough for that matter; butthey do say, that something has been seen in the dead of night, standingbeside the great cannon, as if to guard it. '

'Well! my good Annette, the people who tell such stories, are happy inhaving you for an auditor, for I perceive you believe them all. '

'Dear ma'amselle! I will shew you the very cannon; you can see it fromthese windows!'

'Well, ' said Emily, 'but that does not prove, that an apparition guardsit. '

'What! not if I shew you the very cannon! Dear ma'am, you will believenothing. '

'Nothing probably upon this subject, but what I see, ' saidEmily. --'Well, ma'am, but you shall see it, if you will only step thisway to the casement. '--Emily could not forbear laughing, and Annettelooked surprised. Perceiving her extreme aptitude to credit themarvellous, Emily forbore to mention the subject she had intended, lestit should overcome her with idle terrors, and she began to speak on alively topic--the regattas of Venice. 

'Aye, ma'amselle, those rowing matches, ' said Annette, 'and the finemoon-light nights, are all, that are worth seeing in Venice. To be surethe moon is brighter than any I ever saw; and then to hear such sweetmusic, too, as Ludovico has often and often sung under the lattice bythe west portico! Ma'amselle, it was Ludovico, that told me about thatpicture, which you wanted so to look at last night, and---'

'What picture?' said Emily, wishing Annette to explain herself. 

'O! that terrible picture with the black veil over it. '

'You never saw it, then?' said Emily. 

'Who, I!--No, ma'amselle, I never did. But this morning, ' continuedAnnette, lowering her voice, and looking round the room, 'this morning, as it was broad daylight, do you know, ma'am, I took a strange fancy tosee it, as I had heard such odd hints about it, and I got as far as thedoor, and should have opened it, if it had not been locked!'

Emily, endeavouring to conceal the emotion this circumstance occasioned, enquired at what hour she went to the chamber, and found, that it wassoon after herself had been there. She also asked further questions, andthe answers convinced her, that Annette, and probably her informer, wereignorant of the terrible truth, though in Annette's account somethingvery like the truth, now and then, mingled with the falsehood. Emily nowbegan to fear, that her visit to the chamber had been observed, sincethe door had been closed, so immediately after her departure; anddreaded lest this should draw upon her the vengeance of Montoni. Heranxiety, also, was excited to know whence, and for what purpose, thedelusive report, which had been imposed upon Annette, had originated, since Montoni could only have wished for silence and secrecy; but shefelt, that the subject was too terrible for this lonely hour, and shecompelled herself to leave it, to converse with Annette, whose chat, simple as it was, she preferred to the stillness of total solitude. 

Thus they sat, till near midnight, but not without many hints fromAnnette, that she wished to go. The embers were now nearly burnt out;and Emily heard, at a distance, the thundering sound of the hall doors, as they were shut for the night. She, therefore, prepared for rest, butwas still unwilling that Annette should leave her. At this instant, thegreat bell of the portal sounded. They listened in fearful expectation, when, after a long pause of silence, it sounded again. Soon after, theyheard the noise of carriage wheels in the court-yard. Emily sunk almostlifeless in her chair; 'It is the Count, ' said she. 

'What, at this time of night, ma'am!' said Annette: 'no, my dear lady. But, for that matter, it is a strange time of night for any body tocome!'

'Nay, pr'ythee, good Annette, stay not talking, ' said Emily in a voiceof agony--'Go, pr'ythee, go, and see who it is. '

Annette left the room, and carried with her the light, leaving Emily indarkness, which a few moments before would have terrified her in thisroom, but was now scarcely observed by her. She listened and waited, inbreathless expectation, and heard distant noises, but Annette did notreturn. Her patience, at length, exhausted, she tried to find her wayto the corridor, but it was long before she could touch the door of thechamber, and, when she had opened it, the total darkness without madeher fear to proceed. Voices were now heard, and Emily even thought shedistinguished those of Count Morano, and Montoni. Soon after, sheheard steps approaching, and then a ray of light streamed through thedarkness, and Annette appeared, whom Emily went to meet. 

'Yes, ma'amselle, ' said she, 'you was right, it is the Count sureenough. '

'It is he!' exclaimed Emily, lifting her eyes towards heaven andsupporting herself by Annette's arm. 

'Good Lord! my dear lady, don't be in such a FLUSTER, and look so pale, we shall soon hear more. '

'We shall, indeed!' said Emily, moving as fast as she was able towardsher apartment. 'I am not well; give me air. ' Annette opened a casement, and brought water. The faintness soon left Emily, but she desiredAnnette would not go till she heard from Montoni. 

'Dear ma'amselle! he surely will not disturb you at this time of night;why he must think you are asleep. '

'Stay with me till I am so, then, ' said Emily, who felt temporary relieffrom this suggestion, which appeared probable enough, though her fearshad prevented its occurring to her. Annette, with secret reluctance, consented to stay, and Emily was now composed enough to ask her somequestions; among others, whether she had seen the Count. 

'Yes, ma'am, I saw him alight, for I went from hence to the grate in thenorth turret, that overlooks the inner court-yard, you know. There Isaw the Count's carriage, and the Count in it, waiting at the greatdoor, --for the porter was just gone to bed--with several men onhorseback all by the light of the torches they carried. ' Emily wascompelled to smile. 'When the door was opened, the Count said something, that I could not make out, and then got out, and another gentleman withhim. I thought, to be sure, the Signor was gone to bed, and I hastenedaway to my lady's dressing-room, to see what I could hear. But in theway I met Ludovico, and he told me that the Signor was up, counsellingwith his master and the other Signors, in the room at the end of thenorth gallery; and Ludovico held up his finger, and laid it on his lips, as much as to say--There is more going on, than you think of, Annette, but you must hold your tongue. And so I did hold my tongue, ma'amselle, and came away to tell you directly. '

Emily enquired who the cavalier was, that accompanied the Count, and howMontoni received them; but Annette could not inform her. 

'Ludovico, ' she added, 'had just been to call Signor Montoni's valet, that he might tell him they were arrived, when I met him. '

Emily sat musing, for some time, and then her anxiety was so muchincreased, that she desired Annette would go to the servants' hall, where it was possible she might hear something of the Count's intention, respecting his stay at the castle. 

'Yes, ma'am, ' said Annette with readiness; 'but how am I to find theway, if I leave the lamp with you?'

Emily said she would light her, and they immediately quitted thechamber. When they had reached the top of the great stair-case, Emilyrecollected, that she might be seen by the Count, and, to avoid thegreat hall, Annette conducted her through some private passages to aback stair-case, which led directly to that of the servants. 

As she returned towards her chamber, Emily began to fear, that shemight again lose herself in the intricacies of the castle, and againbe shocked by some mysterious spectacle; and, though she was alreadyperplexed by the numerous turnings, she feared to open one of the manydoors that offered. While she stepped thoughtfully along, she fancied, that she heard a low moaning at no great distance, and, having paused amoment, she heard it again and distinctly. Several doors appeared on theright hand of the passage. She advanced, and listened. When she came tothe second, she heard a voice, apparently in complaint, within, to whichshe continued to listen, afraid to open the door, and unwilling toleave it. Convulsive sobs followed, and then the piercing accents of anagonizing spirit burst forth. Emily stood appalled, and looked throughthe gloom, that surrounded her, in fearful expectation. The lamentationscontinued. Pity now began to subdue terror; it was possible she mightadminister comfort to the sufferer, at least, by expressing sympathy, and she laid her hand on the door. While she hesitated she thoughtshe knew this voice, disguised as it was by tones of grief. Having, therefore, set down the lamp in the passage, she gently opened the door, within which all was dark, except that from an inner apartment a partiallight appeared; and she stepped softly on. Before she reached it, theappearance of Madame Montoni, leaning on her dressing-table, weeping, and with a handkerchief held to her eyes, struck her, and she paused. 

Some person was seated in a chair by the fire, but who it was she couldnot distinguish. He spoke, now and then, in a low voice, that did notallow Emily to hear what was uttered, but she thought, that MadameMontoni, at those times, wept the more, who was too much occupied by herown distress, to observe Emily, while the latter, though anxious to knowwhat occasioned this, and who was the person admitted at so late anhour to her aunt's dressing-room, forbore to add to her sufferings bysurprising her, or to take advantage of her situation, by listening to aprivate discourse. She, therefore, stepped softly back, and, aftersome further difficulty, found the way to her own chamber, where nearerinterests, at length, excluded the surprise and concern she had felt, respecting Madame Montoni. 

Annette, however, returned without satisfactory intelligence, for theservants, among whom she had been, were either entirely ignorant, oraffected to be so, concerning the Count's intended stay at the castle. They could talk only of the steep and broken road they had just passed, and of the numerous dangers they had escaped and express wonder howtheir lord could choose to encounter all these, in the darkness ofnight; for they scarcely allowed, that the torches had served for anyother purpose but that of shewing the dreariness of the mountains. Annette, finding she could gain no information, left them, making noisypetitions, for more wood on the fire and more supper on the table. 

'And now, ma'amselle, ' added she, 'I am so sleepy!--I am sure, if youwas so sleepy, you would not desire me to sit up with you. '

Emily, indeed, began to think it was cruel to wish it; she had alsowaited so long, without receiving a summons from Montoni, that itappeared he did not mean to disturb her, at this late hour, and shedetermined to dismiss Annette. But, when she again looked round hergloomy chamber, and recollected certain circumstances, fear seized herspirits, and she hesitated. 

'And yet it were cruel of me to ask you to stay, till I am asleep, Annette, ' said she, 'for I fear it will be very long before I forgetmyself in sleep. '

'I dare say it will be very long, ma'amselle, ' said Annette. 

'But, before you go, ' rejoined Emily, 'let me ask you--Had SignorMontoni left Count Morano, when you quitted the hall?'

'O no, ma'am, they were alone together. '

'Have you been in my aunt's dressing-room, since you left me?'

'No, ma'amselle, I called at the door as I passed, but it was fastened;so I thought my lady was gone to bed. '

'Who, then, was with your lady just now?' said Emily, forgetting, insurprise, her usual prudence. 

'Nobody, I believe, ma'am, ' replied Annette, 'nobody has been with her, I believe, since I left you. '

Emily took no further notice of the subject, and, after some strugglewith imaginary fears, her good nature prevailed over them so far, thatshe dismissed Annette for the night. She then sat, musing upon her owncircumstances and those of Madame Montoni, till her eye rested on theminiature picture, which she had found, after her father's death, amongthe papers he had enjoined her to destroy. It was open upon the table, before her, among some loose drawings, having, with them, been taken outof a little box by Emily, some hours before. The sight of it calledup many interesting reflections, but the melancholy sweetness of thecountenance soothed the emotions, which these had occasioned. It wasthe same style of countenance as that of her late father, and, whileshe gazed on it with fondness on this account, she even fancieda resemblance in the features. But this tranquillity was suddenlyinterrupted, when she recollected the words in the manuscript, that hadbeen found with this picture, and which had formerly occasioned herso much doubt and horror. At length, she roused herself from the deepreverie, into which this remembrance had thrown her; but, when she roseto undress, the silence and solitude, to which she was left, at thismidnight hour, for not even a distant sound was now heard, conspiredwith the impression the subject she had been considering had given toher mind, to appall her. Annette's hints, too, concerning this chamber, simple as they were, had not failed to affect her, since they followeda circumstance of peculiar horror, which she herself had witnessed, andsince the scene of this was a chamber nearly adjoining her own. 

The door of the stair-case was, perhaps, a subject of more reasonablealarm, and she now began to apprehend, such was the aptitude of herfears, that this stair-case had some private communication with theapartment, which she shuddered even to remember. Determined not toundress, she lay down to sleep in her clothes, with her late father'sdog, the faithful MANCHON, at the foot of the bed, whom she consideredas a kind of guard. 

Thus circumstanced, she tried to banish reflection, but her busy fancywould still hover over the subjects of her interest, and she heard theclock of the castle strike two, before she closed her eyes. 

From the disturbed slumber, into which she then sunk, she was soonawakened by a noise, which seemed to arise within her chamber; but thesilence, that prevailed, as she fearfully listened, inclined her tobelieve, that she had been alarmed by such sounds as sometimes occur indreams, and she laid her head again upon the pillow. 

A return of the noise again disturbed her; it seemed to come from thatpart of the room, which communicated with the private stair-case, andshe instantly remembered the odd circumstance of the door having beenfastened, during the preceding night, by some unknown hand. Her latealarming suspicion, concerning its communication, also occurred to her. Her heart became faint with terror. Half raising herself from the bed, and gently drawing aside the curtain, she looked towards the door of thestair-case, but the lamp, that burnt on the hearth, spread so feeble alight through the apartment, that the remote parts of it were lost inshadow. The noise, however, which, she was convinced, came from thedoor, continued. It seemed like that made by the undrawing of rustybolts, and often ceased, and was then renewed more gently, as if thehand, that occasioned it, was restrained by a fear of discovery. 

While Emily kept her eyes fixed on the spot, she saw the door move, and then slowly open, and perceived something enter the room, but theextreme duskiness prevented her distinguishing what it was. Almostfainting with terror, she had yet sufficient command over herself, tocheck the shriek, that was escaping from her lips, and, letting thecurtain drop from her hand, continued to observe in silence the motionsof the mysterious form she saw. It seemed to glide along the remoteobscurity of the apartment, then paused, and, as it approached thehearth, she perceived, in the stronger light, what appeared to be ahuman figure. Certain remembrances now struck upon her heart, and almostsubdued the feeble remains of her spirits; she continued, however, towatch the figure, which remained for some time motionless, but then, advancing slowly towards the bed, stood silently at the feet, wherethe curtains, being a little open, allowed her still to see it; terror, however, had now deprived her of the power of discrimination, as well asof that of utterance. 

Having continued there a moment, the form retreated towards the hearth, when it took the lamp, held it up, surveyed the chamber, for a fewmoments, and then again advanced towards the bed. The light at thatinstant awakening the dog, that had slept at Emily's feet, he barkedloudly, and, jumping to the floor, flew at the stranger, who struck theanimal smartly with a sheathed sword, and, springing towards the bed, Emily discovered--Count Morano!

She gazed at him for a moment in speechless affright, while he, throwinghimself on his knee at the bed-side, besought her to fear nothing, and, having thrown down his sword, would have taken her hand, when thefaculties, that terror had suspended, suddenly returned, and shesprung from the bed, in the dress, which surely a kind of propheticapprehension had prevented her, on this night, from throwing aside. 

Morano rose, followed her to the door, through which he had entered, and caught her hand, as she reached the top of the stair-case, but notbefore she had discovered, by the gleam of a lamp, another man half-waydown the steps. She now screamed in despair, and, believing herselfgiven up by Montoni, saw, indeed, no possibility of escape. 

The Count, who still held her hand, led her back into the chamber. 

'Why all this terror?' said he, in a tremulous voice. 'Hear me, Emily: Icome not to alarm you; no, by Heaven! I love you too well--too well formy own peace. '

Emily looked at him for a moment, in fearful doubt. 

'Then leave me, sir, ' said she, 'leave me instantly. '

'Hear me, Emily, ' resumed Morano, 'hear me! I love, and am indespair--yes--in despair. How can I gaze upon you, and know, that itis, perhaps, for the last time, without suffering all the phrensy ofdespair? But it shall not be so; you shall be mine, in spite of Montoniand all his villany. '

'In spite of Montoni!' cried Emily eagerly: 'what is it I hear?'

'You hear, that Montoni is a villain, ' exclaimed Morano withvehemence, --'a villain who would have sold you to my love!--Who---'

'And is he less, who would have bought me?' said Emily, fixing on theCount an eye of calm contempt. 'Leave the room, sir, instantly, ' shecontinued in a voice, trembling between joy and fear, 'or I will alarmthe family, and you may receive that from Signor Montoni's vengeance, which I have vainly supplicated from his pity. ' But Emily knew, that shewas beyond the hearing of those, who might protect her. 

'You can never hope any thing from his pity, ' said Morano, 'he has usedme infamously, and my vengeance shall pursue him. And for you, Emily, for you, he has new plans more profitable than the last, no doubt. 'The gleam of hope, which the Count's former speech had revived, wasnow nearly extinguished by the latter; and, while Emily's countenancebetrayed the emotions of her mind, he endeavoured to take advantage ofthe discovery. 

'I lose time, ' said he: 'I came not to exclaim against Montoni; I cameto solicit, to plead--to Emily; to tell her all I suffer, to entreather to save me from despair, and herself from destruction. Emily! theschemes of Montoni are insearchable, but, I warn you, they are terrible;he has no principle, when interest, or ambition leads. Can I love you, and abandon you to his power? Fly, then, fly from this gloomy prison, with a lover, who adores you! I have bribed a servant of the castle toopen the gates, and, before tomorrow's dawn, you shall be far on the wayto Venice. '

Emily, overcome by the sudden shock she had received, at the moment, too, when she had begun to hope for better days, now thought she sawdestruction surround her on every side. Unable to reply, and almost tothink, she threw herself into a chair, pale and breathless. That Montonihad formerly sold her to Morano, was very probable; that he had nowwithdrawn his consent to the marriage, was evident from the Count'spresent conduct; and it was nearly certain, that a scheme of strongerinterest only could have induced the selfish Montoni to forego a plan, which he had hitherto so strenuously pursued. These reflections made hertremble at the hints, which Morano had just given, which she no longerhesitated to believe; and, while she shrunk from the new scenes ofmisery and oppression, that might await her in the castle of Udolpho, she was compelled to observe, that almost her only means of escapingthem was by submitting herself to the protection of this man, with whomevils more certain and not less terrible appeared, --evils, upon whichshe could not endure to pause for an instant. 

Her silence, though it was that of agony, encouraged the hopes ofMorano, who watched her countenance with impatience, took again theresisting hand she had withdrawn, and, as he pressed it to his heart, again conjured her to determine immediately. 'Every moment we lose, willmake our departure more dangerous, ' said he: 'these few moments lost mayenable Montoni to overtake us. '

'I beseech you, sir, be silent, ' said Emily faintly: 'I am indeed verywretched, and wretched I must remain. Leave me--I command you, leave meto my fate. '

'Never!' cried the Count vehemently: 'let me perish first! But forgivemy violence! the thought of losing you is madness. You cannotbe ignorant of Montoni's character, you may be ignorant of hisschemes--nay, you must be so, or you would not hesitate between my loveand his power. '

'Nor do I hesitate, ' said Emily. 

'Let us go, then, ' said Morano, eagerly kissing her hand, and rising, 'my carriage waits, below the castle walls. '

'You mistake me, sir, ' said Emily. 'Allow me to thank you for theinterest you express in my welfare, and to decide by my own choice. Ishall remain under the protection of Signor Montoni. '

'Under his protection!' exclaimed Morano, proudly, 'his PROTECTION!Emily, why will you suffer yourself to be thus deluded? I have alreadytold you what you have to expect from his PROTECTION. '

'And pardon me, sir, if, in this instance, I doubt mere assertion, and, to be convinced, require something approaching to proof. '

'I have now neither the time, or the means of adducing proof, ' repliedthe Count. 

'Nor have I, sir, the inclination to listen to it, if you had. '

'But you trifle with my patience and my distress, ' continued Morano. 'Isa marriage with a man, who adores you, so very terrible in your eyes, that you would prefer to it all the misery, to which Montoni maycondemn you in this remote prison? Some wretch must have stolen thoseaffections, which ought to be mine, or you would not thus obstinatelypersist in refusing an offer, that would place you beyond the reachof oppression. ' Morano walked about the room, with quick steps, and adisturbed air. 

'This discourse, Count Morano, sufficiently proves, that my affectionsought not to be yours, ' said Emily, mildly, 'and this conduct, thatI should not be placed beyond the reach of oppression, so long as Iremained in your power. If you wish me to believe otherwise, cease tooppress me any longer by your presence. If you refuse this, you willcompel me to expose you to the resentment of Signor Montoni. '

'Yes, let him come, ' cried Morano furiously, 'and brave MY resentment!Let him dare to face once more the man he has so courageously injured;danger shall teach him morality, and vengeance justice--let him come, and receive my sword in his heart!'

The vehemence, with which this was uttered, gave Emily new cause ofalarm, who arose from her chair, but her trembling frame refused tosupport her, and she resumed her seat;--the words died on her lips, and, when she looked wistfully towards the door of the corridor, which waslocked, she considered it was impossible for her to leave the apartment, before Morano would be apprised of, and able to counteract, herintention. 

Without observing her agitation, he continued to pace the room in theutmost perturbation of spirits. His darkened countenance expressedall the rage of jealousy and revenge; and a person, who had seen hisfeatures under the smile of ineffable tenderness, which he so latelyassumed, would now scarcely have believed them to be the same. 

'Count Morano, ' said Emily, at length recovering her voice, 'calm, Ientreat you, these transports, and listen to reason, if you will not topity. You have equally misplaced your love, and your hatred. --I nevercould have returned the affection, with which you honour me, andcertainly have never encouraged it; neither has Signor Montoni injuredyou, for you must have known, that he had no right to dispose of myhand, had he even possessed the power to do so. Leave, then, leavethe castle, while you may with safety. Spare yourself the dreadfulconsequences of an unjust revenge, and the remorse of having prolongedto me these moments of suffering. '

'Is it for mine, or for Montoni's safety, that you are thus alarmed?'said Morano, coldly, and turning towards her with a look of acrimony. 

'For both, ' replied Emily, in a trembling voice. 

'Unjust revenge!' cried the Count, resuming the abrupt tones of passion. 'Who, that looks upon that face, can imagine a punishment adequate tothe injury he would have done me? Yes, I will leave the castle; but itshall not be alone. I have trifled too long. Since my prayers and mysufferings cannot prevail, force shall. I have people in waiting, whoshall convey you to my carriage. Your voice will bring no succour; itcannot be heard from this remote part of the castle; submit, therefore, in silence, to go with me. '

This was an unnecessary injunction, at present; for Emily was toocertain, that her call would avail her nothing; and terror had soentirely disordered her thoughts, that she knew not how to plead toMorano, but sat, mute and trembling, in her chair, till he advancedto lift her from it, when she suddenly raised herself, and, with arepulsive gesture, and a countenance of forced serenity, said, 'CountMorano! I am now in your power; but you will observe, that this is notthe conduct which can win the esteem you appear so solicitous to obtain, and that you are preparing for yourself a load of remorse, in themiseries of a friendless orphan, which can never leave you. Do youbelieve your heart to be, indeed, so hardened, that you can look withoutemotion on the suffering, to which you would condemn me?'---

Emily was interrupted by the growling of the dog, who now came againfrom the bed, and Morano looked towards the door of the stair-case, where no person appearing, he called aloud, 'Cesario!'

'Emily, ' said the Count, 'why will you reduce me to adopt this conduct?How much more willingly would I persuade, than compel you to become mywife! but, by Heaven! I will not leave you to be sold by Montoni. Yet athought glances across my mind, that brings madness with it. I know nothow to name it. It is preposterous--it cannot be. --Yet you tremble--yougrow pale! It is! it is so;--you--you--love Montoni!' cried Morano, grasping Emily's wrist, and stamping his foot on the floor. 

An involuntary air of surprise appeared on her countenance. 'If you haveindeed believed so, ' said she, 'believe so still. '

'That look, those words confirm it, ' exclaimed Morano, furiously. 'No, no, no, Montoni had a richer prize in view, than gold. But he shall notlive to triumph over me!--This very instant---'

He was interrupted by the loud barking of the dog. 

'Stay, Count Morano, ' said Emily, terrified by his words, and by thefury expressed in his eyes, 'I will save you from this error. --Of allmen, Signor Montoni is not your rival; though, if I find all other meansof saving myself vain, I will try whether my voice may not arouse hisservants to my succour. '

'Assertion, ' replied Morano, 'at such a moment, is not to be dependedupon. How could I suffer myself to doubt, even for an instant, that hecould see you, and not love?--But my first care shall be to convey youfrom the castle. Cesario! ho, --Cesario!'

A man now appeared at the door of the stair-case, and other steps wereheard ascending. Emily uttered a loud shriek, as Morano hurried heracross the chamber, and, at the same moment, she heard a noise at thedoor, that opened upon the corridor. The Count paused an instant, as ifhis mind was suspended between love and the desire of vengeance; and, in that instant, the door gave way, and Montoni, followed by the oldsteward and several other persons, burst into the room. 

'Draw!' cried Montoni to the Count, who did not pause for a secondbidding, but, giving Emily into the hands of the people, that appearedfrom the stair-case, turned fiercely round. 'This in thine heart, villain!' said he, as he made a thrust at Montoni with his sword, whoparried the blow, and aimed another, while some of the persons, whohad followed him into the room, endeavoured to part the combatants, andothers rescued Emily from the hands of Morano's servants. 

'Was it for this, Count Morano, ' said Montoni, in a cool sarcastic toneof voice, 'that I received you under my roof, and permitted you, thoughmy declared enemy, to remain under it for the night? Was it, that youmight repay my hospitality with the treachery of a fiend, and rob me ofmy niece?'

'Who talks of treachery?' said Morano, in a tone of unrestrainedvehemence. 'Let him that does, shew an unblushing face of innocence. Montoni, you are a villain! If there is treachery in this affair, lookto yourself as the author of it. IF--do I say? I--whom you have wrongedwith unexampled baseness, whom you have injured almost beyond redress!But why do I use words?--Come on, coward, and receive justice at myhands!'

'Coward!' cried Montoni, bursting from the people who held him, andrushing on the Count, when they both retreated into the corridor, wherethe fight continued so desperately, that none of the spectators daredapproach them, Montoni swearing, that the first who interfered, shouldfall by his sword. 

Jealousy and revenge lent all their fury to Morano, while the superiorskill and the temperance of Montoni enabled him to wound his adversary, whom his servants now attempted to seize, but he would not berestrained, and, regardless of his wound, continued to fight. He seemedto be insensible both of pain and loss of blood, and alive only to theenergy of his passions. Montoni, on the contrary, persevered in thecombat, with a fierce, yet wary, valour; he received the point ofMorano's sword on his arm, but, almost in the same instant, severelywounded and disarmed him. The Count then fell back into the arms of hisservant, while Montoni held his sword over him, and bade him ask hislife. Morano, sinking under the anguish of his wound, had scarcelyreplied by a gesture, and by a few words, feebly articulated, that hewould not--when he fainted; and Montoni was then going to have plungedthe sword into his breast, as he lay senseless, but his arm was arrestedby Cavigni. To the interruption he yielded without much difficulty, buthis complexion changed almost to blackness, as he looked upon his fallenadversary, and ordered, that he should be carried instantly from thecastle. 

In the mean time, Emily, who had been with-held from leaving the chamberduring the affray, now came forward into the corridor, and pleaded acause of common humanity, with the feelings of the warmest benevolence, when she entreated Montoni to allow Morano the assistance in the castle, which his situation required. But Montoni, who had seldom listened topity, now seemed rapacious of vengeance, and, with a monster's cruelty, again ordered his defeated enemy to be taken from the castle, inhis present state, though there were only the woods, or a solitaryneighbouring cottage, to shelter him from the night. 

The Count's servants having declared, that they would not move him tillhe revived, Montoni's stood inactive, Cavigni remonstrating, and Emily, superior to Montoni's menaces, giving water to Morano, and directing theattendants to bind up his wound. At length, Montoni had leisure to feelpain from his own hurt, and he withdrew to examine it. 

The Count, meanwhile, having slowly recovered, the first object he saw, on raising his eyes, was Emily, bending over him with a countenancestrongly expressive of solicitude. He surveyed her with a look ofanguish. 

'I have deserved this, ' said he, 'but not from Montoni. It is from you, Emily, that I have deserved punishment, yet I receive only pity!' Hepaused, for he had spoken with difficulty. After a moment, he proceeded. 'I must resign you, but not to Montoni. Forgive me the sufferings I havealready occasioned you! But for THAT villain--his infamy shall not gounpunished. Carry me from this place, ' said he to his servants. 'I amin no condition to travel: you must, therefore, take me to the nearestcottage, for I will not pass the night under his roof, although I mayexpire on the way from it. '

Cesario proposed to go out, and enquire for a cottage, that mightreceive his master, before he attempted to remove him: but Morano wasimpatient to be gone; the anguish of his mind seemed to be even greaterthan that of his wound, and he rejected, with disdain, the offer ofCavigni to entreat Montoni, that he might be suffered to pass the nightin the castle. Cesario was now going to call up the carriage to thegreat gate, but the Count forbade him. 'I cannot bear the motion of acarriage, ' said he: 'call some others of my people, that they may assistin bearing me in their arms. '

At length, however, Morano submitted to reason, and consented, thatCesario should first prepare some cottage to receive him. Emily, now that he had recovered his senses, was about to withdraw from thecorridor, when a message from Montoni commanded her to do so, and alsothat the Count, if he was not already gone, should quit the castleimmediately. Indignation flashed from Morano's eyes, and flushed hischeeks. 

'Tell Montoni, ' said he, 'that I shall go when it suits my ownconvenience; that I quit the castle, he dares to call his, as I wouldthe nest of a serpent, and that this is not the last he shall hear fromme. Tell him, I will not leave ANOTHER murder on his conscience, if Ican help it. '

'Count Morano! do you know what you say?' said Cavigni. 

'Yes, Signor, I know well what I say, and he will understand well what Imean. His conscience will assist his understanding, on this occasion. '

'Count Morano, ' said Verezzi, who had hitherto silently observed him, 'dare again to insult my friend, and I will plunge this sword in yourbody. '

'It would be an action worthy the friend of a villain!' said Morano, asthe strong impulse of his indignation enabled him to raise himself fromthe arms of his servants; but the energy was momentary, and he sunkback, exhausted by the effort. Montoni's people, meanwhile, heldVerezzi, who seemed inclined, even in this instant, to execute histhreat; and Cavigni, who was not so depraved as to abet the cowardlymalignity of Verezzi, endeavoured to withdraw him from the corridor;and Emily, whom a compassionate interest had thus long detained, wasnow quitting it in new terror, when the supplicating voice of Moranoarrested her, and, by a feeble gesture, he beckoned her to drawnearer. She advanced with timid steps, but the fainting languor of hiscountenance again awakened her pity, and overcame her terror. 

'I am going from hence for ever, ' said he: 'perhaps, I shall never seeyou again. I would carry with me your forgiveness, Emily; nay more--Iwould also carry your good wishes. '

'You have my forgiveness, then, ' said Emily, 'and my sincere wishes foryour recovery. '

'And only for my recovery?' said Morano, with a sigh. 'For your generalwelfare, ' added Emily. 

'Perhaps I ought to be contented with this, ' he resumed; 'I certainlyhave not deserved more; but I would ask you, Emily, sometimes to thinkof me, and, forgetting my offence, to remember only the passion whichoccasioned it. I would ask, alas! impossibilities: I would ask you tolove me! At this moment, when I am about to part with you, and that, perhaps, for ever, I am scarcely myself. Emily--may you never know thetorture of a passion like mine! What do I say? O, that, for me, youmight be sensible of such a passion!'

Emily looked impatient to be gone. 'I entreat you, Count, to consultyour own safety, ' said she, 'and linger here no longer. I tremblefor the consequences of Signor Verezzi's passion, and of Montoni'sresentment, should he learn that you are still here. '

Morano's face was overspread with a momentary crimson, his eyessparkled, but he seemed endeavouring to conquer his emotion, and repliedin a calm voice, 'Since you are interested for my safety, I will regardit, and be gone. But, before I go, let me again hear you say, that youwish me well, ' said he, fixing on her an earnest and mournful look. 

Emily repeated her assurances. He took her hand, which she scarcelyattempted to withdraw, and put it to his lips. 'Farewell, Count Morano!'said Emily; and she turned to go, when a second message arrived fromMontoni, and she again conjured Morano, as he valued his life, to quitthe castle immediately. He regarded her in silence, with a look of fixeddespair. But she had no time to enforce her compassionate entreaties, and, not daring to disobey the second command of Montoni, she left thecorridor, to attend him. 

He was in the cedar parlour, that adjoined the great hall, laid upona couch, and suffering a degree of anguish from his wound, which fewpersons could have disguised, as he did. His countenance, which wasstern, but calm, expressed the dark passion of revenge, but no symptomof pain; bodily pain, indeed, he had always despised, and had yieldedonly to the strong and terrible energies of the soul. He was attended byold Carlo and by Signor Bertolini, but Madame Montoni was not with him. 

Emily trembled, as she approached and received his severe rebuke, for not having obeyed his first summons; and perceived, also, thathe attributed her stay in the corridor to a motive, that had not evenoccurred to her artless mind. 

'This is an instance of female caprice, ' said he, 'which I ought to haveforeseen. Count Morano, whose suit you obstinately rejected, so long asit was countenanced by me, you favour, it seems, since you find I havedismissed him. '

Emily looked astonished. 'I do not comprehend you, sir, ' said she: 'Youcertainly do not mean to imply, that the design of the Count to visitthe double-chamber, was founded upon any approbation of mine. '

'To that I reply nothing, ' said Montoni; 'but it must certainly be amore than common interest, that made you plead so warmly in his cause, and that could detain you thus long in his presence, contrary to myexpress order--in the presence of a man, whom you have hitherto, on alloccasions, most scrupulously shunned!'

'I fear, sir, it was a more than common interest, that detained me, 'said Emily calmly; 'for of late I have been inclined to think, that ofcompassion is an uncommon one. But how could I, could YOU, sir, witnessCount Morano's deplorable condition, and not wish to relieve it?'

'You add hypocrisy to caprice, ' said Montoni, frowning, 'and an attemptat satire, to both; but, before you undertake to regulate the moralsof other persons, you should learn and practise the virtues, whichare indispensable to a woman--sincerity, uniformity of conduct andobedience. '

Emily, who had always endeavoured to regulate her conduct by the nicestlaws, and whose mind was finely sensible, not only of what is justin morals, but of whatever is beautiful in the female character, wasshocked by these words; yet, in the next moment, her heart swelled withthe consciousness of having deserved praise, instead of censure, and shewas proudly silent. Montoni, acquainted with the delicacy of her mind, knew how keenly she would feel his rebuke; but he was a stranger to theluxury of conscious worth, and, therefore, did not foresee the energy ofthat sentiment, which now repelled his satire. Turning to a servant whohad lately entered the room, he asked whether Morano had quitted thecastle. The man answered, that his servants were then removing him, ona couch, to a neighbouring cottage. Montoni seemed somewhat appeased, on hearing this; and, when Ludovico appeared, a few moments after, and said, that Morano was gone, he told Emily she might retire to herapartment. 

She withdrew willingly from his presence; but the thought of passing theremainder of the night in a chamber, which the door from the stair-casemade liable to the intrusion of any person, now alarmed her more thanever, and she determined to call at Madame Montoni's room, and request, that Annette might be permitted to be with her. 

On reaching the great gallery, she heard voices seemingly indispute, and, her spirits now apt to take alarm, she paused, but soondistinguished some words of Cavigni and Verezzi, and went towards them, in the hope of conciliating their difference. They were alone. Verezzi'sface was still flushed with rage; and, as the first object of it wasnow removed from him, he appeared willing to transfer his resentmentto Cavigni, who seemed to be expostulating, rather than disputing, withhim. 

Verezzi was protesting, that he would instantly inform Montoni of theinsult, which Morano had thrown out against him, and above all, that, wherein he had accused him of murder. 

'There is no answering, ' said Cavigni, 'for the words of a man in apassion; little serious regard ought to be paid to them. If you persistin your resolution, the consequences may be fatal to both. We have nowmore serious interests to pursue, than those of a petty revenge. '

Emily joined her entreaties to Cavigni's arguments, and they, at length, prevailed so far, as that Verezzi consented to retire, without seeingMontoni. 

On calling at her aunt's apartment, she found it fastened. In a fewminutes, however, it was opened by Madame Montoni herself. 

It may be remembered, that it was by a door leading into the bedroomfrom a back passage, that Emily had secretly entered a few hourspreceding. She now conjectured, by the calmness of Madame Montoni'sair, that she was not apprised of the accident, which had befallen herhusband, and was beginning to inform her of it, in the tenderest mannershe could, when her aunt interrupted her, by saying, she was acquaintedwith the whole affair. 

Emily knew indeed, that she had little reason to love Montoni, but couldscarcely have believed her capable of such perfect apathy, as she nowdiscovered towards him; having obtained permission, however, for Annetteto sleep in her chamber, she went thither immediately. 

A track of blood appeared along the corridor, leading to it; and onthe spot, where the Count and Montoni had fought, the whole floor wasstained. Emily shuddered, and leaned on Annette, as she passed. When shereached her apartment, she instantly determined, since the door of thestair-case had been left open, and that Annette was now with her, toexplore whither it led, --a circumstance now materially connected withher own safety. Annette accordingly, half curious and half afraid, proposed to descend the stairs; but, on approaching the door, theyperceived, that it was already fastened without, and their care was thendirected to the securing it on the inside also, by placing against it asmuch of the heavy furniture of the room, as they could lift. Emily thenretired to bed, and Annette continued on a chair by the hearth, wheresome feeble embers remained. 

CHAPTER VII

 Of aery tongues, that syllable men's names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses. MILTON

It is now necessary to mention some circumstances, which could not berelated amidst the events of Emily's hasty departure from Venice, ortogether with those, which so rapidly succeeded to her arrival in thecastle. 

On the morning of her journey, Count Morano had gone at the appointedhour to the mansion of Montoni, to demand his bride. When he reachedit, he was somewhat surprised by the silence and solitary air of theportico, where Montoni's lacqueys usually loitered; but surprisewas soon changed to astonishment, and astonishment to the rage ofdisappointment, when the door was opened by an old woman, who told hisservants, that her master and his family had left Venice, early in themorning, for terra-firma. Scarcely believing what his servants told, heleft his gondola, and rushed into the hall to enquire further. The oldwoman, who was the only person left in care of the mansion, persisted inher story, which the silent and deserted apartments soon convinced himwas no fiction. He then seized her with a menacing air, as if he meantto wreak all his vengeance upon her, at the same time asking her twentyquestions in a breath, and all these with a gesticulation so furious, that she was deprived of the power of answering them; then suddenlyletting her go, he stamped about the hall, like a madman, cursingMontoni and his own folly. 

When the good woman was at liberty, and had somewhat recovered from herfright, she told him all she knew of the affair, which was, indeed, verylittle, but enough to enable Morano to discover, that Montoni was goneto his castle on the Apennine. Thither he followed, as soon as hisservants could complete the necessary preparation for the journey, accompanied by a friend, and attended by a number of his people, determined to obtain Emily, or a full revenge on Montoni. When his mindhad recovered from the first effervescence of rage, and histhoughts became less obscured, his conscience hinted to him certaincircumstances, which, in some measure, explained the conduct of Montoni:but how the latter could have been led to suspect an intention, which, he had believed, was known only to himself, he could not even guess. Onthis occasion, however, he had been partly betrayed by that sympatheticintelligence, which may be said to exist between bad minds, and whichteaches one man to judge what another will do in the same circumstances. Thus it was with Montoni, who had now received indisputable proof of atruth, which he had some time suspected--that Morano's circumstances, instead of being affluent, as he had been bidden to believe, weregreatly involved. Montoni had been interested in his suit, by motivesentirely selfish, those of avarice and pride; the last of which wouldhave been gratified by an alliance with a Venetian nobleman, the formerby Emily's estate in Gascony, which he had stipulated, as the price ofhis favour, should be delivered up to him from the day of her marriage. In the meantime, he had been led to suspect the consequence of theCount's boundless extravagance; but it was not till the evening, preceding the intended nuptials, that he obtained certain informationof his distressed circumstances. He did not hesitate then to infer, that Morano designed to defraud him of Emily's estate; and in thissupposition he was confirmed, and with apparent reason, by thesubsequent conduct of the Count, who, after having appointed to meet himon that night, for the purpose of signing the instrument, which was tosecure to him his reward, failed in his engagement. Such a circumstance, indeed, in a man of Morano's gay and thoughtless character, and at atime when his mind was engaged by the bustle of preparation for hisnuptials, might have been attributed to a cause less decisive, thandesign; but Montoni did not hesitate an instant to interpret it his ownway, and, after vainly waiting the Count's arrival, for several hours, he gave orders for his people to be in readiness to set off at amoment's notice. By hastening to Udolpho he intended to remove Emilyfrom the reach of Morano, as well as to break off the affair, withoutsubmitting himself to useless altercation: and, if the Count meant whathe called honourably, he would doubtless follow Emily, and sign thewritings in question. If this was done, so little consideration hadMontoni for her welfare, that he would not have scrupled to sacrificeher to a man of ruined fortune, since by that means he could enrichhimself; and he forbore to mention to her the motive of his suddenjourney, lest the hope it might revive should render her moreintractable, when submission would be required. 

With these considerations, he had left Venice; and, with others totallydifferent, Morano had, soon after, pursued his steps across the ruggedApennines. When his arrival was announced at the castle, Montoni didnot believe, that he would have presumed to shew himself, unless he hadmeant to fulfil his engagement, and he, therefore, readily admitted him;but the enraged countenance and expressions of Morano, as he entered theapartment, instantly undeceived him; and, when Montoni had explained, inpart, the motives of his abrupt departure from Venice, the Count stillpersisted in demanding Emily, and reproaching Montoni, without evennaming the former stipulation. 

Montoni, at length, weary of the dispute, deferred the settling ofit till the morrow, and Morano retired with some hope, suggested byMontoni's apparent indecision. When, however, in the silence of his ownapartment, he began to consider the past conversation, the character ofMontoni, and some former instances of his duplicity, the hope, whichhe had admitted, vanished, and he determined not to neglect the presentpossibility of obtaining Emily by other means. To his confidentialvalet he told his design of carrying away Emily, and sent him back toMontoni's servants to find out one among them, who might enable him toexecute it. The choice of this person he entrusted to the fellow's owndiscernment, and not imprudently; for he discovered a man, whom Montonihad, on some former occasion, treated harshly, and who was now readyto betray him. This man conducted Cesario round the castle, through aprivate passage, to the stair-case, that led to Emily's chamber; thenshewed him a short way out of the building, and afterwards procured himthe keys, that would secure his retreat. The man was well rewarded forhis trouble; how the Count was rewarded for his treachery, had alreadyappeared. 

Meanwhile, old Carlo had overheard two of Morano's servants, who hadbeen ordered to be in waiting with the carriage, beyond the castlewalls, expressing their surprise at their master's sudden, and secretdeparture, for the valet had entrusted them with no more of Morano'sdesigns, than it was necessary for them to execute. They, however, indulged themselves in surmises, and in expressing them to each other;and from these Carlo had drawn a just conclusion. But, before heventured to disclose his apprehensions to Montoni, he endeavoured toobtain further confirmation of them, and, for this purpose, placedhimself, with one of his fellow-servants, at the door of Emily'sapartment, that opened upon the corridor. He did not watch long in vain, though the growling of the dog had once nearly betrayed him. When he wasconvinced, that Morano was in the room, and had listened long enoughto his conversation, to understand his scheme, he immediately alarmedMontoni, and thus rescued Emily from the designs of the Count. 

Montoni, on the following morning, appeared as usual, except thathe wore his wounded arm in a sling; he went out upon the ramparts;overlooked the men employed in repairing them; gave orders foradditional workmen, and then came into the castle to give audienceto several persons, who were just arrived, and who were shewn into aprivate apartment, where he communicated with them, for near an hour. Carlo was then summoned, and ordered to conduct the strangers to a partof the castle, which, in former times, had been occupied by the upperservants of the family, and to provide them with every necessaryrefreshment. --When he had done this, he was bidden to return to hismaster. 

Meanwhile, the Count remained in a cottage in the skirts of the woodsbelow, suffering under bodily and mental pain, and meditating deeprevenge against Montoni. His servant, whom he had dispatched for asurgeon to the nearest town, which was, however, at a considerabledistance, did not return till the following day, when, his wounds beingexamined and dressed, the practitioner refused to deliver any positiveopinion, concerning the degree of danger attending them; but giving hispatient a composing draught and ordering him to be quiet, remained atthe cottage to watch the event. 

Emily, for the remainder of the late eventful night, had been sufferedto sleep, undisturbed; and, when her mind recovered from the confusionof slumber, and she remembered, that she was now released from theaddresses of Count Morano, her spirits were suddenly relieved from apart of the terrible anxiety, that had long oppressed them; that whichremained, arose chiefly from a recollection of Morano's assertions, concerning the schemes of Montoni. He had said, that plans of thelatter, concerning Emily, were insearchable, yet that he knew them tobe terrible. At the time he uttered this, she almost believed it to bedesigned for the purpose of prevailing with her to throw herself intohis protection, and she still thought it might be chiefly so accountedfor; but his assertions had left an impression on her mind, which aconsideration of the character and former conduct of Montoni did notcontribute to efface. She, however, checked her propensity to anticipateevil; and, determined to enjoy this respite from actual misfortune, tried to dismiss thought, took her instruments for drawing, and placedherself at a window, to select into a landscape some features of thescenery without. 

As she was thus employed, she saw, walking on the rampart below, themen, who had so lately arrived at the castle. The sight of strangerssurprised her, but still more, of strangers such as these. There was asingularity in their dress, and a certain fierceness in their air, thatfixed all her attention. She withdrew from the casement, while theypassed, but soon returned to observe them further. Their figures seemedso well suited to the wildness of the surrounding objects, that, as theystood surveying the castle, she sketched them for banditti, amid themountain-view of her picture, when she had finished which, she wassurprised to observe the spirit of her group. But she had copied fromnature. 

Carlo, when he had placed refreshment before these men in the apartmentassigned to them, returned, as he was ordered, to Montoni, who wasanxious to discover by what servant the keys of the castle had beendelivered to Morano, on the preceding night. But this man, though he wastoo faithful to his master quietly to see him injured, would notbetray a fellow-servant even to justice; he, therefore, pretended to beignorant who it was, that had conspired with Count Morano, and related, as before, that he had only overheard some of the strangers describingthe plot. 

Montoni's suspicions naturally fell upon the porter, whom he ordered nowto attend. Carlo hesitated, and then with slow steps went to seek him. 

Barnardine, the porter, denied the accusation with a countenance sosteady and undaunted, that Montoni could scarcely believe him guilty, though he knew not how to think him innocent. At length, the man wasdismissed from his presence, and, though the real offender, escapeddetection. 

Montoni then went to his wife's apartment, whither Emily followed soonafter, but, finding them in high dispute, was instantly leaving theroom, when her aunt called her back, and desired her to stay. --'Youshall be a witness, ' said she, 'of my opposition. Now, sir, repeat thecommand, I have so often refused to obey. '

Montoni turned, with a stern countenance, to Emily, and bade her quitthe apartment, while his wife persisted in desiring, that she wouldstay. Emily was eager to escape from this scene of contention, andanxious, also, to serve her aunt; but she despaired of conciliatingMontoni, in whose eyes the rising tempest of his soul flashed terribly. 

'Leave the room, ' said he, in a voice of thunder. Emily obeyed, and, walking down to the rampart, which the strangers had now left, continuedto meditate on the unhappy marriage of her father's sister, and on herown desolate situation, occasioned by the ridiculous imprudence of her, whom she had always wished to respect and love. Madame Montoni's conducthad, indeed, rendered it impossible for Emily to do either; buther gentle heart was touched by her distress, and, in the pity thusawakened, she forgot the injurious treatment she had received from her. 

As she sauntered on the rampart, Annette appeared at the hall door, looked cautiously round, and then advanced to meet her. 

'Dear ma'amselle, I have been looking for you all over the castle, ' saidshe. 'If you will step this way, I will shew you a picture. '

'A picture!' exclaimed Emily, and shuddered. 

'Yes, ma'am, a picture of the late lady of this place. Old Carlo justnow told me it was her, and I thought you would be curious to see it. Asto my lady, you know, ma'amselle, one cannot talk about such things toher. '--

'And so, ' said Emily smilingly, 'as you must talk of them to somebody--'

'Why, yes, ma'amselle; what can one do in such a place as this, if onemust not talk? If I was in a dungeon, if they would let me talk--itwould be some comfort; nay, I would talk, if it was only to the walls. But come, ma'amselle, we lose time--let me shew you to the picture. '

'Is it veiled?' said Emily, pausing. 

'Dear ma'amselle!' said Annette, fixing her eyes on Emily's face, 'whatmakes you look so pale?--are you ill?'

'No, Annette, I am well enough, but I have no desire to see thispicture; return into the hall. '

'What! ma'am, not to see the lady of this castle?' said the girl--'thelady, who disappeared to strangely? Well! now, I would have run to thefurthest mountain we can see, yonder, to have got a sight of such apicture; and, to speak my mind, that strange story is all, that makesme care about this old castle, though it makes me thrill all over, as itwere, whenever I think of it. '

'Yes, Annette, you love the wonderful; but do you know, that, unless youguard against this inclination, it will lead you into all the misery ofsuperstition?'

Annette might have smiled in her turn, at this sage observation ofEmily, who could tremble with ideal terrors, as much as herself, andlisten almost as eagerly to the recital of a mysterious story. Annetteurged her request. 

'Are you sure it is a picture?' said Emily, 'Have you seen it?--Is itveiled?'

'Holy Maria! ma'amselle, yes, no, yes. I am sure it is a picture--I haveseen it, and it is not veiled!'

The tone and look of surprise, with which this was uttered, recalledEmily's prudence; who concealed her emotion under a smile, and badeAnnette lead her to the picture. It was in an obscure chamber, adjoiningthat part of the castle, allotted to the servants. Several otherportraits hung on the walls, covered, like this, with dust and cobweb. 

'That is it, ma'amselle, ' said Annette, in a low voice, and pointing. Emily advanced, and surveyed the picture. It represented a lady in theflower of youth and beauty; her features were handsome and noble, fullof strong expression, but had little of the captivating sweetness, thatEmily had looked for, and still less of the pensive mildness she loved. It was a countenance, which spoke the language of passion, rather thanthat of sentiment; a haughty impatience of misfortune--not the placidmelancholy of a spirit injured, yet resigned. 

'How many years have passed, since this lady disappeared, Annette?' saidEmily. 

'Twenty years, ma'amselle, or thereabout, as they tell me; I know it isa long while ago. ' Emily continued to gaze upon the portrait. 

'I think, ' resumed Annette, 'the Signor would do well to hang it in abetter place, than this old chamber. Now, in my mind, he ought to placethe picture of a lady, who gave him all these riches, in the handsomestroom in the castle. But he may have good reasons for what he does:and some people do say that he has lost his riches, as well as hisgratitude. But hush, ma'am, not a word!' added Annette, laying herfinger on her lips. Emily was too much absorbed in thought, to hear whatshe said. 

''Tis a handsome lady, I am sure, ' continued Annette: 'the Signor neednot be ashamed to put her in the great apartment, where the veiledpicture hangs. ' Emily turned round. 'But for that matter, she would beas little seen there, as here, for the door is always locked, I find. '

'Let us leave this chamber, ' said Emily: 'and let me caution you again, Annette; be guarded in your conversation, and never tell, that you knowany thing of that picture. '

'Holy Mother!' exclaimed Annette, 'it is no secret; why all the servantshave seen it already!'

Emily started. 'How is this?' said she--'Have seen it! When?--how?'

'Dear, ma'amselle, there is nothing surprising in that; we had all alittle more CURIOUSNESS than you had. '

'I thought you told me, the door was kept locked?' said Emily. 

'If that was the case, ma'amselle, ' replied Annette, looking about her, 'how could we get here?'

'Oh, you mean THIS picture, ' said Emily, with returning calmness. 'Well, Annette, here is nothing more to engage my attention; we will go. '

Emily, as she passed to her own apartment, saw Montoni go down to thehall, and she turned into her aunt's dressing-room, whom she foundweeping and alone, grief and resentment struggling on her countenance. Pride had hitherto restrained complaint. Judging of Emily's dispositionfrom her own, and from a consciousness of what her treatment of herdeserved, she had believed, that her griefs would be cause of triumphto her niece, rather than of sympathy; that she would despise, not pityher. But she knew not the tenderness and benevolence of Emily's heart, that had always taught her to forget her own injuries in the misfortunesof her enemy. The sufferings of others, whoever they might be, calledforth her ready compassion, which dissipated at once every obscuringcloud to goodness, that passion or prejudice might have raised in hermind. 

Madame Montoni's sufferings, at length, rose above her pride, and, whenEmily had before entered the room, she would have told them all, had nother husband prevented her; now that she was no longer restrained by hispresence, she poured forth all her complaints to her niece. 

'O Emily!' she exclaimed, 'I am the most wretched of women--I amindeed cruelly treated! Who, with my prospects of happiness, could haveforeseen such a wretched fate as this?--who could have thought, when Imarried such a man as the Signor, I should ever have to bewail my lot?But there is no judging what is for the best--there is no knowing whatis for our good! The most flattering prospects often change--the bestjudgments may be deceived--who could have foreseen, when I married theSignor, that I should ever repent my GENEROSITY?'

Emily thought she might have foreseen it, but this was not a thoughtof triumph. She placed herself in a chair near her aunt, took herhand, and, with one of those looks of soft compassion, which mightcharacterize the countenance of a guardian angel, spoke to her inthe tenderest accents. But these did not sooth Madame Montoni, whomimpatience to talk made unwilling to listen. She wanted to complain, notto be consoled; and it was by exclamations of complaint only, that Emilylearned the particular circumstances of her affliction. 

'Ungrateful man!' said Madame Montoni, 'he has deceived me in everyrespect; and now he has taken me from my country and friends, to shutme up in this old castle; and, here he thinks he can compel me to dowhatever he designs! But he shall find himself mistaken, he shall findthat no threats can alter--But who would have believed! who would havesupposed, that a man of his family and apparent wealth had absolutelyno fortune?--no, scarcely a sequin of his own! I did all for the best;I thought he was a man of consequence, of great property, or I am sureI would never have married him, --ungrateful, artful man!' She paused totake breath. 

'Dear Madam, be composed, ' said Emily: 'the Signor may not be so rich asyou had reason to expect, but surely he cannot be very poor, sincethis castle and the mansion at Venice are his. May I ask what are thecircumstances, that particularly affect you?'

'What are the circumstances!' exclaimed Madame Montoni with resentment:'why is it not sufficient, that he had long ago ruined his own fortuneby play, and that he has since lost what I brought him--and that now hewould compel me to sign away my settlement (it was well I had the chiefof my property settled on myself!) that he may lose this also, or throwit away in wild schemes, which nobody can understand but himself? And, and--is not all this sufficient?'

'It is, indeed, ' said Emily, 'but you must recollect, dear madam, that Iknew nothing of all this. '

'Well, and is it not sufficient, ' rejoined her aunt, 'that he is alsoabsolutely ruined, that he is sunk deeply in debt, and that neitherthis castle, or the mansion at Venice, is his own, if all his debts, honourable and dishonourable, were paid!'

'I am shocked by what you tell me, madam, ' said Emily. 

'And is it not enough, ' interrupted Madame Montoni, 'that he has treatedme with neglect, with cruelty, because I refused to relinquish mysettlements, and, instead of being frightened by his menaces, resolutelydefied him, and upbraided him with his shameful conduct? But I bore allmeekly, --you know, niece, I never uttered a word of complaint, till now;no! That such a disposition as mine should be so imposed upon! That I, whose only faults are too much kindness, too much generosity, should bechained for life to such a vile, deceitful, cruel monster!'

Want of breath compelled Madame Montoni to stop. If any thing could havemade Emily smile in these moments, it would have been this speech ofher aunt, delivered in a voice very little below a scream, and with avehemence of gesticulation and of countenance, that turned the wholeinto burlesque. Emily saw, that her misfortunes did not admit of realconsolation, and, contemning the commonplace terms of superficialcomfort, she was silent; while Madame Montoni, jealous of her ownconsequence, mistook this for the silence of indifference, or ofcontempt, and reproached her with want of duty and feeling. 

'O! I suspected what all this boasted sensibility would prove to be!'rejoined she; 'I thought it would not teach you to feel either duty, or affection, for your relations, who have treated you like their owndaughter!'

'Pardon me, madam, ' said Emily, mildly, 'it is not natural to me toboast, and if it was, I am sure I would not boast of sensibility--aquality, perhaps, more to be feared, than desired. '

'Well, well, niece, I will not dispute with you. But, as I said, Montonithreatens me with violence, if I any longer refuse to sign away mysettlements, and this was the subject of our contest, when you came intothe room before. Now, I am determined no power on earth shall make medo this. Neither will I bear all this tamely. He shall hear his truecharacter from me; I will tell him all he deserves, in spite of histhreats and cruel treatment. '

Emily seized a pause of Madame Montoni's voice, to speak. 'Dear madam, 'said she, 'but will not this serve to irritate the Signor unnecessarily?will it not provoke the harsh treatment you dread?'

'I do not care, ' replied Madame Montoni, 'it does not signify: I willnot submit to such usage. You would have me give up my settlements, too, I suppose!'

'No, madam, I do not exactly mean that. '

'What is it you do mean then?'

'You spoke of reproaching the Signor, '--said Emily, with hesitation. 'Why, does he not deserve reproaches?' said her aunt. 

'Certainly he does; but will it be prudent in you, madam, to make them?'

'Prudent!' exclaimed Madame Montoni. 'Is this a time to talk ofprudence, when one is threatened with all sorts of violence?'

'It is to avoid that violence, that prudence is necessary. ' said Emily. 

'Of prudence!' continued Madame Montoni, without attending to her, 'ofprudence towards a man, who does not scruple to break all the commonties of humanity in his conduct to me! And is it for me to considerprudence in my behaviour towards him! I am not so mean. '

'It is for your own sake, not for the Signor's, madam, ' said Emilymodestly, 'that you should consult prudence. Your reproaches, howeverjust, cannot punish him, but they may provoke him to further violenceagainst you. '

'What! would you have me submit, then, to whatever he commands--wouldyou have me kneel down at his feet, and thank him for his cruelties?Would you have me give up my settlements?'

'How much you mistake me, madam!' said Emily, 'I am unequal to adviseyou on a point so important as the last: but you will pardon me forsaying, that, if you consult your own peace, you will try to conciliateSignor Montoni, rather than to irritate him by reproaches. '

'Conciliate indeed! I tell you, niece, it is utterly impossible; Idisdain to attempt it. '

Emily was shocked to observe the perverted understanding and obstinatetemper of Madame Montoni; but, not less grieved for her sufferings, she looked round for some alleviating circumstance to offer her. 'Yoursituation is, perhaps, not so desperate, dear madam, ' said Emily, 'asyou may imagine. The Signor may represent his affairs to be worse thanthey are, for the purpose of pleading a stronger necessity for hispossession of your settlement. Besides, so long as you keep this, youmay look forward to it as a resource, at least, that will afford youa competence, should the Signor's future conduct compel you to sue forseparation. '

Madame Montoni impatiently interrupted her. 'Unfeeling, cruel girl!'said she, 'and so you would persuade me, that I have no reason tocomplain; that the Signor is in very flourishing circumstances, that myfuture prospects promise nothing but comfort, and that my griefs areas fanciful and romantic as your own! Is it the way to console me, toendeavour to persuade me out of my senses and my feelings, because youhappen to have no feelings yourself? I thought I was opening my heartto a person, who could sympathize in my distress, but I find, that yourpeople of sensibility can feel for nobody but themselves! You may retireto your chamber. '

Emily, without replying, immediately left the room, with a mingledemotion of pity and contempt, and hastened to her own, where she yieldedto the mournful reflections, which a knowledge of her aunt's situationhad occasioned. The conversation of the Italian with Valancourt, inFrance, again occurred to her. His hints, respecting the broken fortunesof Montoni, were now completely justified; those, also, concerning hischaracter, appeared not less so, though the particular circumstances, connected with his fame, to which the stranger had alluded, yet remainedto be explained. Notwithstanding, that her own observations and thewords of Count Morano had convinced her, that Montoni's situation wasnot what it formerly appeared to be, the intelligence she had justreceived from her aunt on this point, struck her with all the force ofastonishment, which was not weakened, when she considered the presentstyle of Montoni's living, the number of servants he maintained, and thenew expences he was incurring, by repairing and fortifying his castle. Her anxiety for her aunt and for herself increased with reflection. Several assertions of Morano, which, on the preceding night, shehad believed were prompted either by interest, or by resentment, nowreturned to her mind with the strength of truth. She could not doubt, that Montoni had formerly agreed to give her to the Count, for apecuniary reward;--his character, and his distressed circumstancesjustified the belief; these, also, seemed to confirm Morano's assertion, that he now designed to dispose of her, more advantageously for himself, to a richer suitor. 

Amidst the reproaches, which Morano had thrown out against Montoni, he had said--he would not quit the castle HE DARED TO CALL HIS, norwillingly leave ANOTHER murder on his conscience--hints, which mighthave no other origin than the passion of the moment: but Emily was nowinclined to account for them more seriously, and she shuddered to think, that she was in the hands of a man, to whom it was even possible theycould apply. At length, considering, that reflection could neitherrelease her from her melancholy situation, or enable her to bear it withgreater fortitude, she tried to divert her anxiety, and took down fromher little library a volume of her favourite Ariosto; but his wildimagery and rich invention could not long enchant her attention; hisspells did not reach her heart, and over her sleeping fancy they played, without awakening it. 

She now put aside the book, and took her lute, for it was seldom thather sufferings refused to yield to the magic of sweet sounds; when theydid so, she was oppressed by sorrow, that came from excess of tendernessand regret; and there were times, when music had increased such sorrowto a degree, that was scarcely endurable; when, if it had not suddenlyceased, she might have lost her reason. Such was the time, when shemourned for her father, and heard the midnight strains, that floated byher window near the convent in Languedoc, on the night that followed hisdeath. 

She continued to play, till Annette brought dinner into her chamber, at which Emily was surprised, and enquired whose order she obeyed. 'Mylady's, ma'amselle, ' replied Annette: 'the Signor ordered her dinner tobe carried to her own apartment, and so she has sent you yours. Therehave been sad doings between them, worse than ever, I think. '

Emily, not appearing to notice what she said, sat down to the littletable, that was spread for her. But Annette was not to be silenced thuseasily. While she waited, she told of the arrival of the men, whomEmily had observed on the ramparts, and expressed much surprise at theirstrange appearance, as well as at the manner, in which they had beenattended by Montoni's order. 'Do they dine with the Signor, then?' saidEmily. 

'No, ma'amselle, they dined long ago, in an apartment at the north endof the castle, but I know not when they are to go, for the Signor toldold Carlo to see them provided with every thing necessary. They havebeen walking all about the castle, and asking questions of the workmenon the ramparts. I never saw such strange-looking men in my life; I amfrightened whenever I see them. '

Emily enquired, if she had heard of Count Morano, and whether he waslikely to recover: but Annette only knew, that he was lodged in acottage in the wood below, and that every body said he must die. Emily'scountenance discovered her emotion. 

'Dear ma'amselle, ' said Annette, 'to see how young ladies will disguisethemselves, when they are in love! I thought you hated the Count, or Iam sure I would not have told you; and I am sure you have cause enoughto hate him. '

'I hope I hate nobody, ' replied Emily, trying to smile; 'but certainlyI do not love Count Morano. I should be shocked to hear of any persondying by violent means. '

'Yes, ma'amselle, but it is his own fault. '

Emily looked displeased; and Annette, mistaking the cause of herdispleasure, immediately began to excuse the Count, in her way. 'Tobe sure, it was very ungenteel behaviour, ' said she, 'to break into alady's room, and then, when he found his discoursing was not agreeableto her, to refuse to go; and then, when the gentleman of the castlecomes to desire him to walk about his business--to turn round, and drawhis sword, and swear he'll run him through the body!--To be sure it wasvery ungenteel behaviour, but then he was disguised in love, and so didnot know what he was about. '

'Enough of this, ' said Emily, who now smiled without an effort; andAnnette returned to a mention of the disagreement between Montoni, andher lady. 'It is nothing new, ' said she: 'we saw and heard enough ofthis at Venice, though I never told you of it, ma'amselle. '

'Well, Annette, it was very prudent of you not to mention it then: be asprudent now; the subject is an unpleasant one. '

'Ah dear, ma'amselle!--to see now how considerate you can be aboutsome folks, who care so little about you! I cannot bear to see you sodeceived, and I must tell you. But it is all for your own good, and notto spite my lady, though, to speak truth, I have little reason to loveher; but--'

'You are not speaking thus of my aunt, I hope, Annette?' said Emily, gravely. 

'Yes, ma'amselle, but I am, though; and if you knew as much as I do, youwould not look so angry. I have often, and often, heard the Signor andher talking over your marriage with the Count, and she always advisedhim never to give up to your foolish whims, as she was pleased to callthem, but to be resolute, and compel you to be obedient, whether youwould, or no. And I am sure, my heart has ached a thousand times, andI have thought, when she was so unhappy herself, she might have felt alittle for other people, and--'

'I thank you for your pity, Annette, ' said Emily, interrupting her: 'butmy aunt was unhappy then, and that disturbed her temper perhaps, or Ithink--I am sure--You may take away, Annette, I have done. '

'Dear ma'amselle, you have eat nothing at all! Do try, and take alittle bit more. Disturbed her temper truly! why, her temper is alwaysdisturbed, I think. And at Tholouse too I have heard my lady talking ofyou and Mons. Valancourt to Madame Merveille and Madame Vaison, oftenand often, in a very ill-natured way, as I thought, telling them whata deal of trouble she had to keep you in order, and what a fatigue anddistress it was to her, and that she believed you would run away withMons. Valancourt, if she was not to watch you closely; and that youconnived at his coming about the house at night, and--'

'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, blushing deeply, 'it is surely impossiblemy aunt could thus have represented me!'

'Indeed, ma'am, I say nothing more than the truth, and not all ofthat. But I thought, myself, she might have found something better todiscourse about, than the faults of her own niece, even if you had beenin fault, ma'amselle; but I did not believe a word of what she said. Butmy lady does not care what she says against any body, for that matter. '

'However that may be, Annette, ' interrupted Emily, recovering hercomposure, 'it does not become you to speak of the faults of my aunt tome. I know you have meant well, but--say no more. --I have quite dined. '

Annette blushed, looked down, and then began slowly to clear the table. 

'Is this, then, the reward of my ingenuousness?' said Emily, when shewas alone; 'the treatment I am to receive from a relation--anaunt--who ought to have been the guardian, not the slanderer of myreputation, --who, as a woman, ought to have respected the delicacy offemale honour, and, as a relation, should have protected mine! But, toutter falsehoods on so nice a subject--to repay the openness, and, Imay say with honest pride, the propriety of my conduct, withslanders--required a depravity of heart, such as I could scarcelyhave believed existed, such as I weep to find in a relation. O! what acontrast does her character present to that of my beloved father;while envy and low cunning form the chief traits of hers, his wasdistinguished by benevolence and philosophic wisdom! But now, let meonly remember, if possible, that she is unfortunate. '

Emily threw her veil over her, and went down to walk upon the ramparts, the only walk, indeed, which was open to her, though she often wished, that she might be permitted to ramble among the woods below, andstill more, that she might sometimes explore the sublime scenes of thesurrounding country. But, as Montoni would not suffer her to pass thegates of the castle, she tried to be contented with the romantic viewsshe beheld from the walls. The peasants, who had been employed on thefortifications, had left their work, and the ramparts were silent andsolitary. Their lonely appearance, together with the gloom of a loweringsky, assisted the musings of her mind, and threw over it a kind ofmelancholy tranquillity, such as she often loved to indulge. She turnedto observe a fine effect of the sun, as his rays, suddenly streamingfrom behind a heavy cloud, lighted up the west towers of the castle, while the rest of the edifice was in deep shade, except, that, througha lofty gothic arch, adjoining the tower, which led to another terrace, the beams darted in full splendour, and shewed the three strangersshe had observed in the morning. Perceiving them, she started, and amomentary fear came over her, as she looked up the long rampart, and sawno other persons. While she hesitated, they approached. The gate at theend of the terrace, whither they were advancing, she knew, was alwayslocked, and she could not depart by the opposite extremity, withoutmeeting them; but, before she passed them, she hastily drew a thinveil over her face, which did, indeed, but ill conceal her beauty. Theylooked earnestly at her, and spoke to each other in bad Italian, of which she caught only a few words; but the fierceness of theircountenances, now that she was near enough to discriminate them, struckher yet more than the wild singularity of their air and dress hadformerly done. It was the countenance and figure of him, who walkedbetween the other two, that chiefly seized her attention, whichexpressed a sullen haughtiness and a kind of dark watchful villany, thatgave a thrill of horror to her heart. All this was so legibly written onhis features, as to be seen by a single glance, for she passed the groupswiftly, and her timid eyes scarcely rested on them a moment. Havingreached the terrace, she stopped, and perceived the strangers standingin the shadow of one of the turrets, gazing after her, and seemingly, bytheir action, in earnest conversation. She immediately left the rampart, and retired to her apartment. 

In the evening, Montoni sat late, carousing with his guests in the cedarchamber. His recent triumph over Count Morano, or, perhaps, some othercircumstance, contributed to elevate his spirits to an unusual height. He filled the goblet often, and gave a loose to merriment and talk. Thegaiety of Cavigni, on the contrary, was somewhat clouded by anxiety. Hekept a watchful eye upon Verezzi, whom, with the utmost difficulty, he had hitherto restrained from exasperating Montoni further againstMorano, by a mention of his late taunting words. 

One of the company exultingly recurred to the event of the precedingevening. Verezzi's eyes sparkled. The mention of Morano led to that ofEmily, of whom they were all profuse in the praise, except Montoni, whosat silent, and then interrupted the subject. 

When the servants had withdrawn, Montoni and his friends entered intoclose conversation, which was sometimes checked by the irascible temperof Verezzi, but in which Montoni displayed his conscious superiority, by that decisive look and manner, which always accompanied the vigourof his thought, and to which most of his companions submitted, as toa power, that they had no right to question, though of eachother's self-importance they were jealously scrupulous. Amidst thisconversation, one of them imprudently introduced again the name ofMorano; and Verezzi, now more heated by wine, disregarded the expressivelooks of Cavigni, and gave some dark hints of what had passed on thepreceding night. These, however, Montoni did not appear to understand, for he continued silent in his chair, without discovering any emotion, while, the choler of Verezzi increasing with the apparent insensibilityof Montoni, he at length told the suggestion of Morano, that this castledid not lawfully belong to him, and that he would not willingly leaveanother murder on his conscience. 

'Am I to be insulted at my own table, and by my own friends?' saidMontoni, with a countenance pale in anger. 'Why are the words of thatmadman repeated to me?' Verezzi, who had expected to hear Montoni'sindignation poured forth against Morano, and answered by thanks tohimself, looked with astonishment at Cavigni, who enjoyed his confusion. 'Can you be weak enough to credit the assertions of a madman?' rejoinedMontoni, 'or, what is the same thing, a man possessed by the spirit ofvengeance? But he has succeeded too well; you believe what he said. '

'Signor, ' said Verezzi, 'we believe only what we know. '--'How!'interrupted Montoni, sternly: 'produce your proof. '

'We believe only what we know, ' repeated Verezzi, 'and we know nothingof what Morano asserts. ' Montoni seemed to recover himself. 'I am hasty, my friends, ' said he, 'with respect to my honour; no man shall questionit with impunity--you did not mean to question it. These foolish wordsare not worth your remembrance, or my resentment. Verezzi, here is toyour first exploit. '

'Success to your first exploit, ' re-echoed the whole company. 

'Noble Signor, ' replied Verezzi, glad to find he had escaped Montoni'sresentment, 'with my good will, you shall build your ramparts of gold. '

'Pass the goblet, ' cried Montoni. 'We will drink to Signora St. Aubert, 'said Cavigni. 'By your leave we will first drink to the lady of thecastle. ' said Bertolini. --Montoni was silent. 'To the lady of thecastle, ' said his guests. He bowed his head. 

'It much surprises me, Signor, ' said Bertolini, 'that you have so longneglected this castle; it is a noble edifice. '

'It suits our purpose, ' replied Montoni, 'and IS a noble edifice. Youknow not, it seems, by what mischance it came to me. '

'It was a lucky mischance, be it what it may, Signor, ' repliedBertolini, smiling. 'I would, that one so lucky had befallen me. '

Montoni looked gravely at him. 'If you will attend to what I say, ' heresumed, 'you shall hear the story. '

The countenances of Bertolini and Verezzi expressed something more thancuriosity; Cavigni, who seemed to feel none, had probably heard therelation before. 

'It is now near twenty years, ' said Montoni, 'since this castle cameinto my possession. I inherit it by the female line. The lady, mypredecessor, was only distantly related to me; I am the last of herfamily. She was beautiful and rich; I wooed her; but her heart was fixedupon another, and she rejected me. It is probable, however, that shewas herself rejected of the person, whoever he might be, on whom shebestowed her favour, for a deep and settled melancholy took possessionof her; and I have reason to believe she put a period to her own life. I was not at the castle at the time; but, as there are some singular andmysterious circumstances attending that event, I shall repeat them. '

'Repeat them!' said a voice. 

Montoni was silent; the guests looked at each other, to know who spoke;but they perceived, that each was making the same enquiry. Montoni, atlength, recovered himself. 'We are overheard, ' said he: 'we will finishthis subject another time. Pass the goblet. '

The cavaliers looked round the wide chamber. 

'Here is no person, but ourselves, ' said Verezzi: 'pray, Signor, proceed. '

'Did you hear any thing?' said Montoni. 

'We did, ' said Bertolini. 

'It could be only fancy, ' said Verezzi, looking round again. 'We see noperson besides ourselves; and the sound I thought I heard seemed withinthe room. Pray, Signor, go on. '

Montoni paused a moment, and then proceeded in a lowered voice, whilethe cavaliers drew nearer to attend. 

'Ye are to know, Signors, that the Lady Laurentini had for some monthsshewn symptoms of a dejected mind, nay, of a disturbed imagination. Hermood was very unequal; sometimes she was sunk in calm melancholy, and, at others, as I have been told, she betrayed all the symptoms offrantic madness. It was one night in the month of October, after she hadrecovered from one of those fits of excess, and had sunk again into herusual melancholy, that she retired alone to her chamber, and forbade allinterruption. It was the chamber at the end of the corridor, Signors, where we had the affray, last night. From that hour, she was seen nomore. '

'How! seen no more!' said Bertolini, 'was not her body found in thechamber?'

'Were her remains never found?' cried the rest of the company alltogether. 

'Never!' replied Montoni. 

'What reasons were there to suppose she destroyed herself, then?' saidBertolini. --'Aye, what reasons?' said Verezzi. --'How happened it, thather remains were never found? Although she killed herself, she couldnot bury herself. ' Montoni looked indignantly at Verezzi, who began toapologize. 'Your pardon, Signor, ' said he: 'I did not consider, that thelady was your relative, when I spoke of her so lightly. '

Montoni accepted the apology. 

'But the Signor will oblige us with the reasons, which urged him tobelieve, that the lady committed suicide. '

'Those I will explain hereafter, ' said Montoni: 'at present let merelate a most extraordinary circumstance. This conversation goes nofurther, Signors. Listen, then, to what I am going to say. '

'Listen!' said a voice. 

They were all again silent, and the countenance of Montoni changed. 'This is no illusion of the fancy, ' said Cavigni, at length breaking theprofound silence. --'No, ' said Bertolini; 'I heard it myself, now. Yethere is no person in the room but ourselves!'

'This is very extraordinary, ' said Montoni, suddenly rising. 'This isnot to be borne; here is some deception, some trick. I will know what itmeans. '

All the company rose from their chairs in confusion. 

'It is very odd!' said Bertolini. 'Here is really no stranger in theroom. If it is a trick, Signor, you will do well to punish the author ofit severely. '

'A trick! what else can it be?' said Cavigni, affecting a laugh. 

The servants were now summoned, and the chamber was searched, butno person was found. The surprise and consternation of the companyincreased. Montoni was discomposed. 'We will leave this room, ' said he, 'and the subject of our conversation also; it is too solemn. ' His guestswere equally ready to quit the apartment; but the subject had rousedtheir curiosity, and they entreated Montoni to withdraw to anotherchamber, and finish it; no entreaties could, however, prevail withhim. Notwithstanding his efforts to appear at ease, he was visibly andgreatly disordered. 

'Why, Signor, you are not superstitious, ' cried Verezzi, jeeringly;'you, who have so often laughed at the credulity of others!'

'I am not superstitious, ' replied Montoni, regarding him with sterndispleasure, 'though I know how to despise the common-place sentences, which are frequently uttered against superstition. I will enquirefurther into this affair. ' He then left the room; and his guests, separating for the night, retired to their respective apartments. 

CHAPTER VIII

 He wears the rose of youth upon his cheek. SHAKESPEARE

We now return to Valancourt, who, it may be remembered, remainedat Tholouse, some time after the departure of Emily, restless andmiserable. Each morrow that approached, he designed should carryhim from thence; yet to-morrow and to-morrow came, and still saw himlingering in the scene of his former happiness. He could not immediatelytear himself from the spot, where he had been accustomed to conversewith Emily, or from the objects they had viewed together, which appearedto him memorials of her affection, as well as a kind of surety for itsfaithfulness; and, next to the pain of bidding her adieu, was that ofleaving the scenes which so powerfully awakened her image. Sometimes hehad bribed a servant, who had been left in the care of Madame Montoni'schateau, to permit him to visit the gardens, and there he would wander, for hours together, rapt in a melancholy, not unpleasing. The terrace, and the pavilion at the end of it, where he had taken leave of Emily, onthe eve of her departure from Tholouse, were his most favourite haunts. There, as he walked, or leaned from the window of the building, he wouldendeavour to recollect all she had said, on that night; to catch thetones of her voice, as they faintly vibrated on his memory, and toremember the exact expression of her countenance, which sometimes camesuddenly to his fancy, like a vision; that beautiful countenance, whichawakened, as by instantaneous magic, all the tenderness of his heart, and seemed to tell with irresistible eloquence--that he had lost herforever! At these moments, his hurried steps would have discovered to aspectator the despair of his heart. The character of Montoni, such ashe had received from hints, and such as his fears represented it, wouldrise to his view, together with all the dangers it seemed to threatento Emily and to his love. He blamed himself, that he had not urged thesemore forcibly to her, while it might have been in his power to detainher, and that he had suffered an absurd and criminal delicacy, as hetermed it, to conquer so soon the reasonable arguments he had opposed tothis journey. Any evil, that might have attended their marriage, seemedso inferior to those, which now threatened their love, or even to thesufferings, that absence occasioned, that he wondered how he could haveceased to urge his suit, till he had convinced her of its propriety; andhe would certainly now have followed her to Italy, if he could have beenspared from his regiment for so long a journey. His regiment, indeed, soon reminded him, that he had other duties to attend, than those oflove. 

A short time after his arrival at his brother's house, he was summonedto join his brother officers, and he accompanied a battalion to Paris;where a scene of novelty and gaiety opened upon him, such as, till then, he had only a faint idea of. But gaiety disgusted, and company fatigued, his sick mind; and he became an object of unceasing raillery to hiscompanions, from whom, whenever he could steal an opportunity, heescaped, to think of Emily. The scenes around him, however, and thecompany with whom he was obliged to mingle, engaged his attention, though they failed to amuse his fancy, and thus gradually weakened thehabit of yielding to lamentation, till it appeared less a duty to hislove to indulge it. Among his brother-officers were many, who addedto the ordinary character of a French soldier's gaiety some of thosefascinating qualities, which too frequently throw a veil over folly, andsometimes even soften the features of vice into smiles. To these menthe reserved and thoughtful manners of Valancourt were a kind of tacitcensure on their own, for which they rallied him when present, andplotted against him when absent; they gloried in the thought of reducinghim to their own level, and, considering it to be a spirited frolic, determined to accomplish it. 

Valancourt was a stranger to the gradual progress of scheme andintrigue, against which he could not be on his guard. He had not beenaccustomed to receive ridicule, and he could ill endure its sting; heresented it, and this only drew upon him a louder laugh. To escape fromsuch scenes, he fled into solitude, and there the image of Emily methim, and revived the pangs of love and despair. He then sought to renewthose tasteful studies, which had been the delight of his early years;but his mind had lost the tranquillity, which is necessary for theirenjoyment. To forget himself and the grief and anxiety, which the ideaof her recalled, he would quit his solitude, and again mingle in thecrowd--glad of a temporary relief, and rejoicing to snatch amusement forthe moment. 

Thus passed weeks after weeks, time gradually softening his sorrow, andhabit strengthening his desire of amusement, till the scenes around himseemed to awaken into a new character, and Valancourt, to have fallenamong them from the clouds. 

His figure and address made him a welcome visitor, wherever he had beenintroduced, and he soon frequented the most gay and fashionable circlesof Paris. Among these, was the assembly of the Countess Lacleur, a womanof eminent beauty and captivating manners. She had passed the spring ofyouth, but her wit prolonged the triumph of its reign, and they mutuallyassisted the fame of each other; for those, who were charmed by herloveliness, spoke with enthusiasm of her talents; and others, whoadmired her playful imagination, declared, that her personal graces wereunrivalled. But her imagination was merely playful, and her wit, if suchit could be called, was brilliant, rather than just; it dazzled, and itsfallacy escaped the detection of the moment; for the accents, in whichshe pronounced it, and the smile, that accompanied them, were a spellupon the judgment of the auditors. Her petits soupers were the mosttasteful of any in Paris, and were frequented by many of the secondclass of literati. She was fond of music, was herself a scientificperformer, and had frequently concerts at her house. Valancourt, whopassionately loved music, and who sometimes assisted at these concerts, admired her execution, but remembered with a sigh the eloquentsimplicity of Emily's songs and the natural expression of her manner, which waited not to be approved by the judgment, but found their way atonce to the heart. 

Madame La Comtesse had often deep play at her house, which she affectedto restrain, but secretly encouraged; and it was well known among herfriends, that the splendour of her establishment was chiefly suppliedfrom the profits of her tables. But her petits soupers were the mostcharming imaginable! Here were all the delicacies of the four quartersof the world, all the wit and the lighter efforts of genius, all thegraces of conversation--the smiles of beauty, and the charm of music;and Valancourt passed his pleasantest, as well as most dangerous hoursin these parties. 

His brother, who remained with his family in Gascony, had contentedhimself with giving him letters of introduction to such of hisrelations, residing at Paris, as the latter was not already known to. All these were persons of some distinction; and, as neither the person, mind, or manners of Valancourt the younger threatened to disgrace theiralliance, they received him with as much kindness as their nature, hardened by uninterrupted prosperity, would admit of; but theirattentions did not extend to acts of real friendship; for they were toomuch occupied by their own pursuits, to feel any interest in his; andthus he was set down in the midst of Paris, in the pride of youth, withan open, unsuspicious temper and ardent affections, without one friend, to warn him of the dangers, to which he was exposed. Emily, who, hadshe been present, would have saved him from these evils by awakeninghis heart, and engaging him in worthy pursuits, now only increasedhis danger;--it was to lose the grief, which the remembrance of heroccasioned, that he first sought amusement; and for this end he pursuedit, till habit made it an object of abstract interest. 

There was also a Marchioness Champfort, a young widow, at whoseassemblies he passed much of his time. She was handsome, still moreartful, gay and fond of intrigue. The society, which she drew round her, was less elegant and more vicious, than that of the Countess Lacleur:but, as she had address enough to throw a veil, though but a slightone, over the worst part of her character, she was still visited by manypersons of what is called distinction. Valancourt was introduced to herparties by two of his brother officers, whose late ridicule he had nowforgiven so far, that he could sometimes join in the laugh, which amention of his former manners would renew. 

The gaiety of the most splendid court in Europe, the magnificence ofthe palaces, entertainments, and equipages, that surrounded him--allconspired to dazzle his imagination, and re-animate his spirits, andthe example and maxims of his military associates to delude his mind. Emily's image, indeed, still lived there; but it was no longer thefriend, the monitor, that saved him from himself, and to which heretired to weep the sweet, yet melancholy, tears of tenderness. Whenhe had recourse to it, it assumed a countenance of mild reproach, thatwrung his soul, and called forth tears of unmixed misery; his onlyescape from which was to forget the object of it, and he endeavoured, therefore, to think of Emily as seldom as he could. 

Thus dangerously circumstanced was Valancourt, at the time, when Emilywas suffering at Venice, from the persecuting addresses of Count Morano, and the unjust authority of Montoni; at which period we leave him. 

CHAPTER IX

 The image of a wicked, heinous fault Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his Does shew the mood of a much-troubled breast. KING JOHN

Leaving the gay scenes of Paris, we return to those of the gloomyApennine, where Emily's thoughts were still faithful to Valancourt. Looking to him as to her only hope, she recollected, with jealousexactness, every assurance and every proof she had witnessed of hisaffection; read again and again the letters she had received from him;weighed, with intense anxiety, the force of every word, that spoke ofhis attachment; and dried her tears, as she trusted in his truth. 

Montoni, meanwhile, had made strict enquiry concerning the strangecircumstance of his alarm, without obtaining information; and was, atlength, obliged to account for it by the reasonable supposition, thatit was a mischievous trick played off by one of his domestics. Hisdisagreements with Madame Montoni, on the subject of her settlements, were now more frequent than ever; he even confined her entirely to herown apartment, and did not scruple to threaten her with much greaterseverity, should she persevere in a refusal. 

Reason, had she consulted it, would now have perplexed her in the choiceof a conduct to be adopted. It would have pointed out the danger ofirritating by further opposition a man, such as Montoni had provedhimself to be, and to whose power she had so entirely committed herself;and it would also have told her, of what extreme importance to herfuture comfort it was, to reserve for herself those possessions, whichwould enable her to live independently of Montoni, should she everescape from his immediate controul. But she was directed by a moredecisive guide than reason--the spirit of revenge, which urged her tooppose violence to violence, and obstinacy to obstinacy. 

Wholly confined to the solitude of her apartment, she was now reducedto solicit the society she had lately rejected; for Emily was the onlyperson, except Annette, with whom she was permitted to converse. 

Generously anxious for her peace, Emily, therefore, tried to persuade, when she could not convince, and sought by every gentle means to induceher to forbear that asperity of reply, which so greatly irritatedMontoni. The pride of her aunt did sometimes soften to the soothingvoice of Emily, and there even were moments, when she regarded heraffectionate attentions with goodwill. 

The scenes of terrible contention, to which Emily was frequentlycompelled to be witness, exhausted her spirits more than anycircumstances, that had occurred since her departure from Tholouse. Thegentleness and goodness of her parents, together with the scenes of herearly happiness, often stole on her mind, like the visions of a higherworld; while the characters and circumstances, now passing beneath hereye, excited both terror and surprise. She could scarcely haveimagined, that passions so fierce and so various, as those which Montoniexhibited, could have been concentrated in one individual; yet whatmore surprised her, was, that, on great occasions, he could bend thesepassions, wild as they were, to the cause of his interest, and generallycould disguise in his countenance their operation on his mind; but shehad seen him too often, when he had thought it unnecessary to concealhis nature, to be deceived on such occasions. 

Her present life appeared like the dream of a distempered imagination, or like one of those frightful fictions, in which the wild genius ofthe poets sometimes delighted. Reflection brought only regret, andanticipation terror. How often did she wish to 'steal the lark's wing, and mount the swiftest gale, ' that Languedoc and repose might once morebe hers!

Of Count Morano's health she made frequent enquiry; but Annette heardonly vague reports of his danger, and that his surgeon had said he wouldnever leave the cottage alive; while Emily could not but be shocked tothink, that she, however innocently, might be the means of his death;and Annette, who did not fail to observe her emotion, interpreted it inher own way. 

But a circumstance soon occurred, which entirely withdrew Annette'sattention from this subject, and awakened the surprise and curiosity sonatural to her. Coming one day to Emily's apartment, with a countenancefull of importance, 'What can all this mean, ma'amselle?' said she. 'Would I was once safe in Languedoc again, they should never catch megoing on my travels any more! I must think it a fine thing, truly, tocome abroad, and see foreign parts! I little thought I was coming to becatched up in a old castle, among such dreary mountains, with the chanceof being murdered, or, what is as good, having my throat cut!'

'What can all this mean, indeed, Annette?' said Emily, in astonishment. 

'Aye, ma'amselle, you may look surprised; but you won't believe it, perhaps, till they have murdered you, too. You would not believe aboutthe ghost I told you of, though I shewed you the very place, where itused to appear!--You will believe nothing, ma'amselle. '

'Not till you speak more reasonably, Annette; for Heaven's sake, explainyour meaning. You spoke of murder!'

'Aye, ma'amselle, they are coming to murder us all, perhaps; but whatsignifies explaining?--you will not believe. '

Emily again desired her to relate what she had seen, or heard. 

'O, I have seen enough, ma'am, and heard too much, as Ludovico canprove. Poor soul! they will murder him, too! I little thought, whenhe sung those sweet verses under my lattice, at Venice!'--Emily lookedimpatient and displeased. 'Well, ma'amselle, as I was saying, thesepreparations about the castle, and these strange-looking people, thatare calling here every day, and the Signor's cruel usage of my lady, andhis odd goings-on--all these, as I told Ludovico, can bode no good. Andhe bid me hold my tongue. So, says I, the Signor's strangely altered, Ludovico, in this gloomy castle, to what he was in France; there, all sogay! Nobody so gallant to my lady, then; and he could smile, too, upona poor servant, sometimes, and jeer her, too, good-naturedly enough. I remember once, when he said to me, as I was going out of my lady'sdressing-room--Annette, says he--'

'Never mind what the Signor said, ' interrupted Emily; 'but tell me, atonce, the circumstance, which has thus alarmed you. '

'Aye, ma'amselle, ' rejoined Annette, 'that is just what Ludovico said:says he, Never mind what the Signor says to you. So I told him what Ithought about the Signor. He is so strangely altered, said I: for now heis so haughty, and so commanding, and so sharp with my lady; and, if hemeets one, he'll scarcely look at one, unless it be to frown. So muchthe better, says Ludovico, so much the better. And to tell you thetruth, ma'amselle, I thought this was a very ill-natured speech ofLudovico: but I went on. And then, says I, he is always knitting hisbrows; and if one speaks to him, he does not hear; and then he sits upcounselling so, of a night, with the other Signors--there they are, tilllong past midnight, discoursing together! Aye, but says Ludovico, you don't know what they are counselling about. No, said I, but Ican guess--it is about my young lady. Upon that, Ludovico burst outa-laughing, quite loud; so he put me in a huff, for I did not like thateither I or you, ma'amselle, should be laughed at; and I turned awayquick, but he stopped me. "Don't be affronted, Annette, " said he, "but Icannot help laughing;" and with that he laughed again. "What!" says he, "do you think the Signors sit up, night after night, only to counselabout thy young lady! No, no, there is something more in the wind thanthat. And these repairs about the castle, and these preparations aboutthe ramparts--they are not making about young ladies. " Why, surely, saidI, the Signor, my master, is not going to make war? "Make war!" saidLudovico, "what, upon the mountains and the woods? for here is no livingsoul to make war upon that I see. "

'What are these preparations for, then? said I; why surely nobodyis coming to take away my master's castle! "Then there are so manyill-looking fellows coming to the castle every day, " says Ludovico, without answering my question, "and the Signor sees them all, and talkswith them all, and they all stay in the neighbourhood! By holy St. Marco! some of them are the most cut-throat-looking dogs I ever set myeyes upon. "

'I asked Ludovico again, if he thought they were coming to take away mymaster's castle; and he said, No, he did not think they were, but he didnot know for certain. "Then yesterday, " said he, but you must not tellthis, ma'amselle, "yesterday, a party of these men came, and left alltheir horses in the castle stables, where, it seems, they are tostay, for the Signor ordered them all to be entertained with thebest provender in the manger; but the men are, most of them, in theneighbouring cottages. "

'So, ma'amselle, I came to tell you all this, for I never heard anything so strange in my life. But what can these ill-looking men be comeabout, if it is not to murder us? And the Signor knows this, or whyshould he be so civil to them? And why should he fortify the castle, andcounsel so much with the other Signors, and be so thoughtful?'

'Is this all you have to tell, Annette?' said Emily. 'Have you heardnothing else, that alarms you?'

'Nothing else, ma'amselle!' said Annette; 'why, is not this enough?''Quite enough for my patience, Annette, but not quite enough to convinceme we are all to be murdered, though I acknowledge here is sufficientfood for curiosity. ' She forbore to speak her apprehensions, becauseshe would not encourage Annette's wild terrors; but the presentcircumstances of the castle both surprised, and alarmed her. Annette, having told her tale, left the chamber, on the wing for new wonders. 

In the evening, Emily had passed some melancholy hours with MadameMontoni, and was retiring to rest, when she was alarmed by a strange andloud knocking at her chamber door, and then a heavy weight fell againstit, that almost burst it open. She called to know who was there, andreceiving no answer, repeated the call; but a chilling silence followed. It occurred to her--for, at this moment, she could not reason on theprobability of circumstances--that some one of the strangers, latelyarrived at the castle, had discovered her apartment, and was come withsuch intent, as their looks rendered too possible--to rob, perhaps tomurder, her. The moment she admitted this possibility, terror suppliedthe place of conviction, and a kind of instinctive remembrance of herremote situation from the family heightened it to a degree, that almostovercame her senses. She looked at the door, which led to the staircase, expecting to see it open, and listening, in fearful silence, for areturn of the noise, till she began to think it had proceeded from thisdoor, and a wish of escaping through the opposite one rushed upon hermind. She went to the gallery door, and then, fearing to open it, lestsome person might be silently lurking for her without, she stopped, but with her eyes fixed in expectation upon the opposite door of thestair-case. As thus she stood, she heard a faint breathing near her, andbecame convinced, that some person was on the other side of the door, which was already locked. She sought for other fastening, but there wasnone. 

While she yet listened, the breathing was distinctly heard, and herterror was not soothed, when, looking round her wide and lonely chamber, she again considered her remote situation. As she stood hesitatingwhether to call for assistance, the continuance of the stillnesssurprised her; and her spirits would have revived, had she not continuedto hear the faint breathing, that convinced her, the person, whoever itwas, had not quitted the door. 

At length, worn out with anxiety, she determined to call loudly forassistance from her casement, and was advancing to it, when, whether theterror of her mind gave her ideal sounds, or that real ones did come, she thought footsteps were ascending the private stair-case; and, expecting to see its door unclose, she forgot all other cause of alarm, and retreated towards the corridor. Here she endeavoured to make herescape, but, on opening the door, was very near falling over a person, who lay on the floor without. She screamed, and would have passed, buther trembling frame refused to support her; and the moment, in which sheleaned against the wall of the gallery, allowed her leisure to observethe figure before her, and to recognise the features of Annette. Fearinstantly yielded to surprise. She spoke in vain to the poor girl, whoremained senseless on the floor, and then, losing all consciousness ofher own weakness, hurried to her assistance. 

When Annette recovered, she was helped by Emily into the chamber, butwas still unable to speak, and looked round her, as if her eyes followedsome person in the room. Emily tried to sooth her disturbed spirits, andforbore, at present, to ask her any questions; but the faculty of speechwas never long with-held from Annette, and she explained, in brokensentences, and in her tedious way, the occasion of her disorder. Sheaffirmed, and with a solemnity of conviction, that almost staggeredthe incredulity of Emily, that she had seen an apparition, as she waspassing to her bedroom, through the corridor. 

'I had heard strange stories of that chamber before, ' said Annette:'but as it was so near yours, ma'amselle, I would not tell them to you, because they would frighten you. The servants had told me, often andoften, that it was haunted, and that was the reason why it was shut up:nay, for that matter, why the whole string of these rooms, here, areshut up. I quaked whenever I went by, and I must say, I did sometimesthink I heard odd noises within it. But, as I said, as I was passingalong the corridor, and not thinking a word about the matter, or evenof the strange voice that the Signors heard the other night, all of asudden comes a great light, and, looking behind me, there was a tallfigure, (I saw it as plainly, ma'amselle, as I see you at this moment), a tall figure gliding along (Oh! I cannot describe how!) into the room, that is always shut up, and nobody has the key of it but the Signor, andthe door shut directly. '

'Then it doubtless was the Signor, ' said Emily. 

'O no, ma'amselle, it could not be him, for I left him busya-quarrelling in my lady's dressing-room!'

'You bring me strange tales, Annette, ' said Emily: 'it was but thismorning, that you would have terrified me with the apprehension ofmurder; and now you would persuade me, you have seen a ghost! Thesewonderful stories come too quickly. '

'Nay, ma'amselle, I will say no more, only, if I had not beenfrightened, I should not have fainted dead away, so. I ran as fast as Icould, to get to your door; but, what was worst of all, I could not callout; then I thought something must be strangely the matter with me, anddirectly I dropt down. '

'Was it the chamber where the black veil hangs?' said Emily. 'O! no, ma'amselle, it was one nearer to this. What shall I do, to get to myroom? I would not go out into the corridor again, for the whole world!'Emily, whose spirits had been severely shocked, and who, therefore, did not like the thought of passing the night alone, told her she mightsleep where she was. 'O, no, ma'amselle, ' replied Annette, 'I would notsleep in the room, now, for a thousand sequins!'

Wearied and disappointed, Emily first ridiculed, though she shared, herfears, and then tried to sooth them; but neither attempt succeeded, andthe girl persisted in believing and affirming, that what she had seenwas nothing human. It was not till some time after Emily had recoveredher composure, that she recollected the steps she had heard on thestair-case--a remembrance, however, which made her insist that Annetteshould pass the night with her, and, with much difficulty, she, atlength, prevailed, assisted by that part of the girl's fear, whichconcerned the corridor. 

Early on the following morning, as Emily crossed the hall to theramparts, she heard a noisy bustle in the court-yard, and the clatter ofhorses' hoofs. Such unusual sounds excited her curiosity; and, insteadof going to the ramparts, she went to an upper casement, from whenceshe saw, in the court below, a large party of horsemen, dressed in asingular, but uniform, habit, and completely, though variously, armed. They wore a kind of short jacket, composed of black and scarlet, andseveral of them had a cloak, of plain black, which, covering the personentirely, hung down to the stirrups. As one of these cloaks glancedaside, she saw, beneath, daggers, apparently of different sizes, tuckedinto the horseman's belt. She further observed, that these were carried, in the same manner, by many of the horsemen without cloaks, most of whombore also pikes, or javelins. On their heads, were the small Italiancaps, some of which were distinguished by black feathers. Whether thesecaps gave a fierce air to the countenance, or that the countenancesthey surmounted had naturally such an appearance, Emily thought she hadnever, till then, seen an assemblage of faces so savage and terrific. While she gazed, she almost fancied herself surrounded by banditti; anda vague thought glanced athwart her fancy--that Montoni was the captainof the group before her, and that this castle was to be the place ofrendezvous. The strange and horrible supposition was but momentary, though her reason could supply none more probable, and though shediscovered, among the band, the strangers she had formerly noticed withso much alarm, who were now distinguished by the black plume. 

While she continued gazing, Cavigni, Verezzi, and Bertolini came forthfrom the hall, habited like the rest, except that they wore hats, witha mixed plume of black and scarlet, and that their arms differed fromthose of the rest of the party. As they mounted their horses, Emily wasstruck with the exulting joy, expressed on the visage of Verezzi, whileCavigni was gay, yet with a shade of thought on his countenance; and, ashe managed his horse with dexterity, his graceful and commanding figure, which exhibited the majesty of a hero, had never appeared to moreadvantage. Emily, as she observed him, thought he somewhat resembledValancourt, in the spirit and dignity of his person; but she looked invain for the noble, benevolent countenance--the soul's intelligence, which overspread the features of the latter. 

As she was hoping, she scarcely knew why, that Montoni would accompanythe party, he appeared at the hall door, but un-accoutred. Havingcarefully observed the horsemen, conversed awhile with the cavaliers, and bidden them farewel, the band wheeled round the court, and, led byVerezzi, issued forth under the portcullis; Montoni following to theportal, and gazing after them for some time. Emily then retired fromthe casement, and, now certain of being unmolested, went to walk on theramparts, from whence she soon after saw the party winding among themountains to the west, appearing and disappearing between the woods, till distance confused their figures, consolidated their numbers, andonly a dingy mass appeared moving along the heights. 

Emily observed, that no workmen were on the ramparts, and that therepairs of the fortifications seemed to be completed. While shesauntered thoughtfully on, she heard distant footsteps, and, raising hereyes, saw several men lurking under the castle walls, who were evidentlynot workmen, but looked as if they would have accorded well with theparty, which was gone. Wondering where Annette had hid herself solong, who might have explained some of the late circumstances, and thenconsidering that Madame Montoni was probably risen, she went to herdressing-room, where she mentioned what had occurred; but Madame Montonieither would not, or could not, give any explanation of the event. TheSignor's reserve to his wife, on this subject, was probably nothingmore than usual; yet, to Emily, it gave an air of mystery to the wholeaffair, that seemed to hint, there was danger, if not villany, in hisschemes. 

Annette presently came, and, as usual, was full of alarm; to her lady'seager enquiries of what she had heard among the servants, she replied:

'Ah, madam! nobody knows what it is all about, but old Carlo; he knowswell enough, I dare say, but he is as close as his master. Some say theSignor is going out to frighten the enemy, as they call it: but where isthe enemy? Then others say, he is going to take away some body's castle:but I am sure he has room enough in his own, without taking otherpeople's; and I am sure I should like it a great deal better, if therewere more people to fill it. '

'Ah! you will soon have your wish, I fear, ' replied Madame Montoni. 

'No, madam, but such ill-looking fellows are not worth having. I meansuch gallant, smart, merry fellows as Ludovico, who is always tellingdroll stories, to make one laugh. It was but yesterday, he told me sucha HUMOURSOME tale! I can't help laughing at it now. --Says he--'

'Well, we can dispense with the story, ' said her lady. 'Ah!' continuedAnnette, 'he sees a great way further than other people! Now he seesinto all the Signor's meaning, without knowing a word about the matter!'

'How is that?' said Madame Montoni. 

'Why he says--but he made me promise not to tell, and I would notdisoblige him for the world. '

'What is it he made you promise not to tell?' said her lady, sternly. 'Iinsist upon knowing immediately--what is it he made you promise?'

'O madam, ' cried Annette, 'I would not tell for the universe!' 'I insistupon your telling this instant, ' said Madame Montoni. 'O dear madam!I would not tell for a hundred sequins! You would not have me forswearmyself madam!' exclaimed Annette. 

'I will not wait another moment, ' said Madame Montoni. Annette wassilent. 

'The Signor shall be informed of this directly, ' rejoined her mistress:'he will make you discover all. '

'It is Ludovico, who has discovered, ' said Annette: 'but for mercy'ssake, madam, don't tell the Signor, and you shall know all directly. 'Madame Montoni said, that she would not. 

'Well then, madam, Ludovico says, that the Signor, my master, is--is--that is, he only thinks so, and any body, you know, madam, isfree to think--that the Signor, my master, is--is--'

'Is what?' said her lady, impatiently. 

'That the Signor, my master, is going to be--a great robber--that is--heis going to rob on his own account;--to be, (but I am sure I don'tunderstand what he means) to be a--captain of--robbers. '

'Art thou in thy senses, Annette?' said Madame Montoni; 'or is this atrick to deceive me? Tell me, this instant, what Ludovico DID say tothee;--no equivocation;--this instant. '

'Nay, madam, ' cried Annette, 'if this is all I am to get for havingtold the secret'--Her mistress thus continued to insist, and Annette toprotest, till Montoni, himself, appeared, who bade the latter leave theroom, and she withdrew, trembling for the fate of her story. Emily alsowas retiring, but her aunt desired she would stay; and Montoni had sooften made her a witness of their contention, that he no longer hadscruples on that account. 

'I insist upon knowing this instant, Signor, what all this means:' saidhis wife--'what are all these armed men, whom they tell me of, goneout about?' Montoni answered her only with a look of scorn; and Emilywhispered something to her. 'It does not signify, ' said her aunt: 'Iwill know; and I will know, too, what the castle has been fortifiedfor. '

'Come, come, ' said Montoni, 'other business brought me here. I mustbe trifled with no longer. I have immediate occasion for what Idemand--those estates must be given up, without further contention; or Imay find a way--'

'They never shall be given up, ' interrupted Madame Montoni: 'they nevershall enable you to carry on your wild schemes;--but what are these?I will know. Do you expect the castle to be attacked? Do you expectenemies? Am I to be shut up here, to be killed in a siege?'

'Sign the writings, ' said Montoni, 'and you shall know more. '

'What enemy can be coming?' continued his wife. 'Have you entered intothe service of the state? Am I to be blocked up here to die?'

'That may possibly happen, ' said Montoni, 'unless you yield to mydemand: for, come what may, you shall not quit the castle till then. 'Madame Montoni burst into loud lamentation, which she as suddenlychecked, considering, that her husband's assertions might be onlyartifices, employed to extort her consent. She hinted this suspicion, and, in the next moment, told him also, that his designs were not sohonourable as to serve the state, and that she believed he had onlycommenced a captain of banditti, to join the enemies of Venice, inplundering and laying waste the surrounding country. 

Montoni looked at her for a moment with a steady and stern countenance;while Emily trembled, and his wife, for once, thought she had said toomuch. 'You shall be removed, this night, ' said he, 'to the east turret:there, perhaps, you may understand the danger of offending a man, whohas an unlimited power over you. '

Emily now fell at his feet, and, with tears of terror, supplicated forher aunt, who sat, trembling with fear, and indignation; now ready topour forth execrations, and now to join the intercessions of Emily. Montoni, however, soon interrupted these entreaties with an horribleoath; and, as he burst from Emily, leaving his cloak, in her hand, shefell to the floor, with a force, that occasioned her a severe blow onthe forehead. But he quitted the room, without attempting to raise her, whose attention was called from herself, by a deep groan from MadameMontoni, who continued otherwise unmoved in her chair, and had notfainted. Emily, hastening to her assistance, saw her eyes rolling, andher features convulsed. 

Having spoken to her, without receiving an answer, she broughtwater, and supported her head, while she held it to her lips; but theincreasing convulsions soon compelled Emily to call for assistance. Onher way through the hall, in search of Annette, she met Montoni, whomshe told what had happened, and conjured to return and comfort her aunt;but he turned silently away, with a look of indifference, and went outupon the ramparts. At length she found old Carlo and Annette, and theyhastened to the dressing-room, where Madame Montoni had fallen on thefloor, and was lying in strong convulsions. Having lifted her into theadjoining room, and laid her on the bed, the force of her disorder stillmade all their strength necessary to hold her, while Annette trembledand sobbed, and old Carlo looked silently and piteously on, as hisfeeble hands grasped those of his mistress, till, turning his eyes uponEmily, he exclaimed, 'Good God! Signora, what is the matter?'

Emily looked calmly at him, and saw his enquiring eyes fixed on her: andAnnette, looking up, screamed loudly; for Emily's face was stainedwith blood, which continued to fall slowly from her forehead: but herattention had been so entirely occupied by the scene before her, thatshe had felt no pain from the wound. She now held an handkerchief toher face, and, notwithstanding her faintness, continued to watch MadameMontoni, the violence of whose convulsions was abating, till at lengththey ceased, and left her in a kind of stupor. 

'My aunt must remain quiet, ' said Emily. 'Go, good Carlo; if we shouldwant your assistance, I will send for you. In the mean time, if you havean opportunity, speak kindly of your mistress to your master. '

'Alas!' said Carlo, 'I have seen too much! I have little influence withthe Signor. But do, dear young lady, take some care of yourself; that isan ugly wound, and you look sadly. '

'Thank you, my friend, for your consideration, ' said Emily, smilingkindly: 'the wound is trifling, it came by a fall. '

Carlo shook his head, and left the room; and Emily, with Annette, continued to watch by her aunt. 'Did my lady tell the Signor whatLudovico said, ma'amselle?' asked Annette in a whisper; but Emilyquieted her fears on the subject. 

'I thought what this quarrelling would come to, ' continued Annette: 'Isuppose the Signor has been beating my lady. '

'No, no, Annette, you are totally mistaken, nothing extra-ordinary hashappened. '

'Why, extraordinary things happen here so often, ma'amselle, that thereis nothing in them. Here is another legion of those ill-looking fellows, come to the castle, this morning. '

'Hush! Annette, you will disturb my aunt; we will talk of that by andbye. '

They continued watching silently, till Madame Montoni uttered a lowsigh, when Emily took her hand, and spoke soothingly to her; but theformer gazed with unconscious eyes, and it was long before she knew herniece. Her first words then enquired for Montoni; to which Emily repliedby an entreaty, that she would compose her spirits, and consent to bekept quiet, adding, that, if she wished any message to be conveyed tohim, she would herself deliver it. 'No, ' said her aunt faintly, 'no--Ihave nothing new to tell him. Does he persist in saying I shall beremoved from my chamber?'

Emily replied, that he had not spoken, on the subject, since MadameMontoni heard him; and then she tried to divert her attention to someother topic; but her aunt seemed to be inattentive to what she said, andlost in secret thoughts. Emily, having brought her some refreshment, nowleft her to the care of Annette, and went in search of Montoni, whom shefound on a remote part of the rampart, conversing among a group ofthe men described by Annette. They stood round him with fierce, yetsubjugated, looks, while he, speaking earnestly, and pointing to thewalls, did not perceive Emily, who remained at some distance, waitingtill he should be at leisure, and observing involuntarily the appearanceof one man, more savage than his fellows, who stood resting on his pike, and looking, over the shoulders of a comrade, at Montoni, to whom helistened with uncommon earnestness. This man was apparently of lowcondition; yet his looks appeared not to acknowledge the superiority ofMontoni, as did those of his companions; and sometimes they even assumedan air of authority, which the decisive manner of the Signor could notrepress. Some few words of Montoni then passed in the wind; and, as themen were separating, she heard him say, 'This evening, then, begin thewatch at sun-set. '

'At sun-set, Signor, ' replied one or two of them, and walked away; whileEmily approached Montoni, who appeared desirous of avoiding her: but, though she observed this, she had courage to proceed. She endeavoured tointercede once more for her aunt, represented to him her sufferings, and urged the danger of exposing her to a cold apartment in her presentstate. 'She suffers by her own folly, ' said Montoni, 'and is not to bepitied;--she knows how she may avoid these sufferings in future--if sheis removed to the turret, it will be her own fault. Let her be obedient, and sign the writings you heard of, and I will think no more of it. '

When Emily ventured still to plead, he sternly silenced and rebuked herfor interfering in his domestic affairs, but, at length, dismissed herwith this concession--That he would not remove Madame Montoni, on theensuing night, but allow her till the next to consider, whether shewould resign her settlements, or be imprisoned in the east turret ofthe castle, 'where she shall find, ' he added, 'a punishment she may notexpect. '

Emily then hastened to inform her aunt of this short respite and of thealternative, that awaited her, to which the latter made no reply, but appeared thoughtful, while Emily, in consideration of her extremelanguor, wished to sooth her mind by leading it to less interestingtopics: and, though these efforts were unsuccessful, and Madame Montonibecame peevish, her resolution, on the contended point, seemed somewhatto relax, and Emily recommended, as her only means of safety, that sheshould submit to Montoni's demand. 'You know not what you advise, ' saidher aunt. 'Do you understand, that these estates will descend to you atmy death, if I persist in a refusal?'

'I was ignorant of that circumstance, madam, ' replied Emily, 'but theknowledge of it cannot with-hold me from advising you to adopt theconduct, which not only your peace, but, I fear, your safety requires, and I entreat, that you will not suffer a consideration comparatively sotrifling, to make you hesitate a moment in resigning them. '

'Are you sincere, niece?' 'Is it possible you can doubt it, madam?' Heraunt appeared to be affected. 'You are not unworthy of these estates, niece, ' said she: 'I would wish to keep them for your sake--you shew avirtue I did not expect. '

'How have I deserved this reproof, madam?' said Emily sorrowfully. 

'Reproof!' replied Madame Montoni: 'I meant to praise your virtue. '

'Alas! here is no exertion of virtue, ' rejoined Emily, 'for here is notemptation to be overcome. '

'Yet Monsieur Valancourt'--said her aunt. 'O, madam!' interrupted Emily, anticipating what she would have said, 'do not let me glance on thatsubject: do not let my mind be stained with a wish so shockinglyself-interested. ' She immediately changed the topic, and continued withMadame Montoni, till she withdrew to her apartment for the night. 

At that hour, the castle was perfectly still, and every inhabitant ofit, except herself, seemed to have retired to rest. As she passed alongthe wide and lonely galleries, dusky and silent, she felt forlornand apprehensive of--she scarcely knew what; but when, entering thecorridor, she recollected the incident of the preceding night, a dreadseized her, lest a subject of alarm, similar to that, which had befallenAnnette, should occur to her, and which, whether real, or ideal, would, she felt, have an almost equal effect upon her weakened spirits. Thechamber, to which Annette had alluded, she did not exactly know, butunderstood it to be one of those she must pass in the way to her own;and, sending a fearful look forward into the gloom, she stepped lightlyand cautiously along, till, coming to a door, from whence issued a lowsound, she hesitated and paused; and, during the delay of that moment, her fears so much increased, that she had no power to move from thespot. Believing, that she heard a human voice within, she was somewhatrevived; but, in the next moment, the door was opened, and a person, whom she conceived to be Montoni, appeared, who instantly started back, and closed it, though not before she had seen, by the light that burnedin the chamber, another person, sitting in a melancholy attitude by thefire. Her terror vanished, but her astonishment only began, which wasnow roused by the mysterious secrecy of Montoni's manner, and bythe discovery of a person, whom he thus visited at midnight, in anapartment, which had long been shut up, and of which such extraordinaryreports were circulated. 

While she thus continued hesitating, strongly prompted to watchMontoni's motions, yet fearing to irritate him by appearing to noticethem, the door was again opened cautiously, and as instantly closed asbefore. She then stepped softly to her chamber, which was the nextbut one to this, but, having put down her lamp, returned to an obscurecorner of the corridor, to observe the proceedings of this half-seenperson, and to ascertain, whether it was indeed Montoni. 

Having waited in silent expectation for a few minutes, with her eyesfixed on the door, it was again opened, and the same person appeared, whom she now knew to be Montoni. He looked cautiously round, withoutperceiving her, then, stepping forward, closed the door, and left thecorridor. Soon after, Emily heard the door fastened on the inside, andshe withdrew to her chamber, wondering at what she had witnessed. 

It was now twelve o'clock. As she closed her casement, she heardfootsteps on the terrace below, and saw imperfectly, through the gloom, several persons advancing, who passed under the casement. She thenheard the clink of arms, and, in the next moment, the watch-word; when, recollecting the command she had overheard from Montoni, and the hourof the night, she understood, that these men were, for the first time, relieving guard in the castle. Having listened till all was again still, she retired to sleep. 

CHAPTER X

 And shall no lay of death With pleasing murmur sooth Her parted soul? Shall no tear wet her grave? SAYERS

On the following morning, Emily went early to the apartment of MadameMontoni, who had slept well, and was much recovered. Her spirits hadalso returned with her health, and her resolution to oppose Montoni'sdemands revived, though it yet struggled with her fears, which Emily, who trembled for the consequence of further opposition, endeavoured toconfirm. 

Her aunt, as has been already shewn, had a disposition, which delightedin contradiction, and which taught her, when unpleasant circumstanceswere offered to her understanding, not to enquire into their truth, butto seek for arguments, by which she might make them appear false. Longhabit had so entirely confirmed this natural propensity, that shewas not conscious of possessing it. Emily's remonstrances andrepresentations, therefore, roused her pride, instead of alarming, orconvincing her judgment, and she still relied upon the discovery ofsome means, by which she might yet avoid submitting to the demand of herhusband. Considering, that, if she could once escape from his castle, she might defy his power, and, obtaining a decisive separation, live incomfort on the estates, that yet remained for her, she mentioned this toher niece, who accorded with her in the wish, but differed from her, asto the probability of its completion. She represented the impossibilityof passing the gates, secured and guarded as they were, and the extremedanger of committing her design to the discretion of a servant, whomight either purposely betray, or accidentally disclose it. --Montoni'svengeance would also disdain restraint, if her intention was detected:and, though Emily wished, as fervently as she could do, to regain herfreedom, and return to France, she consulted only Madame Montoni'ssafety, and persevered in advising her to relinquish her settlement, without braving further outrage. 

The struggle of contrary emotions, however, continued to rage in heraunt's bosom, and she still brooded over the chance of effecting anescape. While she thus sat, Montoni entered the room, and, withoutnoticing his wife's indisposition, said, that he came to remind her ofthe impolicy of trifling with him, and that he gave her only till theevening to determine, whether she would consent to his demand, or compelhim, by a refusal, to remove her to the east turret. He added, that aparty of cavaliers would dine with him, that day, and that he expectedthat she would sit at the head of the table, where Emily, also, mustbe present. Madame Montoni was now on the point of uttering an absoluterefusal, but, suddenly considering, that her liberty, during thisentertainment, though circumscribed, might favour her further plans, sheacquiesced, with seeming reluctance, and Montoni, soon after, left theapartment. His command struck Emily with surprise and apprehension, whoshrank from the thought of being exposed to the gaze of strangers, suchas her fancy represented these to be, and the words of Count Morano, nowagain recollected, did not sooth her fears. 

When she withdrew to prepare for dinner, she dressed herself with evenmore simplicity than usual, that she might escape observation--a policy, which did not avail her, for, as she re-passed to her aunt's apartment, she was met by Montoni, who censured what he called her prudishappearance, and insisted, that she should wear the most splendid dressshe had, even that, which had been prepared for her intended nuptialswith Count Morano, and which, it now appeared, her aunt had carefullybrought with her from Venice. This was made, not in the Venetian, but, in the Neapolitan fashion, so as to set off the shape and figure, to theutmost advantage. In it, her beautiful chestnut tresses were negligentlybound up in pearls, and suffered to fall back again on her neck. Thesimplicity of a better taste, than Madame Montoni's, was conspicuous inthis dress, splendid as it was, and Emily's unaffected beauty never hadappeared more captivatingly. She had now only to hope, that Montoni'sorder was prompted, not by any extraordinary design, but by anostentation of displaying his family, richly attired, to the eyesof strangers; yet nothing less than his absolute command could haveprevailed with her to wear a dress, that had been designed for such anoffensive purpose, much less to have worn it on this occasion. As shedescended to dinner, the emotion of her mind threw a faint blush overher countenance, and heightened its interesting expression; for timidityhad made her linger in her apartment, till the utmost moment, and, when she entered the hall, in which a kind of state dinner was spread, Montoni and his guests were already seated at the table. She was thengoing to place herself by her aunt; but Montoni waved his hand, and twoof the cavaliers rose, and seated her between them. 

The eldest of these was a tall man, with strong Italian features, anaquiline nose, and dark penetrating eyes, that flashed with fire, whenhis mind was agitated, and, even in its state of rest, retained somewhatof the wildness of the passions. His visage was long and narrow, and hiscomplexion of a sickly yellow. 

The other, who appeared to be about forty, had features of a differentcast, yet Italian, and his look was slow, subtle and penetrating; hiseyes, of a dark grey, were small, and hollow; his complexion was asun-burnt brown, and the contour of his face, though inclined to oval, was irregular and ill-formed. 

Eight other guests sat round the table, who were all dressed in anuniform, and had all an expression, more or less, of wild fierceness, of subtle design, or of licentious passions. As Emily timidly surveyedthem, she remembered the scene of the preceding morning, and againalmost fancied herself surrounded by banditti; then, looking back tothe tranquillity of her early life, she felt scarcely less astonishment, than grief, at her present situation. The scene, in which they sat, assisted the illusion; it was an antient hall, gloomy from the styleof its architecture, from its great extent, and because almost the onlylight it received was from one large gothic window, and from a pair offolding doors, which, being open, admitted likewise a view of the westrampart, with the wild mountains of the Apennine beyond. 

The middle compartment of this hall rose into a vaulted roof, enrichedwith fretwork, and supported, on three sides, by pillars of marble;beyond these, long colonnades retired in gloomy grandeur, till theirextent was lost in twilight. The lightest footsteps of the servants, as they advanced through these, were returned in whispering echoes, and their figures, seen at a distance imperfectly through the dusk, frequently awakened Emily's imagination. She looked alternatelyat Montoni, at his guests and on the surrounding scene; and then, remembering her dear native province, her pleasant home and thesimplicity and goodness of the friends, whom she had lost, grief andsurprise again occupied her mind. 

When her thoughts could return from these considerations, she fanciedshe observed an air of authority towards his guests, such as she hadnever before seen him assume, though he had always been distinguishedby an haughty carriage; there was something also in the manners of thestrangers, that seemed perfectly, though not servilely, to acknowledgehis superiority. 

During dinner, the conversation was chiefly on war and politics. Theytalked with energy of the state of Venice, its dangers, the character ofthe reigning Doge and of the chief senators; and then spoke of the stateof Rome. When the repast was over, they rose, and, each filling hisgoblet with wine from the gilded ewer, that stood beside him, drank'Success to our exploits!' Montoni was lifting his goblet to his lips todrink this toast, when suddenly the wine hissed, rose to the brim, and, as he held the glass from him, it burst into a thousand pieces. 

To him, who constantly used that sort of Venice glass, which had thequality of breaking, upon receiving poisoned liquor, a suspicion, thatsome of his guests had endeavoured to betray him, instantly occurred, and he ordered all the gates to be closed, drew his sword, and, lookinground on them, who stood in silent amazement, exclaimed, 'Here is atraitor among us; let those, that are innocent, assist in discoveringthe guilty. '

Indignation flashed from the eyes of the cavaliers, who all drew theirswords; and Madame Montoni, terrified at what might ensue, was hasteningfrom the hall, when her husband commanded her to stay; but his furtherwords could not now be distinguished, for the voice of every person rosetogether. His order, that all the servants should appear, was at lengthobeyed, and they declared their ignorance of any deceit--a protestationwhich could not be believed; for it was evident, that, as Montoni'sliquor, and his only, had been poisoned, a deliberate design had beenformed against his life, which could not have been carried so fartowards its accomplishment, without the connivance of the servant, whohad the care of the wine ewers. 

This man, with another, whose face betrayed either the consciousnessof guilt, or the fear of punishment, Montoni ordered to be chainedinstantly, and confined in a strong room, which had formerly been usedas a prison. Thither, likewise, he would have sent all his guests, had he not foreseen the consequence of so bold and unjustifiable aproceeding. As to those, therefore, he contented himself with swearing, that no man should pass the gates, till this extraordinary affairhad been investigated, and then sternly bade his wife retire to herapartment, whither he suffered Emily to attend her. 

In about half an hour, he followed to the dressing-room; and Emilyobserved, with horror, his dark countenance and quivering lip, and heardhim denounce vengeance on her aunt. 

'It will avail you nothing, ' said he to his wife, 'to deny the fact;I have proof of your guilt. Your only chance of mercy rests on a fullconfession;--there is nothing to hope from sullenness, or falsehood;your accomplice has confessed all. '

Emily's fainting spirits were roused by astonishment, as she heard heraunt accused of a crime so atrocious, and she could not, for a moment, admit the possibility of her guilt. Meanwhile Madame Montoni's agitationdid not permit her to reply; alternately her complexion varied fromlivid paleness to a crimson flush; and she trembled, --but, whether withfear, or with indignation, it were difficult to decide. 

'Spare your words, ' said Montoni, seeing her about to speak, 'yourcountenance makes full confession of your crime. --You shall be instantlyremoved to the east turret. '

'This accusation, ' said Madame Montoni, speaking with difficulty, 'isused only as an excuse for your cruelty; I disdain to reply to it. Youdo not believe me guilty. '

'Signor!' said Emily solemnly, 'this dreadful charge, I would answerwith my life, is false. Nay, Signor, ' she added, observing the severityof his countenance, 'this is no moment for restraint, on my part; I donot scruple to tell you, that you are deceived--most wickedly deceived, by the suggestion of some person, who aims at the ruin of my aunt:--itis impossible, that you could yourself have imagined a crime sohideous. '

Montoni, his lips trembling more than before, replied only, 'If youvalue your own safety, ' addressing Emily, 'you will be silent. I shallknow how to interpret your remonstrances, should you persevere in them. '

Emily raised her eyes calmly to heaven. 'Here is, indeed, then, nothingto hope!' said she. 

'Peace!' cried Montoni, 'or you shall find there is something to fear. '

He turned to his wife, who had now recovered her spirits, and whovehemently and wildly remonstrated upon this mysterious suspicion: butMontoni's rage heightened with her indignation, and Emily, dreadingthe event of it, threw herself between them, and clasped his knees insilence, looking up in his face with an expression, that might havesoftened the heart of a fiend. Whether his was hardened by a convictionof Madame Montoni's guilt, or that a bare suspicion of it made himeager to exercise vengeance, he was totally and alike insensible to thedistress of his wife, and to the pleading looks of Emily, whom he madeno attempt to raise, but was vehemently menacing both, when he wascalled out of the room by some person at the door. As he shut the door, Emily heard him turn the lock and take out the key; so that MadameMontoni and herself were now prisoners; and she saw that his designsbecame more and more terrible. Her endeavours to explain his motivesfor this circumstance were almost as ineffectual as those to sooth thedistress of her aunt, whose innocence she could not doubt; but she, atlength, accounted for Montoni's readiness to suspect his wife by his ownconsciousness of cruelty towards her, and for the sudden violence ofhis present conduct against both, before even his suspicions could becompletely formed, by his general eagerness to effect suddenly whateverhe was led to desire and his carelessness of justice, or humanity, inaccomplishing it. 

Madame Montoni, after some time, again looked round, in search of apossibility of escape from the castle, and conversed with Emily on thesubject, who was now willing to encounter any hazard, though she forboreto encourage a hope in her aunt, which she herself did not admit. Howstrongly the edifice was secured, and how vigilantly guarded, she knewtoo well; and trembled to commit their safety to the caprice ofthe servant, whose assistance they must solicit. Old Carlo wascompassionate, but he seemed to be too much in his master's interest tobe trusted by them; Annette could of herself do little, and Emily knewLudovico only from her report. At present, however, these considerationswere useless, Madame Montoni and her niece being shut up from allintercourse, even with the persons, whom there might be these reasons toreject. 

In the hall, confusion and tumult still reigned. Emily, as she listenedanxiously to the murmur, that sounded along the gallery, sometimesfancied she heard the clashing of swords, and, when she considered thenature of the provocation, given by Montoni, and his impetuosity, itappeared probable, that nothing less than arms would terminate thecontention. Madame Montoni, having exhausted all her expressions ofindignation, and Emily, hers of comfort, they remained silent, in thatkind of breathless stillness, which, in nature, often succeeds to theuproar of conflicting elements; a stillness, like the morning, thatdawns upon the ruins of an earthquake. 

An uncertain kind of terror pervaded Emily's mind; the circumstancesof the past hour still came dimly and confusedly to her memory; and herthoughts were various and rapid, though without tumult. 

From this state of waking visions she was recalled by a knocking at thechamber-door, and, enquiring who was there, heard the whispering voiceof Annette. 

'Dear madam, let me come in, I have a great deal to say, ' said the poorgirl. 

'The door is locked, ' answered the lady. 

'Yes, ma'am, but do pray open it. '

'The Signor has the key, ' said Madame Montoni. 

'O blessed Virgin! what will become of us?' exclaimed Annette. 

'Assist us to escape, ' said her mistress. 'Where is Ludovico?'

'Below in the hall, ma'am, amongst them all, fighting with the best ofthem!'

'Fighting! Who are fighting?' cried Madame Montoni. 

'Why the Signor, ma'am, and all the Signors, and a great many more. '

'Is any person much hurt?' said Emily, in a tremulous voice. 'Hurt!Yes, ma'amselle, --there they lie bleeding, and the swords are clashing, and--O holy saints! Do let me in, ma'am, they are coming this way--Ishall be murdered!'

'Fly!' cried Emily, 'fly! we cannot open the door. '

Annette repeated, that they were coming, and in the same moment fled. 

'Be calm, madam, ' said Emily, turning to her aunt, 'I entreat you to becalm, I am not frightened--not frightened in the least, do not you bealarmed. '

'You can scarcely support yourself, ' replied her aunt; 'Merciful God!what is it they mean to do with us?'

'They come, perhaps, to liberate us, ' said Emily, 'Signor Montoniperhaps is--is conquered. '

The belief of his death gave her spirits a sudden shock, and she grewfaint as she saw him in imagination, expiring at her feet. 

'They are coming!' cried Madame Montoni--'I hear their steps--they areat the door!'

Emily turned her languid eyes to the door, but terror deprived her ofutterance. The key sounded in the lock; the door opened, and Montoniappeared, followed by three ruffian-like men. 'Execute your orders, 'said he, turning to them, and pointing to his wife, who shrieked, butwas immediately carried from the room; while Emily sunk, senseless, ona couch, by which she had endeavoured to support herself. When sherecovered, she was alone, and recollected only, that Madame Montoni hadbeen there, together with some unconnected particulars of the precedingtransaction, which were, however, sufficient to renew all her terror. She looked wildly round the apartment, as if in search of some means ofintelligence, concerning her aunt, while neither her own danger, or anidea of escaping from the room, immediately occurred. 

When her recollection was more complete, she raised herself and went, but with only a faint hope, to examine whether the door was unfastened. It was so, and she then stepped timidly out into the gallery, but pausedthere, uncertain which way she should proceed. Her first wish was togather some information, as to her aunt, and she, at length, turned hersteps to go to the lesser hall, where Annette and the other servantsusually waited. 

Every where, as she passed, she heard, from a distance, the uproar ofcontention, and the figures and faces, which she met, hurrying along thepassages, struck her mind with dismay. Emily might now have appeared, like an angel of light, encompassed by fiends. At length, she reachedthe lesser hall, which was silent and deserted, but, panting for breath, she sat down to recover herself. The total stillness of this place wasas awful as the tumult, from which she had escaped: but she had now timeto recall her scattered thoughts, to remember her personal danger, andto consider of some means of safety. She perceived, that it was uselessto seek Madame Montoni, through the wide extent and intricacies of thecastle, now, too, when every avenue seemed to be beset by ruffians; inthis hall she could not resolve to stay, for she knew not how soon itmight become their place of rendezvous; and, though she wished to go toher chamber, she dreaded again to encounter them on the way. 

Thus she sat, trembling and hesitating, when a distant murmur broke onthe silence, and grew louder and louder, till she distinguished voicesand steps approaching. She then rose to go, but the sounds came alongthe only passage, by which she could depart, and she was compelled toawait in the hall, the arrival of the persons, whose steps she heard. As these advanced, she distinguished groans, and then saw a man borneslowly along by four others. Her spirits faltered at the sight, and sheleaned against the wall for support. The bearers, meanwhile, entered thehall, and, being too busily occupied to detain, or even notice Emily, she attempted to leave it, but her strength failed, and she again satdown on the bench. A damp chillness came over her; her sight becameconfused; she knew not what had passed, or where she was, yet the groansof the wounded person still vibrated on her heart. In a few moments, thetide of life seemed again to flow; she began to breathe more freely, andher senses revived. She had not fainted, nor had ever totally lost herconsciousness, but had contrived to support herself on the bench; stillwithout courage to turn her eyes upon the unfortunate object, whichremained near her, and about whom the men were yet too much engaged toattend to her. 

When her strength returned, she rose, and was suffered to leavethe hall, though her anxiety, having produced some vain enquiries, concerning Madame Montoni, had thus made a discovery of herself. Towardsher chamber she now hastened, as fast as her steps would bear her, forshe still perceived, upon her passage, the sounds of confusion at adistance, and she endeavoured, by taking her way through some obscurerooms, to avoid encountering the persons, whose looks had terrified herbefore, as well as those parts of the castle, where the tumult mightstill rage. 

At length, she reached her chamber, and, having secured the door of thecorridor, felt herself, for a moment, in safety. A profound stillnessreigned in this remote apartment, which not even the faint murmur ofthe most distant sounds now reached. She sat down, near one of thecasements, and, as she gazed on the mountain-view beyond, the deeprepose of its beauty struck her with all the force of contrast, and shecould scarcely believe herself so near a scene of savage discord. Thecontending elements seemed to have retired from their natural spheres, and to have collected themselves into the minds of men, for there alonethe tempest now reigned. 

Emily tried to tranquillize her spirits, but anxiety made her constantlylisten for some sound, and often look out upon the ramparts, where all, however, was lonely and still. As a sense of her own immediate dangerhad decreased, her apprehension concerning Madame Montoni heightened, who, she remembered, had been fiercely threatened with confinement inthe east turret, and it was possible, that her husband had satisfied hispresent vengeance with this punishment. She, therefore, determined, whennight should return, and the inhabitants of the castle should be asleep, to explore the way to the turret, which, as the direction it stood inwas mentioned, appeared not very difficult to be done. She knew, indeed, that although her aunt might be there, she could afford her no effectualassistance, but it might give her some comfort even to know, that shewas discovered, and to hear the sound of her niece's voice; forherself, any certainty, concerning Madame Montoni's fate, appeared moretolerable, than this exhausting suspense. 

Meanwhile, Annette did not appear, and Emily was surprised, and somewhatalarmed for her, whom, in the confusion of the late scene, variousaccidents might have befallen, and it was improbable, that she wouldhave failed to come to her apartment, unless something unfortunate hadhappened. 

Thus the hours passed in solitude, in silence, and in anxiousconjecturing. Being not once disturbed by a message, or a sound, itappeared, that Montoni had wholly forgotten her, and it gave her somecomfort to find, that she could be so unnoticed. She endeavoured towithdraw her thoughts from the anxiety, that preyed upon them, but theyrefused controul; she could neither read, or draw, and the tones of herlute were so utterly discordant with the present state of her feelings, that she could not endure them for a moment. 

The sun, at length, set behind the western mountains; his fiery beamsfaded from the clouds, and then a dun melancholy purple drew over them, and gradually involved the features of the country below. Soon after, the sentinels passed on the rampart to commence the watch. 

Twilight had now spread its gloom over every object; the dismalobscurity of her chamber recalled fearful thoughts, but she remembered, that to procure a light she must pass through a great extent of thecastle, and, above all, through the halls, where she had alreadyexperienced so much horror. Darkness, indeed, in the present state ofher spirits, made silence and solitude terrible to her; it would alsoprevent the possibility of her finding her way to the turret, andcondemn her to remain in suspense, concerning the fate of her aunt; yetshe dared not to venture forth for a lamp. 

Continuing at the casement, that she might catch the last lingeringgleam of evening, a thousand vague images of fear floated on her fancy. 'What if some of these ruffians, ' said she, 'should find out the privatestair-case, and in the darkness of night steal into my chamber!' Then, recollecting the mysterious inhabitant of the neighbouring apartment, her terror changed its object. 'He is not a prisoner, ' said she, 'thoughhe remains in one chamber, for Montoni did not fasten the door, when heleft it; the unknown person himself did this; it is certain, therefore, he can come out when he pleases. '

She paused, for, notwithstanding the terrors of darkness, she consideredit to be very improbable, whoever he was, that he could have anyinterest in intruding upon her retirement; and again the subject of heremotion changed, when, remembering her nearness to the chamber, wherethe veil had formerly disclosed a dreadful spectacle, she doubtedwhether some passage might not communicate between it and the insecuredoor of the stair-case. 

It was now entirely dark, and she left the casement. As she sat withher eyes fixed on the hearth, she thought she perceived there a sparkof light; it twinkled and disappeared, and then again was visible. Atlength, with much care, she fanned the embers of a wood fire, that hadbeen lighted in the morning, into flame, and, having communicated it toa lamp, which always stood in her room, felt a satisfaction not to beconceived, without a review of her situation. Her first care was toguard the door of the stair-case, for which purpose she placed againstit all the furniture she could move, and she was thus employed, forsome time, at the end of which she had another instance how much moreoppressive misfortune is to the idle, than to the busy; for, having thenleisure to think over all the circumstances of her present afflictions, she imagined a thousand evils for futurity, and these real and idealsubjects of distress alike wounded her mind. 

Thus heavily moved the hours till midnight, when she counted the sullennotes of the great clock, as they rolled along the rampart, unmingledwith any sound, except the distant foot-fall of a sentinel, who cameto relieve guard. She now thought she might venture towards the turret, and, having gently opened the chamber door to examine the corridor, andto listen if any person was stirring in the castle, found all aroundin perfect stillness. Yet no sooner had she left the room, than sheperceived a light flash on the walls of the corridor, and, withoutwaiting to see by whom it was carried, she shrunk back, and closed herdoor. No one approaching, she conjectured, that it was Montoni going topay his mid-night visit to her unknown neighbour, and she determined towait, till he should have retired to his own apartment. 

When the chimes had tolled another half hour, she once more openedthe door, and, perceiving that no person was in the corridor, hastilycrossed into a passage, that led along the south side of the castletowards the stair-case, whence she believed she could easily find herway to the turret. Often pausing on her way, listening apprehensively tothe murmurs of the wind, and looking fearfully onward into the gloom ofthe long passages, she, at length, reached the stair-case; but there herperplexity began. Two passages appeared, of which she knew not how toprefer one, and was compelled, at last, to decide by chance, rather thanby circumstances. That she entered, opened first into a wide gallery, along which she passed lightly and swiftly; for the lonely aspect of theplace awed her, and she started at the echo of her own steps. 

On a sudden, she thought she heard a voice, and, not distinguishingfrom whence it came, feared equally to proceed, or to return. For somemoments, she stood in an attitude of listening expectation, shrinkingalmost from herself and scarcely daring to look round her. The voicecame again, but, though it was now near her, terror did not allow her tojudge exactly whence it proceeded. She thought, however, that it was thevoice of complaint, and her belief was soon confirmed by a low moaningsound, that seemed to proceed from one of the chambers, opening intothe gallery. It instantly occurred to her, that Madame Montoni might bethere confined, and she advanced to the door to speak, but was checkedby considering, that she was, perhaps, going to commit herself to astranger, who might discover her to Montoni; for, though this person, whoever it was, seemed to be in affliction, it did not follow, that hewas a prisoner. 

While these thoughts passed over her mind, and left her still inhesitation, the voice spoke again, and, calling 'Ludovico, ' she thenperceived it to be that of Annette; on which, no longer hesitating, shewent in joy to answer her. 

'Ludovico!' cried Annette, sobbing--'Ludovico!'

'It is not Ludovico, it is I--Mademoiselle Emily. '

Annette ceased sobbing, and was silent. 

'If you can open the door, let me in, ' said Emily, 'here is no person tohurt you. '

'Ludovico!--O, Ludovico!' cried Annette. 

Emily now lost her patience, and her fear of being overheard increasing, she was even nearly about to leave the door, when she considered, thatAnnette might, possibly, know something of the situation of MadameMontoni, or direct her to the turret. At length, she obtained a reply, though little satisfactory, to her questions, for Annette knew nothingof Madame Montoni, and only conjured Emily to tell her what was becomeof Ludovico. Of him she had no information to give, and she again askedwho had shut Annette up. 

'Ludovico, ' said the poor girl, 'Ludovico shut me up. When I ran awayfrom the dressing-room door to-day, I went I scarcely knew where, forsafety; and, in this gallery, here, I met Ludovico, who hurried me intothis chamber, and locked me up to keep me out of harm, as he said. Buthe was in such a hurry himself, he hardly spoke ten words, but he toldme he would come, and let me out, when all was quiet, and he took awaythe key with him. Now all these hours are passed, and I have neitherseen, or heard a word of him; they have murdered him--I know they have!'

Emily suddenly remembered the wounded person, whom she had seen borneinto the servants' hall, and she scarcely doubted, that he was Ludovico, but she concealed the circumstance from Annette, and endeavoured tocomfort her. Then, impatient to learn something of her aunt, she againenquired the way to the turret. 

'O! you are not going, ma'amselle, ' said Annette, 'for Heaven's sake, donot go, and leave me here by myself. '

'Nay, Annette, you do not think I can wait in the gallery all night, 'replied Emily. 'Direct me to the turret; in the morning I will endeavourto release you. '

'O holy Mary!' exclaimed Annette, 'am I to stay here by myself allnight! I shall be frightened out of my senses, and I shall die ofhunger; I have had nothing to eat since dinner!'

Emily could scarcely forbear smiling at the heterogeneous distresses ofAnnette, though she sincerely pitied them, and said what she could tosooth her. At length, she obtained something like a direction to theeast turret, and quitted the door, from whence, after many intricaciesand perplexities, she reached the steep and winding stairs of theturret, at the foot of which she stopped to rest, and to re-animate hercourage with a sense of her duty. As she surveyed this dismal place, sheperceived a door on the opposite side of the stair-case, and, anxiousto know whether it would lead her to Madame Montoni, she tried to undrawthe bolts, which fastened it. A fresher air came to her face, as sheunclosed the door, which opened upon the east rampart, and the suddencurrent had nearly extinguished her light, which she now removed to adistance; and again, looking out upon the obscure terrace, she perceivedonly the faint outline of the walls and of some towers, while, above, heavy clouds, borne along the wind, seemed to mingle with the stars, andwrap the night in thicker darkness. As she gazed, now willing to deferthe moment of certainty, from which she expected only confirmation ofevil, a distant footstep reminded her, that she might be observed bythe men on watch, and, hastily closing the door, she took her lamp, and passed up the stair-case. Trembling came upon her, as she ascendedthrough the gloom. To her melancholy fancy this seemed to be a place ofdeath, and the chilling silence, that reigned, confirmed its character. Her spirits faltered. 'Perhaps, ' said she, 'I am come hither only tolearn a dreadful truth, or to witness some horrible spectacle; I feelthat my senses would not survive such an addition of horror. '

The image of her aunt murdered--murdered, perhaps, by the hand ofMontoni, rose to her mind; she trembled, gasped for breath--repentedthat she had dared to venture hither, and checked her steps. But, aftershe had paused a few minutes, the consciousness of her duty returned, and she went on. Still all was silent. At length a track of blood, upona stair, caught her eye; and instantly she perceived, that the wall andseveral other steps were stained. She paused, again struggled to supportherself, and the lamp almost fell from her trembling hand. Stillno sound was heard, no living being seemed to inhabit the turret; athousand times she wished herself again in her chamber; dreaded toenquire farther--dreaded to encounter some horrible spectacle, andyet could not resolve, now that she was so near the termination of herefforts, to desist from them. Having again collected courage to proceed, after ascending about half way up the turret, she came to another door, but here again she stopped in hesitation; listened for sounds within, and then, summoning all her resolution, unclosed it, and entered achamber, which, as her lamp shot its feeble rays through the darkness, seemed to exhibit only dew-stained and deserted walls. As she stoodexamining it, in fearful expectation of discovering the remains of herunfortunate aunt, she perceived something lying in an obscure corner ofthe room, and, struck with an horrible conviction, she became, foran instant, motionless and nearly insensible. Then, with a kind ofdesperate resolution, she hurried towards the object that excited herterror, when, perceiving the clothes of some person, on the floor, she caught hold of them, and found in her grasp the old uniform of asoldier, beneath which appeared a heap of pikes and other arms. Scarcelydaring to trust her sight, she continued, for some moments, to gazeon the object of her late alarm, and then left the chamber, so muchcomforted and occupied by the conviction, that her aunt was not there, that she was going to descend the turret, without enquiring farther;when, on turning to do so, she observed upon some steps on the secondflight an appearance of blood, and remembering, that there was yetanother chamber to be explored, she again followed the windings ofthe ascent. Still, as she ascended, the track of blood glared upon thestairs. 

It led her to the door of a landing-place, that terminated them, but shewas unable to follow it farther. Now that she was so near the sought-forcertainty, she dreaded to know it, even more than before, and had notfortitude sufficient to speak, or to attempt opening the door. 

Having listened, in vain, for some sound, that might confirm, or destroyher fears, she, at length, laid her hand on the lock, and, finding itfastened, called on Madame Montoni; but only a chilling silence ensued. 

'She is dead!' she cried, --'murdered!--her blood is on the stairs!'

Emily grew very faint; could support herself no longer, and had scarcelypresence of mind to set down the lamp, and place herself on a step. 

When her recollection returned, she spoke again at the door, and againattempted to open it, and, having lingered for some time, withoutreceiving any answer, or hearing a sound, she descended the turret, and, with all the swiftness her feebleness would permit, sought her ownapartment. 

As she turned into the corridor, the door of a chamber opened, fromwhence Montoni came forth; but Emily, more terrified than ever to beholdhim, shrunk back into the passage soon enough to escape being noticed, and heard him close the door, which she had perceived was the same sheformerly observed. Having here listened to his departing steps, tilltheir faint sound was lost in distance, she ventured to her apartment, and, securing it once again, retired to her bed, leaving the lampburning on the hearth. But sleep was fled from her harassed mind, towhich images of horror alone occurred. She endeavoured to think itpossible, that Madame Montoni had not been taken to the turret; but, when she recollected the former menaces of her husband and the terriblespirit of vengeance, which he had displayed on a late occasion; when sheremembered his general character, the looks of the men, who had forcedMadame Montoni from her apartment, and the written traces on the stairsof the turret--she could not doubt, that her aunt had been carriedthither, and could scarcely hope, that she had not been carried to bemurdered. 

The grey of morning had long dawned through her casements, before Emilyclosed her eyes in sleep; when wearied nature, at length, yielded her arespite from suffering. 

CHAPTER XI

 Who rears the bloody hand? SAYERS

Emily remained in her chamber, on the following morning, withoutreceiving any notice from Montoni, or seeing a human being, except thearmed men, who sometimes passed on the terrace below. Having tasted nofood since the dinner of the preceding day, extreme faintness made herfeel the necessity of quitting the asylum of her apartment to obtainrefreshment, and she was also very anxious to procure liberty forAnnette. Willing, however, to defer venturing forth, as long aspossible, and considering, whether she should apply to Montoni, or tothe compassion of some other person, her excessive anxiety concerningher aunt, at length, overcame her abhorrence of his presence, and shedetermined to go to him, and to entreat, that he would suffer her to seeMadame Montoni. 

Meanwhile, it was too certain, from the absence of Annette, that someaccident had befallen Ludovico, and that she was still in confinement;Emily, therefore, resolved also to visit the chamber, where she hadspoken to her, on the preceding night, and, if the poor girl was yetthere, to inform Montoni of her situation. 

It was near noon, before she ventured from her apartment, and wentfirst to the south gallery, whither she passed without meeting a singleperson, or hearing a sound, except, now and then, the echo of a distantfootstep. 

It was unnecessary to call Annette, whose lamentations were audibleupon the first approach to the gallery, and who, bewailing her own andLudovico's fate, told Emily, that she should certainly be starved todeath, if she was not let out immediately. Emily replied, that shewas going to beg her release of Montoni; but the terrors of hunger nowyielded to those of the Signor, and, when Emily left her, she was loudlyentreating, that her place of refuge might be concealed from him. 

As Emily drew near the great hall, the sounds she heard and the peopleshe met in the passages renewed her alarm. The latter, however, werepeaceable, and did not interrupt her, though they looked earnestly ather, as she passed, and sometimes spoke. On crossing the hall towardsthe cedar room, where Montoni usually sat, she perceived, on thepavement, fragments of swords, some tattered garments stained withblood, and almost expected to have seen among them a dead body; butfrom such a spectacle she was, at present, spared. As she approachedthe room, the sound of several voices issued from within, and a dreadof appearing before many strangers, as well as of irritating Montoniby such an intrusion, made her pause and falter from her purpose. Shelooked up through the long arcades of the hall, in search of a servant, who might bear a message, but no one appeared, and the urgency of whatshe had to request made her still linger near the door. The voiceswithin were not in contention, though she distinguished those of severalof the guests of the preceding day; but still her resolution failed, whenever she would have tapped at the door, and she had determined towalk in the hall, till some person should appear, who might call Montonifrom the room, when, as she turned from the door, it was suddenly openedby himself. Emily trembled, and was confused, while he almost startedwith surprise, and all the terrors of his countenance unfoldedthemselves. She forgot all she would have said, and neither enquired forher aunt, or entreated for Annette, but stood silent and embarrassed. 

After closing the door he reproved her for a meanness, of which she hadnot been guilty, and sternly questioned her what she had overheard; anaccusation, which revived her recollection so far, that she assuredhim she had not come thither with an intention to listen to hisconversation, but to entreat his compassion for her aunt, and forAnnette. Montoni seemed to doubt this assertion, for he regarded herwith a scrutinizing look; and the doubt evidently arose from no triflinginterest. Emily then further explained herself, and concluded withentreating him to inform her, where her aunt was placed, and to permit, that she might visit her; but he looked upon her only with a malignantsmile, which instantaneously confirmed her worst fears for her aunt, and, at that moment, she had not courage to renew her entreaties. 

'For Annette, ' said he, --'if you go to Carlo, he will release thegirl; the foolish fellow, who shut her up, died yesterday. ' Emilyshuddered. --'But my aunt, Signor'--said she, 'O tell me of my aunt!'

'She is taken care of, ' replied Montoni hastily, 'I have no time toanswer idle questions. '

He would have passed on, but Emily, in a voice of agony, that could notbe wholly resisted, conjured him to tell her, where Madame Montoni was;while he paused, and she anxiously watched his countenance, a trumpetsounded, and, in the next moment, she heard the heavy gates of theportal open, and then the clattering of horses' hoofs in the court, withthe confusion of many voices. She stood for a moment hesitating whethershe should follow Montoni, who, at the sound of the trumpet, had passedthrough the hall, and, turning her eyes whence it came, she saw throughthe door, that opened beyond a long perspective of arches into thecourts, a party of horsemen, whom she judged, as well as the distanceand her embarrassment would allow, to be the same she had seen depart, afew days before. But she staid not to scrutinize, for, when the trumpetsounded again, the chevaliers rushed out of the cedar room, and men camerunning into the hall from every quarter of the castle. Emily once morehurried for shelter to her own apartment. Thither she was still pursuedby images of horror. She re-considered Montoni's manner and words, whenhe had spoken of his wife, and they served only to confirm her mostterrible suspicions. Tears refused any longer to relieve her distress, and she had sat for a considerable time absorbed in thought, when aknocking at the chamber door aroused her, on opening which she found oldCarlo. 

'Dear young lady, ' said he, 'I have been so flurried, I never oncethought of you till just now. I have brought you some fruit and wine, and I am sure you must stand in need of them by this time. '

'Thank you, Carlo, ' said Emily, 'this is very good of you Did the Signorremind you of me?'

'No, Signora, ' replied Carlo, 'his excellenza has business enough on hishands. ' Emily then renewed her enquiries, concerning Madame Montoni, butCarlo had been employed at the other end of the castle, during the time, that she was removed, and he had heard nothing since, concerning her. 

While he spoke, Emily looked steadily at him, for she scarcely knewwhether he was really ignorant, or concealed his knowledge of the truthfrom a fear of offending his master. To several questions, concerningthe contentions of yesterday, he gave very limited answers; but told, that the disputes were now amicably settled, and that the Signorbelieved himself to have been mistaken in his suspicions of his guests. 'The fighting was about that, Signora, ' said Carlo; 'but I trust I shallnever see such another day in this castle, though strange things areabout to be done. '

On her enquiring his meaning, 'Ah, Signora!' added he, 'it is not for meto betray secrets, or tell all I think, but time will tell. '

She then desired him to release Annette, and, having described thechamber in which the poor girl was confined, he promised to obey herimmediately, and was departing, when she remembered to ask who were thepersons just arrived. Her late conjecture was right; it was Verezzi, with his party. 

Her spirits were somewhat soothed by this short conversation with Carlo;for, in her present circumstances, it afforded some comfort to hear theaccents of compassion, and to meet the look of sympathy. 

An hour passed before Annette appeared, who then came weeping andsobbing. 'O Ludovico--Ludovico!' cried she. 

'My poor Annette!' said Emily, and made her sit down. 

'Who could have foreseen this, ma'amselle? O miserable, wretched, day--that ever I should live to see it!' and she continued to moan andlament, till Emily thought it necessary to check her excess of grief. 'We are continually losing dear friends by death, ' said she, witha sigh, that came from her heart. 'We must submit to the will ofHeaven--our tears, alas! cannot recall the dead!'

Annette took the handkerchief from her face. 

'You will meet Ludovico in a better world, I hope, ' added Emily. 

'Yes--yes, --ma'amselle, ' sobbed Annette, 'but I hope I shall meet himagain in this--though he is so wounded!'

'Wounded!' exclaimed Emily, 'does he live?'

'Yes, ma'am, but--but he has a terrible wound, and could not come tolet me out. They thought him dead, at first, and he has not been rightlyhimself, till within this hour. '

'Well, Annette, I rejoice to hear he lives. '

'Lives! Holy Saints! why he will not die, surely!'

Emily said she hoped not, but this expression of hope Annette thoughtimplied fear, and her own increased in proportion, as Emily endeavouredto encourage her. To enquiries, concerning Madame Montoni, she couldgive no satisfactory answers. 

'I quite forgot to ask among the servants, ma'amselle, ' said she, 'for Icould think of nobody but poor Ludovico. '

Annette's grief was now somewhat assuaged, and Emily sent her to makeenquiries, concerning her lady, of whom, however, she could obtain nointelligence, some of the people she spoke with being really ignorant ofher fate, and others having probably received orders to conceal it. 

This day passed with Emily in continued grief and anxiety for her aunt;but she was unmolested by any notice from Montoni; and, now that Annettewas liberated, she obtained food, without exposing herself to danger, orimpertinence. 

Two following days passed in the same manner, unmarked by anyoccurrence, during which she obtained no information of Madame Montoni. On the evening of the second, having dismissed Annette, and retired tobed, her mind became haunted by the most dismal images, such as her longanxiety, concerning her aunt, suggested; and, unable to forget herself, for a moment, or to vanquish the phantoms, that tormented her, sherose from her bed, and went to one of the casements of her chamber, tobreathe a freer air. 

All without was silent and dark, unless that could be called light, which was only the faint glimmer of the stars, shewing imperfectlythe outline of the mountains, the western towers of the castle and theramparts below, where a solitary sentinel was pacing. What an image ofrepose did this scene present! The fierce and terrible passions, too, which so often agitated the inhabitants of this edifice, seemed nowhushed in sleep;--those mysterious workings, that rouse the elements ofman's nature into tempest--were calm. Emily's heart was not so; but hersufferings, though deep, partook of the gentle character of her mind. Hers was a silent anguish, weeping, yet enduring; not the wild energy ofpassion, inflaming imagination, bearing down the barriers of reason andliving in a world of its own. 

The air refreshed her, and she continued at the casement, looking on theshadowy scene, over which the planets burned with a clear light, amidthe deep blue aether, as they silently moved in their destined course. She remembered how often she had gazed on them with her dear father, howoften he had pointed out their way in the heavens, and explained theirlaws; and these reflections led to others, which, in an almost equaldegree, awakened her grief and astonishment. 

They brought a retrospect of all the strange and mournful events, whichhad occurred since she lived in peace with her parents. And to Emily, who had been so tenderly educated, so tenderly loved, who once knewonly goodness and happiness--to her, the late events and her presentsituation--in a foreign land--in a remote castle--surrounded by viceand violence--seemed more like the visions of a distempered imagination, than the circumstances of truth. She wept to think of what her parentswould have suffered, could they have foreseen the events of her futurelife. 

While she raised her streaming eyes to heaven, she observed the sameplanet, which she had seen in Languedoc, on the night, preceding herfather's death, rise above the eastern towers of the castle, while sheremembered the conversation, which has passed, concerning the probablestate of departed souls; remembered, also, the solemn music she hadheard, and to which the tenderness of her spirits had, in spite of herreason, given a superstitious meaning. At these recollections she weptagain, and continued musing, when suddenly the notes of sweet musicpassed on the air. A superstitious dread stole over her; she stoodlistening, for some moments, in trembling expectation, and thenendeavoured to re-collect her thoughts, and to reason herself intocomposure; but human reason cannot establish her laws on subjects, lostin the obscurity of imagination, any more than the eye can ascertain theform of objects, that only glimmer through the dimness of night. 

Her surprise, on hearing such soothing and delicious sounds, was, atleast, justifiable; for it was long--very long, since she had listenedto any thing like melody. The fierce trumpet and the shrill fife werethe only instruments she had heard, since her arrival at Udolpho. 

When her mind was somewhat more composed, she tried to ascertain fromwhat quarter the sounds proceeded, and thought they came from below; butwhether from a room of the castle, or from the terrace, she could notwith certainty judge. Fear and surprise now yielded to the enchantmentof a strain, that floated on the silent night, with the most softand melancholy sweetness. Suddenly, it seemed removed to a distance, trembled faintly, and then entirely ceased. 

She continued to listen, sunk in that pleasing repose, which soft musicleaves on the mind--but it came no more. Upon this strange circumstanceher thoughts were long engaged, for strange it certainly was to hearmusic at midnight, when every inhabitant of the castle had long sinceretired to rest, and in a place, where nothing like harmony had beenheard before, probably, for many years. Long-suffering had made herspirits peculiarly sensible to terror, and liable to be affected by theillusions of superstition. --It now seemed to her, as if her dead fatherhad spoken to her in that strain, to inspire her with comfort andconfidence, on the subject, which had then occupied her mind. Yet reasontold her, that this was a wild conjecture, and she was inclined todismiss it; but, with the inconsistency so natural, when imaginationguides the thoughts, she then wavered towards a belief as wild. Sheremembered the singular event, connected with the castle, which hadgiven it into the possession of its present owner; and, when sheconsidered the mysterious manner, in which its late possessor haddisappeared, and that she had never since been heard of, her mind wasimpressed with an high degree of solemn awe; so that, though thereappeared no clue to connect that event with the late music, she wasinclined fancifully to think they had some relation to each other. Atthis conjecture, a sudden chillness ran through her frame; she lookedfearfully upon the duskiness of her chamber, and the dead silence, thatprevailed there, heightened to her fancy its gloomy aspect. 

At length, she left the casement, but her steps faltered, as sheapproached the bed, and she stopped and looked round. The single lamp, that burned in her spacious chamber, was expiring; for a moment, sheshrunk from the darkness beyond; and then, ashamed of the weakness, which, however, she could not wholly conquer, went forward to the bed, where her mind did not soon know the soothings of sleep. She still musedon the late occurrence, and looked with anxiety to the next night, when, at the same hour, she determined to watch whether the music returned. 'If those sounds were human, ' said she, 'I shall probably hear themagain. '

CHAPTER XII

 Then, oh, you blessed ministers above, Keep me in patience; and, in ripen'd time, Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up In countenance. SHAKESPEARE

Annette came almost breathless to Emily's apartment in the morning. 'Oma'amselle!' said she, in broken sentences, 'what news I have to tell! Ihave found out who the prisoner is--but he was no prisoner, neither;--hethat was shut up in the chamber I told you of. I must think him a ghost, forsooth!'

'Who was the prisoner?' enquired Emily, while her thoughts glanced backto the circumstance of the preceding night. 

'You mistake, ma'am, ' said Annette; 'he was not a prisoner, after all. '

'Who is the person, then?'

'Holy Saints!' rejoined Annette; 'How I was surprised! I met him justnow, on the rampart below, there. I never was so surprised in my life!Ah! ma'amselle! this is a strange place! I should never have donewondering, if I was to live here an hundred years. But, as I was saying, I met him just now on the rampart, and I was thinking of nobody lessthan of him. '

'This trifling is insupportable, ' said Emily; 'prythee, Annette, do nottorture my patience any longer. '

'Nay, ma'amselle, guess--guess who it was; it was somebody you know verywell. '

'I cannot guess, ' said Emily impatiently. 

'Nay, ma'amselle, I'll tell you something to guess by--A tall Signor, with a longish face, who walks so stately, and used to wear such a highfeather in his hat; and used often to look down upon the ground, whenpeople spoke to him; and to look at people from under his eyebrows, asit were, all so dark and frowning. You have seen him, often and often, at Venice, ma'am. Then he was so intimate with the Signor, too. And, nowI think of it, I wonder what he could be afraid of in this lonely oldcastle, that he should shut himself up for. But he is come abroad now, for I met him on the rampart just this minute. I trembled when I sawhim, for I always was afraid of him, somehow; but I determined I wouldnot let him see it; so I went up to him, and made him a low curtesy, "You are welcome to the castle, Signor Orsino, " said I. '

'O, it was Signor Orsino, then!' said Emily. 

'Yes, ma'amselle, Signor Orsino, himself, who caused that Venetiangentleman to be killed, and has been popping about from place to place, ever since, as I hear. '

'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, recovering from the shock of thisintelligence; 'and is HE come to Udolpho! He does well to endeavour toconceal himself. '

'Yes, ma'amselle, but if that was all, this desolate place would concealhim, without his shutting himself up in one room. Who would think ofcoming to look for him here? I am sure I should as soon think of goingto look for any body in the other world. '

'There is some truth in that, ' said Emily, who would now have concludedit was Orsino's music, which she had heard, on the preceding night, had she not known, that he had neither taste, or skill in the art. But, though she was unwilling to add to the number of Annette's surprises, bymentioning the subject of her own, she enquired, whether any person inthe castle played on a musical instrument?

'O yes, ma'amselle! there is Benedetto plays the great drum toadmiration; and then, there is Launcelot the trumpeter; nay, for thatmatter, Ludovico himself can play on the trumpet;--but he is ill now. Iremember once'--

Emily interrupted her; 'Have you heard no other music since you came tothe castle--none last night?'

'Why, did YOU hear any last night, ma'amselle?'

Emily evaded this question, by repeating her own. 

'Why, no, ma'am, ' replied Annette; 'I never heard any music here, Imust say, but the drums and the trumpet; and, as for last night, I didnothing but dream I saw my late lady's ghost. '

'Your LATE lady's, ' said Emily in a tremulous voice; 'you have heardmore, then. Tell me--tell me all, Annette, I entreat; tell me the worstat once. '

'Nay, ma'amselle, you know the worst already. '

'I know nothing, ' said Emily. 

'Yes, you do, ma'amselle; you know, that nobody knows any thing abouther; and it is plain, therefore, she is gone, the way of the first ladyof the castle--nobody ever knew any thing about her. '

Emily leaned her head upon her hand, and was, for some time, silent;then, telling Annette she wished to be alone, the latter left the room. 

The remark of Annette had revived Emily's terrible suspicion, concerningthe fate of Madame Montoni; and she resolved to make another effort toobtain certainty on this subject, by applying to Montoni once more. 

When Annette returned, a few hours after, she told Emily, that theporter of the castle wished very much to speak with her, for that he hadsomething of importance to say; her spirits had, however, of late beenso subject to alarm, that any new circumstance excited it; and thismessage from the porter, when her first surprise was over, made her lookround for some lurking danger, the more suspiciously, perhaps, becauseshe had frequently remarked the unpleasant air and countenance of thisman. She now hesitated, whether to speak with him, doubting even, thatthis request was only a pretext to draw her into some danger; but alittle reflection shewed her the improbability of this, and she blushedat her weak fears. 

'I will speak to him, Annette, ' said she; 'desire him to come to thecorridor immediately. '

Annette departed, and soon after returned. 

'Barnardine, ma'amselle, ' said she, 'dare not come to the corridor, lesthe should be discovered, it is so far from his post; and he dare noteven leave the gates for a moment now; but, if you will come to himat the portal, through some roundabout passages he told me of, withoutcrossing the courts, he has that to tell, which will surprise you. Butyou must not come through the courts, lest the Signor should see you. '

Emily, neither approving these 'roundabout passage, ' nor the other partof the request, now positively refused to go. 'Tell him, ' said she, 'if he has any thing of consequence to impart, I will hear him in thecorridor, whenever he has an opportunity of coming thither. '

Annette went to deliver this message, and was absent a considerabletime. When she returned, 'It won't do, ma'amselle, ' said she. 'Barnardine has been considering all this time what can be done, for itis as much as his place is worth to leave his post now. But, if you willcome to the east rampart in the dusk of the evening, he can, perhaps, steal away, and tell you all he has to say. '

Emily was surprised and alarmed, at the secrecy which this man seemedto think so necessary, and hesitated whether to meet him, till, considering, that he might mean to warn her of some serious danger, sheresolved to go. 

'Soon after sun-set, ' said she, 'I will be at the end of the eastrampart. But then the watch will be set, ' she added, recollectingherself, 'and how can Barnardine pass unobserved?'

'That is just what I said to him, ma'am, and he answered me, that he hadthe key of the gate, at the end of the rampart, that leads towardsthe courts, and could let himself through that way; and as for thesentinels, there were none at this end of the terrace, because the placeis guarded enough by the high walls of the castle, and the east turret;and he said those at the other end were too far off to see him, if itwas pretty duskyish. '

'Well, ' said Emily, 'I must hear what he has to tell; and, therefore, desire you will go with me to the terrace, this evening. '

'He desired it might be pretty duskyish, ma'amselle, ' repeated Annette, 'because of the watch. '

Emily paused, and then said she would be on the terrace, an hour aftersun-set;--'and tell Barnardine, ' she added, 'to be punctual to thetime; for that I, also, may be observed by Signor Montoni. Where is theSignor? I would speak with him. '

'He is in the cedar chamber, ma'am, counselling with the other Signors. He is going to give them a sort of treat to-day, to make up for whatpassed at the last, I suppose; the people are all very busy in thekitchen. '

Emily now enquired, if Montoni expected any new guests? and Annettebelieved that he did not. 'Poor Ludovico!' added she, 'he would be asmerry as the best of them, if he was well; but he may recover yet. CountMorano was wounded as bad, as he, and he is got well again, and is goneback to Venice. '

'Is he so?' said Emily, 'when did you hear this?'

'I heard it, last night, ma'amselle, but I forgot to tell it. '

Emily asked some further questions, and then, desiring Annette wouldobserve and inform her, when Montoni was alone, the girl went to deliverher message to Barnardine. 

Montoni was, however, so much engaged, during the whole day, that Emilyhad no opportunity of seeking a release from her terrible suspense, concerning her aunt. Annette was employed in watching his steps, and inattending upon Ludovico, whom she, assisted by Caterina, nursed withthe utmost care; and Emily was, of course, left much alone. Herthoughts dwelt often on the message of the porter, and were employedin conjecturing the subject, that occasioned it, which she sometimesimagined concerned the fate of Madame Montoni; at others, that itrelated to some personal danger, which threatened herself. The cautioussecrecy which Barnardine observed in his conduct, inclined her tobelieve the latter. 

As the hour of appointment drew near, her impatience increased. Atlength, the sun set; she heard the passing steps of the sentinels goingto their posts; and waited only for Annette to accompany her to theterrace, who, soon after, came, and they descended together. When Emilyexpressed apprehensions of meeting Montoni, or some of his guests, 'O, there is no fear of that, ma'amselle, ' said Annette, 'they are all setin to feasting yet, and that Barnardine knows. '

They reached the first terrace, where the sentinels demanded who passed;and Emily, having answered, walked on to the east rampart, at theentrance of which they were again stopped; and, having again replied, were permitted to proceed. But Emily did not like to expose herself tothe discretion of these men, at such an hour; and, impatient to withdrawfrom the situation, she stepped hastily on in search of Barnardine. Hewas not yet come. She leaned pensively on the wall of the rampart, and waited for him. The gloom of twilight sat deep on the surroundingobjects, blending in soft confusion the valley, the mountains, and thewoods, whose tall heads, stirred by the evening breeze, gave the onlysounds, that stole on silence, except a faint, faint chorus of distantvoices, that arose from within the castle. 

'What voices are those?' said Emily, as she fearfully listened. 

'It is only the Signor and his guests, carousing, ' replied Annette. 

'Good God!' thought Emily, 'can this man's heart be so gay, when he hasmade another being so wretched; if, indeed, my aunt is yet suffered tofeel her wretchedness? O! whatever are my own sufferings, may my heartnever, never be hardened against those of others!'

She looked up, with a sensation of horror, to the east turret, nearwhich she then stood; a light glimmered through the grates of the lowerchamber, but those of the upper one were dark. Presently, she perceiveda person moving with a lamp across the lower room; but this circumstancerevived no hope, concerning Madame Montoni, whom she had vainlysought in that apartment, which had appeared to contain only soldiers'accoutrements. Emily, however, determined to attempt the outer doorof the turret, as soon as Barnardine should withdraw; and, if it wasunfastened, to make another effort to discover her aunt. 

The moments passed, but still Barnardine did not appear; and Emily, becoming uneasy, hesitated whether to wait any longer. She would havesent Annette to the portal to hasten him, but feared to be left alone, for it was now almost dark, and a melancholy streak of red, that stilllingered in the west, was the only vestige of departed day. The stronginterest, however, which Barnardine's message had awakened, overcameother apprehensions, and still detained her. 

While she was conjecturing with Annette what could thus occasion hisabsence, they heard a key turn in the lock of the gate near them, andpresently saw a man advancing. It was Barnardine, of whom Emily hastilyenquired what he had to communicate, and desired, that he would tell herquickly, 'for I am chilled with this evening air, ' said she. 

'You must dismiss your maid, lady, ' said the man in a voice, the deeptone of which shocked her, 'what I have to tell is to you only. '

Emily, after some hesitation, desired Annette to withdraw to a littledistance. 'Now, my friend, what would you say?'

He was silent a moment, as if considering, and then said, --

'That which would cost me my place, at least, if it came to the Signor'sears. You must promise, lady, that nothing shall ever make you tell asyllable of the matter; I have been trusted in this affair, and, if itwas known, that I betrayed my trust, my life, perhaps, might answerit. But I was concerned for you, lady, and I resolved to tell you. ' Hepaused. --

Emily thanked him, assured him that he might repose on her discretion, and entreated him to dispatch. 

'Annette told us in the hall how unhappy you was about Signora Montoni, and how much you wished to know what was become of her. '

'Most true, ' said Emily eagerly, 'and you can inform me. I conjure youtell me the worst, without hesitation. ' She rested her trembling armupon the wall. 

'I can tell you, ' said Barnardine, and paused. --

Emily had no power to enforce her entreaties. 

'I CAN tell you, ' resumed Barnardine, --'but'--

'But what?' exclaimed Emily, recovering her resolution. 

'Here I am, ma'amselle, ' said Annette, who, having heard the eager tone, in which Emily pronounced these words, came running towards her. 

'Retire!' said Barnardine, sternly; 'you are not wanted;' and, as Emilysaid nothing, Annette obeyed. 

'I CAN tell you, ' repeated the porter, --'but I know not how--you wasafflicted before. '--

'I am prepared for the worst, my friend, ' said Emily, in a firm andsolemn voice. 'I can support any certainty better than this suspense. '

'Well, Signora, if that is the case, you shall hear. --You know, Isuppose, that the Signor and his lady used sometimes to disagree. It isnone of my concerns to enquire what it was about, but I believe you knowit was so. '

'Well, ' said Emily, 'proceed. '

'The Signor, it seems, had lately been very wrath against her. I sawall, and heard all, --a great deal more than people thought for; but itwas none of my business, so I said nothing. A few days ago, the Signorsent for me. "Barnardine, " says he, "you are--an honest man, I think Ican trust you. " I assured his excellenza that he could. "Then, " says he, as near as I can remember, "I have an affair in hand, which I want youto assist me in. "--Then he told me what I was to do; but that I shallsay nothing about--it concerned only the Signora. '

'O Heavens!' exclaimed Emily--'what have you done?'

Barnardine hesitated, and was silent. 

'What fiend could tempt him, or you, to such an act!' cried Emily, chilled with horror, and scarcely able to support her fainting spirits. 

'It was a fiend, ' said Barnardine in a gloomy tone of voice. Theywere now both silent;--Emily had not courage to enquire further, andBarnardine seemed to shrink from telling more. At length he said, 'Itis of no use to think of the past; the Signor was cruel enough, but hewould be obeyed. What signified my refusing? He would have found others, who had no scruples. '

'You have murdered her, then!' said Emily, in a hollow and inwardvoice--'I am talking with a murderer!' Barnardine stood silent; whileEmily turned from him, and attempted to leave the place. 

'Stay, lady!' said he, 'You deserve to think so still--since you canbelieve me capable of such a deed. '

'If you are innocent, tell me quickly, ' said Emily, in faint accents, 'for I feel I shall not be able to hear you long. '

'I will tell you no more, ' said he, and walked away. Emily had juststrength enough to bid him stay, and then to call Annette, on whose armshe leaned, and they walked slowly up the rampart, till they heard stepsbehind them. It was Barnardine again. 

'Send away the girl, ' said he, 'and I will tell you more. '

'She must not go, ' said Emily; 'what you have to say, she may hear. '

'May she so, lady?' said he. 'You shall know no more, then;' and he wasgoing, though slowly, when Emily's anxiety, overcoming the resentmentand fear, which the man's behaviour had roused, she desired him to stay, and bade Annette retire. 

'The Signora is alive, ' said he, 'for me. She is my prisoner, though;his excellenza has shut her up in the chamber over the great gates ofthe court, and I have the charge of her. I was going to have told you, you might see her--but now--'

Emily, relieved from an unutterable load of anguish by this speech, hadnow only to ask Barnardine's forgiveness, and to conjure, that he wouldlet her visit her aunt. 

He complied with less reluctance, than she expected, and told her, that, if she would repair, on the following night, when the Signor was retiredto rest, to the postern-gate of the castle, she should, perhaps, seeMadame Montoni. 

Amid all the thankfulness, which Emily felt for this concession, she thought she observed a malicious triumph in his manner, when hepronounced the last words; but, in the next moment, she dismissed thethought, and, having again thanked him, commended her aunt to hispity, and assured him, that she would herself reward him, and wouldbe punctual to her appointment, she bade him good night, and retired, unobserved, to her chamber. It was a considerable time, beforethe tumult of joy, which Barnardine's unexpected intelligence hadoccasioned, allowed Emily to think with clearness, or to be conscious ofthe real dangers, that still surrounded Madame Montoni and herself. When this agitation subsided, she perceived, that her aunt was yet theprisoner of a man, to whose vengeance, or avarice, she might fall asacrifice; and, when she further considered the savage aspect of theperson, who was appointed to guard Madame Montoni, her doom appeared tobe already sealed, for the countenance of Barnardine seemed to bear thestamp of a murderer; and, when she had looked upon it, she felt inclinedto believe, that there was no deed, however black, which he might not beprevailed upon to execute. These reflections brought to her remembrancethe tone of voice, in which he had promised to grant her request tosee his prisoner; and she mused upon it long in uneasiness and doubt. Sometimes, she even hesitated, whether to trust herself with him at thelonely hour he had appointed; and once, and only once, it struck her, that Madame Montoni might be already murdered, and that this ruffian wasappointed to decoy herself to some secret place, where her life alsowas to be sacrificed to the avarice of Montoni, who then would claimsecurely the contested estates in Languedoc. The consideration of theenormity of such guilt did, at length, relieve her from the beliefof its probability, but not from all the doubts and fears, which arecollection of Barnardine's manner had occasioned. From these subjects, her thoughts, at length, passed to others; and, as the evening advanced, she remembered, with somewhat more than surprise, the music she hadheard, on the preceding night, and now awaited its return, with morethan curiosity. 

She distinguished, till a late hour, the distant carousals of Montoniand his companions--the loud contest, the dissolute laugh and the choralsong, that made the halls re-echo. At length, she heard the heavy gatesof the castle shut for the night, and those sounds instantly sunk intoa silence, which was disturbed only by the whispering steps of persons, passing through the galleries to their remote rooms. Emily now judgingit to be about the time, when she had heard the music, on the precedingnight, dismissed Annette, and gently opened the casement to watchfor its return. The planet she had so particularly noticed, at therecurrence of the music, was not yet risen; but, with superstitiousweakness, she kept her eyes fixed on that part of the hemisphere, whereit would rise, almost expecting, that, when it appeared, the soundswould return. At length, it came, serenely bright, over the easterntowers of the castle. Her heart trembled, when she perceived it, and shehad scarcely courage to remain at the casement, lest the returningmusic should confirm her terror, and subdue the little strength she yetretained. The clock soon after struck one, and, knowing this to be aboutthe time, when the sounds had occurred, she sat down in a chair, nearthe casement, and endeavoured to compose her spirits; but the anxietyof expectation yet disturbed them. Every thing, however, remained still;she heard only the solitary step of a sentinel, and the lulling murmurof the woods below, and she again leaned from the casement, and againlooked, as if for intelligence, to the planet, which was now risen highabove the towers. 

Emily continued to listen, but no music came. 'Those were surely nomortal sounds!' said she, recollecting their entrancing melody. 'Noinhabitant of this castle could utter such; and, where is the feeling, that could modulate such exquisite expression? We all know, that ithas been affirmed celestial sounds have sometimes been heard on earth. Father Pierre and Father Antoine declared, that they had sometimes heardthem in the stillness of night, when they alone were waking to offertheir orisons to heaven. Nay, my dear father himself, once said, that, soon after my mother's death, as he lay watchful in grief, sounds ofuncommon sweetness called him from his bed; and, on opening his window, he heard lofty music pass along the midnight air. It soothed him, hesaid; he looked up with confidence to heaven, and resigned her to hisGod. '

Emily paused to weep at this recollection. 'Perhaps, ' resumed she, 'perhaps, those strains I heard were sent to comfort, --to encourage me!Never shall I forget those I heard, at this hour, in Languedoc!Perhaps, my father watches over me, at this moment!' She wept again intenderness. Thus passed the hour in watchfulness and solemn thought; butno sounds returned; and, after remaining at the casement, till thelight tint of dawn began to edge the mountain-tops and steal upon thenight-shade, she concluded, that they would not return, and retiredreluctantly to repose. 

VOLUME 3

CHAPTER I

 I will advise you where to plant yourselves; Acquaint you with the perfect spy o' the time, The moment on 't; for 't must be done to-night. MACBETH

Emily was somewhat surprised, on the following day, to find that Annettehad heard of Madame Montoni's confinement in the chamber over theportal, as well as of her purposed visit there, on the approachingnight. That the circumstance, which Barnardine had so solemnly enjoinedher to conceal, he had himself told to so indiscreet an hearer asAnnette, appeared very improbable, though he had now charged her witha message, concerning the intended interview. He requested, that Emilywould meet him, unattended, on the terrace, at a little after midnight, when he himself would lead her to the place he had promised; a proposal, from which she immediately shrunk, for a thousand vague fears dartedathwart her mind, such as had tormented her on the preceding night, and which she neither knew how to trust, or to dismiss. It frequentlyoccurred to her, that Barnardine might have deceived her, concerningMadame Montoni, whose murderer, perhaps, he really was; and that he haddeceived her by order of Montoni, the more easily to draw her into someof the desperate designs of the latter. The terrible suspicion, thatMadame Montoni no longer lived, thus came, accompanied by one not lessdreadful for herself. Unless the crime, by which the aunt had suffered, was instigated merely by resentment, unconnected with profit, a motive, upon which Montoni did not appear very likely to act, its object must beunattained, till the niece was also dead, to whom Montoni knew thathis wife's estates must descend. Emily remembered the words, which hadinformed her, that the contested estates in France would devolve to her, if Madame Montoni died, without consigning them to her husband, and theformer obstinate perseverance of her aunt made it too probable, thatshe had, to the last, withheld them. At this instant, recollectingBarnardine's manner, on the preceding night, she now believed, what shehad then fancied, that it expressed malignant triumph. She shuddered atthe recollection, which confirmed her fears, and determined not tomeet him on the terrace. Soon after, she was inclined to consider thesesuspicions as the extravagant exaggerations of a timid and harassedmind, and could not believe Montoni liable to such preposterousdepravity as that of destroying, from one motive, his wife and herniece. She blamed herself for suffering her romantic imagination tocarry her so far beyond the bounds of probability, and determined toendeavour to check its rapid flights, lest they should sometimes extendinto madness. Still, however, she shrunk from the thought of meetingBarnardine, on the terrace, at midnight; and still the wish to berelieved from this terrible suspense, concerning her aunt, to see her, and to sooth her sufferings, made her hesitate what to do. 

'Yet how is it possible, Annette, I can pass to the terrace at thathour?' said she, recollecting herself, 'the sentinels will stop me, andSignor Montoni will hear of the affair. '

'O ma'amselle! that is well thought of, ' replied Annette. 'That iswhat Barnardine told me about. He gave me this key, and bade me say itunlocks the door at the end of the vaulted gallery, that opens near theend of the east rampart, so that you need not pass any of the men onwatch. He bade me say, too, that his reason for requesting you to cometo the terrace was, because he could take you to the place you wantto go to, without opening the great doors of the hall, which grate soheavily. '

Emily's spirits were somewhat calmed by this explanation, which seemedto be honestly given to Annette. 'But why did he desire I would comealone, Annette?' said she. 

'Why that was what I asked him myself, ma'amselle. Says I, Why is myyoung lady to come alone?--Surely I may come with her!--What harm can Ido? But he said "No--no--I tell you not, " in his gruff way. Nay, says I, I have been trusted in as great affairs as this, I warrant, and it's ahard matter if _I_ can't keep a secret now. Still he would say nothingbut--"No--no--no. " Well, says I, if you will only trust me, I willtell you a great secret, that was told me a month ago, and I have neveropened my lips about it yet--so you need not be afraid of telling me. But all would not do. Then, ma'amselle, I went so far as to offer him abeautiful new sequin, that Ludovico gave me for a keep sake, and I wouldnot have parted with it for all St. Marco's Place; but even that wouldnot do! Now what can be the reason of this? But I know, you know, ma'am, who you are going to see. '

'Pray did Barnardine tell you this?'

'He! No, ma'amselle, that he did not. '

Emily enquired who did, but Annette shewed, that she COULD keep asecret. 

During the remainder of the day, Emily's mind was agitated with doubtsand fears and contrary determinations, on the subject of meeting thisBarnardine on the rampart, and submitting herself to his guidance, she scarcely knew whither. Pity for her aunt and anxiety for herselfalternately swayed her determination, and night came, before shehad decided upon her conduct. She heard the castle clock strikeeleven--twelve--and yet her mind wavered. The time, however, was nowcome, when she could hesitate no longer: and then the interest she feltfor her aunt overcame other considerations, and, bidding Annette followher to the outer door of the vaulted gallery, and there await herreturn, she descended from her chamber. The castle was perfectlystill, and the great hall, where so lately she had witnessed a scene ofdreadful contention, now returned only the whispering footsteps of thetwo solitary figures gliding fearfully between the pillars, and gleamedonly to the feeble lamp they carried. Emily, deceived by the longshadows of the pillars and by the catching lights between, oftenstopped, imagining she saw some person, moving in the distant obscurityof the perspective; and, as she passed these pillars, she feared to turnher eyes toward them, almost expecting to see a figure start out frombehind their broad shaft. She reached, however, the vaulted gallery, without interruption, but unclosed its outer door with a trembling hand, and, charging Annette not to quit it and to keep it a little open, thatshe might be heard if she called, she delivered to her the lamp, whichshe did not dare to take herself because of the men on watch, and, alone, stepped out upon the dark terrace. Every thing was so still, that she feared, lest her own light steps should be heard by the distantsentinels, and she walked cautiously towards the spot, where she hadbefore met Barnardine, listening for a sound, and looking onward throughthe gloom in search of him. At length, she was startled by a deep voice, that spoke near her, and she paused, uncertain whether it was his, tillit spoke again, and she then recognized the hollow tones of Barnardine, who had been punctual to the moment, and was at the appointed place, resting on the rampart wall. After chiding her for not coming sooner, and saying, that he had been waiting nearly half an hour, he desiredEmily, who made no reply, to follow him to the door, through which hehad entered the terrace. 

While he unlocked it, she looked back to that she had left, and, observing the rays of the lamp stream through a small opening, wascertain, that Annette was still there. But her remote situation couldlittle befriend Emily, after she had quitted the terrace; and, whenBarnardine unclosed the gate, the dismal aspect of the passage beyond, shewn by a torch burning on the pavement, made her shrink from followinghim alone, and she refused to go, unless Annette might accompany her. This, however, Barnardine absolutely refused to permit, mingling at thesame time with his refusal such artful circumstances to heighten thepity and curiosity of Emily towards her aunt, that she, at length, consented to follow him alone to the portal. 

He then took up the torch, and led her along the passage, at theextremity of which he unlocked another door, whence they descended, a few steps, into a chapel, which, as Barnardine held up the torchto light her, Emily observed to be in ruins, and she immediatelyrecollected a former conversation of Annette, concerning it, with veryunpleasant emotions. She looked fearfully on the almost roofless walls, green with damps, and on the gothic points of the windows, where the ivyand the briony had long supplied the place of glass, and ran mantlingamong the broken capitals of some columns, that had once supported theroof. Barnardine stumbled over the broken pavement, and his voice, as heuttered a sudden oath, was returned in hollow echoes, that made it moreterrific. Emily's heart sunk; but she still followed him, and he turnedout of what had been the principal aisle of the chapel. 'Down thesesteps, lady, ' said Barnardine, as he descended a flight, which appearedto lead into the vaults; but Emily paused on the top, and demanded, in atremulous tone, whither he was conducting her. 

'To the portal, ' said Barnardine. 

'Cannot we go through the chapel to the portal?' said Emily. 

'No, Signora, that leads to the inner court, which I don't choose tounlock. This way, and we shall reach the outer court presently. '

Emily still hesitated; fearing not only to go on, but, since she hadgone thus far, to irritate Barnardine by refusing to go further. 

'Come, lady, ' said the man, who had nearly reached the bottom of theflight, 'make a little haste; I cannot wait here all night. '

'Whither do these steps lead?' said Emily, yet pausing. 

'To the portal, ' repeated Barnardine, in an angry tone, 'I will wait nolonger. ' As he said this, he moved on with the light, and Emily, fearingto provoke him by further delay, reluctantly followed. From the steps, they proceeded through a passage, adjoining the vaults, the walls ofwhich were dropping with unwholesome dews, and the vapours, that creptalong the ground, made the torch burn so dimly, that Emily expectedevery moment to see it extinguished, and Barnardine could scarcely findhis way. As they advanced, these vapours thickened, and Barnardine, believing the torch was expiring, stopped for a moment to trim it. As hethen rested against a pair of iron gates, that opened from the passage, Emily saw, by uncertain flashes of light, the vaults beyond, and, nearher, heaps of earth, that seemed to surround an open grave. Such anobject, in such a scene, would, at any time, have disturbed her; butnow she was shocked by an instantaneous presentiment, that this was thegrave of her unfortunate aunt, and that the treacherous Barnardine wasleading herself to destruction. The obscure and terrible place, to whichhe had conducted her, seemed to justify the thought; it was a placesuited for murder, a receptacle for the dead, where a deed of horrormight be committed, and no vestige appear to proclaim it. Emily was sooverwhelmed with terror, that, for a moment, she was unable to determinewhat conduct to pursue. She then considered, that it would be vain toattempt an escape from Barnardine, by flight, since the length and theintricacy of the way she had passed would soon enable him to overtakeher, who was unacquainted with the turnings, and whose feeblenesswould not suffer her to run long with swiftness. She feared equallyto irritate him by a disclosure of her suspicions, which a refusal toaccompany him further certainly would do; and, since she was alreadyas much in his power as it was possible she could be, if she proceeded, she, at length, determined to suppress, as far as she could, theappearance of apprehension, and to follow silently whither he designedto lead her. Pale with horror and anxiety, she now waited tillBarnardine had trimmed the torch, and, as her sight glanced again uponthe grave, she could not forbear enquiring, for whom it was prepared. He took his eyes from the torch, and fixed them upon her face withoutspeaking. She faintly repeated the question, but the man, shaking thetorch, passed on; and she followed, trembling, to a second flight ofsteps, having ascended which, a door delivered them into the first courtof the castle. As they crossed it, the light shewed the high black wallsaround them, fringed with long grass and dank weeds, that found a scantysoil among the mouldering stones; the heavy buttresses, with, here andthere, between them, a narrow grate, that admitted a freer circulationof air to the court, the massy iron gates, that led to the castle, whoseclustering turrets appeared above, and, opposite, the huge towers andarch of the portal itself. In this scene the large, uncouth person ofBarnardine, bearing the torch, formed a characteristic figure. ThisBarnardine was wrapt in a long dark cloak, which scarcely allowedthe kind of half-boots, or sandals, that were laced upon his legs, toappear, and shewed only the point of a broad sword, which he usuallywore, slung in a belt across his shoulders. On his head was a heavy flatvelvet cap, somewhat resembling a turban, in which was a short feather;the visage beneath it shewed strong features, and a countenance furrowedwith the lines of cunning and darkened by habitual discontent. 

The view of the court, however, reanimated Emily, who, as she crossedsilently towards the portal, began to hope, that her own fears, and notthe treachery of Barnardine, had deceived her. She looked anxiouslyup at the first casement, that appeared above the lofty arch of theportcullis; but it was dark, and she enquired, whether it belonged tothe chamber, where Madame Montoni was confined. Emily spoke low, andBarnardine, perhaps, did not hear her question, for he returned noanswer; and they, soon after, entered the postern door of the gate-way, which brought them to the foot of a narrow stair-case, that wound up oneof the towers. 

'Up this stair-case the Signora lies, ' said Barnardine. 

'Lies!' repeated Emily faintly, as she began to ascend. 

'She lies in the upper chamber, ' said Barnardine. 

As they passed up, the wind, which poured through the narrow cavities inthe wall, made the torch flare, and it threw a stronger gleam upon thegrim and sallow countenance of Barnardine, and discovered more fully thedesolation of the place--the rough stone walls, the spiral stairs, blackwith age, and a suit of antient armour, with an iron visor, that hungupon the walls, and appeared a trophy of some former victory. 

Having reached a landing-place, 'You may wait here, lady, ' said he, applying a key to the door of a chamber, 'while I go up, and tell theSignora you are coming. '

'That ceremony is unnecessary, ' replied Emily, 'my aunt will rejoice tosee me. '

'I am not so sure of that, ' said Barnardine, pointing to the room he hadopened: 'Come in here, lady, while I step up. '

Emily, surprised and somewhat shocked, did not dare to oppose himfurther, but, as he was turning away with the torch, desired he wouldnot leave her in darkness. He looked around, and, observing a tripodlamp, that stood on the stairs, lighted and gave it to Emily, whostepped forward into a large old chamber, and he closed the door. Asshe listened anxiously to his departing steps, she thought he descended, instead of ascending, the stairs; but the gusts of wind, that whistledround the portal, would not allow her to hear distinctly any othersound. Still, however, she listened, and, perceiving no step in theroom above, where he had affirmed Madame Montoni to be, her anxietyincreased, though she considered, that the thickness of the floor inthis strong building might prevent any sound reaching her from the upperchamber. The next moment, in a pause of the wind, she distinguishedBarnardine's step descending to the court, and then thought she heardhis voice; but, the rising gust again overcoming other sounds, Emily, tobe certain on this point, moved softly to the door, which, on attemptingto open it, she discovered was fastened. All the horrid apprehensions, that had lately assailed her, returned at this instant with redoubledforce, and no longer appeared like the exaggerations of a timid spirit, but seemed to have been sent to warn her of her fate. She now did notdoubt, that Madame Montoni had been murdered, perhaps in this verychamber; or that she herself was brought hither for the same purpose. The countenance, the manners and the recollected words of Barnardine, when he had spoken of her aunt, confirmed her worst fears. For somemoments, she was incapable of considering of any means, by which shemight attempt an escape. Still she listened, but heard footsteps neitheron the stairs, or in the room above; she thought, however, that sheagain distinguished Barnardine's voice below, and went to a gratedwindow, that opened upon the court, to enquire further. Here, sheplainly heard his hoarse accents, mingling with the blast, that sweptby, but they were lost again so quickly, that their meaning could not beinterpreted; and then the light of a torch, which seemed to issue fromthe portal below, flashed across the court, and the long shadow of aman, who was under the arch-way, appeared upon the pavement. Emily, from the hugeness of this sudden portrait, concluded it to be thatof Barnardine; but other deep tones, which passed in the wind, soonconvinced her he was not alone, and that his companion was not a personvery liable to pity. 

When her spirits had overcome the first shock of her situation, sheheld up the lamp to examine, if the chamber afforded a possibility of anescape. It was a spacious room, whose walls, wainscoted with rough oak, shewed no casement but the grated one, which Emily had left, and noother door than that, by which she had entered. The feeble rays of thelamp, however, did not allow her to see at once its full extent; sheperceived no furniture, except, indeed, an iron chair, fastened in thecentre of the chamber, immediately over which, depending on a chain fromthe ceiling, hung an iron ring. Having gazed upon these, for some time, with wonder and horror, she next observed iron bars below, made for thepurpose of confining the feet, and on the arms of the chair were ringsof the same metal. As she continued to survey them, she concluded, thatthey were instruments of torture, and it struck her, that some poorwretch had once been fastened in this chair, and had there been starvedto death. She was chilled by the thought; but, what was her agony, when, in the next moment, it occurred to her, that her aunt might have beenone of these victims, and that she herself might be the next! An acutepain seized her head, she was scarcely able to hold the lamp, and, looking round for support, was seating herself, unconsciously, in theiron chair itself; but suddenly perceiving where she was, she startedfrom it in horror, and sprung towards a remote end of the room. Hereagain she looked round for a seat to sustain her, and perceived only adark curtain, which, descending from the ceiling to the floor, was drawnalong the whole side of the chamber. Ill as she was, the appearance ofthis curtain struck her, and she paused to gaze upon it, in wonder andapprehension. 

It seemed to conceal a recess of the chamber; she wished, yet dreaded, to lift it, and to discover what it veiled: twice she was withheld bya recollection of the terrible spectacle her daring hand had formerlyunveiled in an apartment of the castle, till, suddenly conjecturing, that it concealed the body of her murdered aunt, she seized it, in a fitof desperation, and drew it aside. Beyond, appeared a corpse, stretchedon a kind of low couch, which was crimsoned with human blood, as wasthe floor beneath. The features, deformed by death, were ghastly andhorrible, and more than one livid wound appeared in the face. Emily, bending over the body, gazed, for a moment, with an eager, frenzied eye;but, in the next, the lamp dropped from her hand, and she fell senselessat the foot of the couch. 

When her senses returned, she found herself surrounded by men, amongwhom was Barnardine, who were lifting her from the floor, and then boreher along the chamber. She was sensible of what passed, but the extremelanguor of her spirits did not permit her to speak, or move, or even tofeel any distinct fear. They carried her down the stair-case, by whichshe had ascended; when, having reached the arch-way, they stopped, andone of the men, taking the torch from Barnardine, opened a small door, that was cut in the great gate, and, as he stepped out upon the road, the light he bore shewed several men on horseback, in waiting. Whetherit was the freshness of the air, that revived Emily, or that the objectsshe now saw roused the spirit of alarm, she suddenly spoke, and made anineffectual effort to disengage herself from the grasp of the ruffians, who held her. 

Barnardine, meanwhile, called loudly for the torch, while distant voicesanswered, and several persons approached, and, in the same instant, alight flashed upon the court of the castle. Again he vociferated for thetorch, and the men hurried Emily through the gate. At a short distance, under the shelter of the castle walls, she perceived the fellow, who hadtaken the light from the porter, holding it to a man, busily employedin altering the saddle of a horse, round which were several horsemen, looking on, whose harsh features received the full glare of the torch;while the broken ground beneath them, the opposite walls, with thetufted shrubs, that overhung their summits, and an embattled watch-towerabove, were reddened with the gleam, which, fading gradually away, leftthe remoter ramparts and the woods below to the obscurity of night. 

'What do you waste time for, there?' said Barnardine with an oath, as heapproached the horsemen. 'Dispatch--dispatch!'

'The saddle will be ready in a minute, ' replied the man who was bucklingit, at whom Barnardine now swore again, for his negligence, and Emily, calling feebly for help, was hurried towards the horses, while theruffians disputed on which to place her, the one designed for her notbeing ready. At this moment a cluster of lights issued from the greatgates, and she immediately heard the shrill voice of Annette abovethose of several other persons, who advanced. In the same moment, shedistinguished Montoni and Cavigni, followed by a number of ruffian-facedfellows, to whom she no longer looked with terror, but with hope, for, at this instant, she did not tremble at the thought of any dangers, thatmight await her within the castle, whence so lately, and so anxiouslyshe had wished to escape. Those, which threatened her from without, hadengrossed all her apprehensions. 

A short contest ensued between the parties, in which that of Montoni, however, were presently victors, and the horsemen, perceiving thatnumbers were against them, and being, perhaps, not very warmlyinterested in the affair they had undertaken, galloped off, whileBarnardine had run far enough to be lost in the darkness, and Emily wasled back into the castle. As she re-passed the courts, the remembranceof what she had seen in the portal-chamber came, with all its horror, toher mind; and when, soon after, she heard the gate close, that shuther once more within the castle walls, she shuddered for herself, and, almost forgetting the danger she had escaped, could scarcely think, thatany thing less precious than liberty and peace was to be found beyondthem. 

Montoni ordered Emily to await him in the cedar parlour, whither he soonfollowed, and then sternly questioned her on this mysterious affair. Though she now viewed him with horror, as the murderer of her aunt, andscarcely knew what she said in reply to his impatient enquiries, heranswers and her manner convinced him, that she had not taken a voluntarypart in the late scheme, and he dismissed her upon the appearance of hisservants, whom he had ordered to attend, that he might enquire furtherinto the affair, and discover those, who had been accomplices in it. 

Emily had been some time in her apartment, before the tumult of her mindallowed her to remember several of the past circumstances. Then, again, the dead form, which the curtain in the portal-chamber had disclosed, came to her fancy, and she uttered a groan, which terrified Annette themore, as Emily forbore to satisfy her curiosity, on the subject ofit, for she feared to trust her with so fatal a secret, lest herindiscretion should call down the immediate vengeance of Montoni onherself. 

Thus compelled to bear within her own mind the whole horror of thesecret, that oppressed it, her reason seemed to totter under theintolerable weight. She often fixed a wild and vacant look on Annette, and, when she spoke, either did not hear her, or answered from thepurpose. Long fits of abstraction succeeded; Annette spoke repeatedly, but her voice seemed not to make any impression on the sense of the longagitated Emily, who sat fixed and silent, except that, now and then, sheheaved a heavy sigh, but without tears. 

Terrified at her condition, Annette, at length, left the room, to informMontoni of it, who had just dismissed his servants, without having madeany discoveries on the subject of his enquiry. The wild description, which this girl now gave of Emily, induced him to follow her immediatelyto the chamber. 

At the sound of his voice, Emily turned her eyes, and a gleam ofrecollection seemed to shoot athwart her mind, for she immediately rosefrom her seat, and moved slowly to a remote part of the room. He spoketo her in accents somewhat softened from their usual harshness, butshe regarded him with a kind of half curious, half terrified look, and answered only 'yes, ' to whatever he said. Her mind still seemed toretain no other impression, than that of fear. 

Of this disorder Annette could give no explanation, and Montoni, havingattempted, for some time, to persuade Emily to talk, retired, afterordering Annette to remain with her, during the night, and to informhim, in the morning, of her condition. 

When he was gone, Emily again came forward, and asked who it was, thathad been there to disturb her. Annette said it was the Signor-SignorMontoni. Emily repeated the name after her, several times, as if shedid not recollect it, and then suddenly groaned, and relapsed intoabstraction. 

With some difficulty, Annette led her to the bed, which Emily examinedwith an eager, frenzied eye, before she lay down, and then, pointing, turned with shuddering emotion, to Annette, who, now more terrified, went towards the door, that she might bring one of the female servantsto pass the night with them; but Emily, observing her going, called herby name, and then in the naturally soft and plaintive tone of her voice, begged, that she, too, would not forsake her. --'For since my fatherdied, ' added she, sighing, 'every body forsakes me. '

'Your father, ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'he was dead before you knewme. '

'He was, indeed!' rejoined Emily, and her tears began to flow. She nowwept silently and long, after which, becoming quite calm, she at lengthsunk to sleep, Annette having had discretion enough not to interrupther tears. This girl, as affectionate as she was simple, lost in thesemoments all her former fears of remaining in the chamber, and watchedalone by Emily, during the whole night. 

CHAPTER II

 unfold What worlds, or what vast regions, hold Th' immortal mind, that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook! IL PENSEROSO

Emily's mind was refreshed by sleep. On waking in the morning, shelooked with surprise on Annette, who sat sleeping in a chair beside thebed, and then endeavoured to recollect herself; but the circumstances ofthe preceding night were swept from her memory, which seemed to retainno trace of what had passed, and she was still gazing with surprise onAnnette, when the latter awoke. 

'O dear ma'amselle! do you know me?' cried she. 

'Know you! Certainly, ' replied Emily, 'you are Annette; but why are yousitting by me thus?'

'O you have been very ill, ma'amselle, --very ill indeed! and I am sure Ithought--'

'This is very strange!' said Emily, still trying to recollect thepast. --'But I think I do remember, that my fancy has been haunted byfrightful dreams. Good God!' she added, suddenly starting--'surely itwas nothing more than a dream!'

She fixed a terrified look upon Annette, who, intending to quiet her, said 'Yes, ma'amselle, it was more than a dream, but it is all overnow. '

'She IS murdered, then!' said Emily in an inward voice, and shudderinginstantaneously. Annette screamed; for, being ignorant of thecircumstance to which Emily referred, she attributed her manner to adisordered fancy; but, when she had explained to what her own speechalluded, Emily, recollecting the attempt that had been made to carry heroff, asked if the contriver of it had been discovered. Annette replied, that he had not, though he might easily be guessed at; and then toldEmily she might thank her for her deliverance, who, endeavouring tocommand the emotion, which the remembrance of her aunt had occasioned, appeared calmly to listen to Annette, though, in truth, she heardscarcely a word that was said. 

'And so, ma'amselle, ' continued the latter, 'I was determined to be evenwith Barnardine for refusing to tell me the secret, by finding it outmyself; so I watched you, on the terrace, and, as soon as he had openedthe door at the end, I stole out from the castle, to try to follow you;for, says I, I am sure no good can be planned, or why all this secrecy?So, sure enough, he had not bolted the door after him, and, when Iopened it, I saw, by the glimmer of the torch, at the other end of thepassage, which way you were going. I followed the light, at a distance, till you came to the vaults of the chapel, and there I was afraid to gofurther, for I had heard strange things about these vaults. But then, again, I was afraid to go back, all in darkness, by myself; so by thetime Barnardine had trimmed the light, I had resolved to follow you, andI did so, till you came to the great court, and there I was afraid hewould see me; so I stopped at the door again, and watched you across tothe gates, and, when you was gone up the stairs, I whipt after. There, as I stood under the gate-way, I heard horses' feet without, and severalmen talking; and I heard them swearing at Barnardine for not bringingyou out, and just then, he had like to have caught me, for he came downthe stairs again, and I had hardly time to get out of his way. But I hadheard enough of his secret now, and I determined to be even with him, and to save you, too, ma'amselle, for I guessed it to be some new schemeof Count Morano, though he was gone away. I ran into the castle, but Ihad hard work to find my way through the passage under the chapel, andwhat is very strange, I quite forgot to look for the ghosts they hadtold me about, though I would not go into that place again by myself forall the world! Luckily the Signor and Signor Cavigni were up, so we hadsoon a train at our heels, sufficient to frighten that Barnardine andhis rogues, all together. '

Annette ceased to speak, but Emily still appeared to listen. At lengthshe said, suddenly, 'I think I will go to him myself;--where is he?'

Annette asked who was meant. 

'Signor Montoni, ' replied Emily. 'I would speak with him;' and Annette, now remembering the order he had given, on the preceding night, respecting her young lady, rose, and said she would seek him herself. 

This honest girl's suspicions of Count Morano were perfectly just;Emily, too, when she thought on the scheme, had attributed it tohim; and Montoni, who had not a doubt on this subject, also, beganto believe, that it was by the direction of Morano, that poison hadformerly been mingled with his wine. 

The professions of repentance, which Morano had made to Emily, under theanguish of his wound, was sincere at the moment he offered them; buthe had mistaken the subject of his sorrow, for, while he thought he wascondemning the cruelty of his late design, he was lamenting only thestate of suffering, to which it had reduced him. As these sufferingsabated, his former views revived, till, his health being re-established, he again found himself ready for enterprise and difficulty. The porterof the castle, who had served him, on a former occasion, willinglyaccepted a second bribe; and, having concerted the means of drawingEmily to the gates, Morano publicly left the hamlet, whither he had beencarried after the affray, and withdrew with his people to anotherat several miles distance. From thence, on a night agreed upon byBarnardine, who had discovered from the thoughtless prattle of Annette, the most probable means of decoying Emily, the Count sent back hisservants to the castle, while he awaited her arrival at the hamlet, withan intention of carrying her immediately to Venice. How this, his secondscheme, was frustrated, has already appeared; but the violent, andvarious passions with which this Italian lover was now agitated, on hisreturn to that city, can only be imagined. 

Annette having made her report to Montoni of Emily's health and of herrequest to see him, he replied, that she might attend him in the cedarroom, in about an hour. It was on the subject, that pressed so heavilyon her mind, that Emily wished to speak to him, yet she did notdistinctly know what good purpose this could answer, and sometimesshe even recoiled in horror from the expectation of his presence. Shewished, also, to petition, though she scarcely dared to believe therequest would be granted, that he would permit her, since her aunt wasno more, to return to her native country. 

As the moment of interview approached, her agitation increased so much, that she almost resolved to excuse herself under what could scarcelybe called a pretence of illness; and, when she considered what couldbe said, either concerning herself, or the fate of her aunt, she wasequally hopeless as to the event of her entreaty, and terrified asto its effect upon the vengeful spirit of Montoni. Yet, to pretendignorance of her death, appeared, in some degree, to be sharing itscriminality, and, indeed, this event was the only ground, on which Emilycould rest her petition for leaving Udolpho. 

While her thoughts thus wavered, a message was brought, importing, thatMontoni could not see her, till the next day; and her spirits werethen relieved, for a moment, from an almost intolerable weight ofapprehension. Annette said, she fancied the Chevaliers were going outto the wars again, for the court-yard was filled with horses, and sheheard, that the rest of the party, who went out before, were expected atthe castle. 'And I heard one of the soldiers, too, ' added she, 'sayto his comrade, that he would warrant they'd bring home a rare deal ofbooty. --So, thinks I, if the Signor can, with a safe conscience, sendhis people out a-robbing--why it is no business of mine. I only wishI was once safe out of this castle; and, if it had not been for poorLudovico's sake, I would have let Count Morano's people run away withus both, for it would have been serving you a good turn, ma'amselle, aswell as myself. '

Annette might have continued thus talking for hours for any interruptionshe would have received from Emily, who was silent, inattentive, absorbed in thought, and passed the whole of this day in a kindof solemn tranquillity, such as is often the result of facultiesoverstrained by suffering. 

When night returned, Emily recollected the mysterious strains of music, that she had lately heard, in which she still felt some degree ofinterest, and of which she hoped to hear again the soothing sweetness. The influence of superstition now gained on the weakness of herlong-harassed mind; she looked, with enthusiastic expectation, to theguardian spirit of her father, and, having dismissed Annette for thenight, determined to watch alone for their return. It was not yet, however, near the time when she had heard the music on a former night, and anxious to call off her thoughts from distressing subjects, she satdown with one of the few books, that she had brought from France; buther mind, refusing controul, became restless and agitated, and she wentoften to the casement to listen for a sound. Once, she thought she hearda voice, but then, every thing without the casement remaining still, sheconcluded, that her fancy had deceived her. 

Thus passed the time, till twelve o'clock, soon after which the distantsounds, that murmured through the castle, ceased, and sleep seemed toreign over all. Emily then seated herself at the casement, where shewas soon recalled from the reverie, into which she sunk, by very unusualsounds, not of music, but like the low mourning of some person indistress. As she listened, her heart faltered in terror, and she becameconvinced, that the former sound was more than imaginary. Still, at intervals, she heard a kind of feeble lamentation, and sought todiscover whence it came. There were several rooms underneath, adjoiningthe rampart, which had been long shut up, and, as the sound probablyrose from one of these, she leaned from the casement to observe, whetherany light was visible there. The chambers, as far as she could perceive, were quite dark, but, at a little distance, on the rampart below, shethought she saw something moving. 

The faint twilight, which the stars shed, did not enable her todistinguish what it was; but she judged it to be a sentinel, on watch, and she removed her light to a remote part of the chamber, that shemight escape notice, during her further observation. 

The same object still appeared. Presently, it advanced along therampart, towards her window, and she then distinguished something likea human form, but the silence, with which it moved, convinced her itwas no sentinel. As it drew near, she hesitated whether to retire; athrilling curiosity inclined her to stay, but a dread of she scarcelyknew what warned her to withdraw. 

While she paused, the figure came opposite to her casement, and wasstationary. Every thing remained quiet; she had not heard even afoot-fall; and the solemnity of this silence, with the mysterious formshe saw, subdued her spirits, so that she was moving from the casement, when, on a sudden, she observed the figure start away, and glide downthe rampart, after which it was soon lost in the obscurity of night. Emily continued to gaze, for some time, on the way it had passed, andthen retired within her chamber, musing on this strange circumstance, and scarcely doubting, that she had witnessed a supernatural appearance. 

When her spirits recovered composure, she looked round for some otherexplanation. Remembering what she had heard of the daring enterprises ofMontoni, it occurred to her, that she had just seen some unhappyperson, who, having been plundered by his banditti, was brought hither acaptive; and that the music she had formerly heard, came from him. Yet, if they had plundered him, it still appeared improbable, that theyshould have brought him to the castle, and it was also more consistentwith the manners of banditti to murder those they rob, than to make themprisoners. But what, more than any other circumstance, contradictedthe supposition, that it was a prisoner, was that it wandered on theterrace, without a guard: a consideration, which made her dismissimmediately her first surmise. 

Afterwards, she was inclined to believe, that Count Morano had obtainedadmittance into the castle; but she soon recollected the difficultiesand dangers, that must have opposed such an enterprise, and that, if hehad so far succeeded, to come alone and in silence to her casement atmidnight was not the conduct he would have adopted, particularly sincethe private stair-case, communicating with her apartment, was known tohim; neither would he have uttered the dismal sounds she had heard. 

Another suggestion represented, that this might be some person, who haddesigns upon the castle; but the mournful sounds destroyed, also, thatprobability. Thus, enquiry only perplexed her. Who, or what, it could bethat haunted this lonely hour, complaining in such doleful accents andin such sweet music (for she was still inclined to believe, that theformer strains and the late appearance were connected, ) she had no meansof ascertaining; and imagination again assumed her empire, and rousedthe mysteries of superstition. 

She determined, however, to watch on the following night, when herdoubts might, perhaps, be cleared up; and she almost resolved to addressthe figure, if it should appear again. 

CHAPTER III

 Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp, Oft seen in charnel-vaults and sepulchres, Lingering, and sitting, by a new-made grave. MILTON

On the following day, Montoni sent a second excuse to Emily, who wassurprised at the circumstance. 'This is very strange!' said she toherself. 'His conscience tells him the purport of my visit, and hedefers it, to avoid an explanation. ' She now almost resolved to throwherself in his way, but terror checked the intention, and this daypassed, as the preceding one, with Emily, except that a degree of awfulexpectation, concerning the approaching night, now somewhat disturbedthe dreadful calmness that had pervaded her mind. 

Towards evening, the second part of the band, which had made the firstexcursion among the mountains, returned to the castle, where, as theyentered the courts, Emily, in her remote chamber, heard their loudshouts and strains of exultation, like the orgies of furies oversome horrid sacrifice. She even feared they were about to commit somebarbarous deed; a conjecture from which, however, Annette soon relievedher, by telling, that the people were only exulting over the plunderthey had brought with them. This circumstance still further confirmedher in the belief, that Montoni had really commenced to be a captain ofbanditti, and meant to retrieve his broken fortunes by the plunder oftravellers! Indeed, when she considered all the circumstances of hissituation--in an armed, and almost inaccessible castle, retired faramong the recesses of wild and solitary mountains, along whose distantskirts were scattered towns, and cities, whither wealthy travellers werecontinually passing--this appeared to be the situation of all othersmost suited for the success of schemes of rapine, and she yielded tothe strange thought, that Montoni was become a captain of robbers. Hischaracter also, unprincipled, dauntless, cruel and enterprising, seemedto fit him for the situation. Delighting in the tumult and in thestruggles of life, he was equally a stranger to pity and to fear; hisvery courage was a sort of animal ferocity; not the noble impulse ofa principle, such as inspirits the mind against the oppressor, in thecause of the oppressed; but a constitutional hardiness of nerve, thatcannot feel, and that, therefore, cannot fear. 

Emily's supposition, however natural, was in part erroneous, for she wasa stranger to the state of this country and to the circumstances, underwhich its frequent wars were partly conducted. The revenues of the manystates of Italy being, at that time, insufficient to the support ofstanding armies, even during the short periods, which the turbulenthabits both of the governments and the people permitted to pass inpeace, an order of men arose not known in our age, and but faintlydescribed in the history of their own. Of the soldiers, disbanded atthe end of every war, few returned to the safe, but unprofitableoccupations, then usual in peace. Sometimes they passed into othercountries, and mingled with armies, which still kept the field. Sometimes they formed themselves into bands of robbers, and occupiedremote fortresses, where their desperate character, the weakness of thegovernments which they offended, and the certainty, that they couldbe recalled to the armies, when their presence should be again wanted, prevented them from being much pursued by the civil power; and, sometimes, they attached themselves to the fortunes of a popular chief, by whom they were led into the service of any state, which could settlewith him the price of their valour. From this latter practice arosetheir name--CONDOTTIERI; a term formidable all over Italy, for a period, which concluded in the earlier part of the seventeenth century, but ofwhich it is not so easy to ascertain the commencement. 

Contests between the smaller states were then, for the most part, affairs of enterprize alone, and the probabilities of success wereestimated, not from the skill, but from the personal courage of thegeneral, and the soldiers. The ability, which was necessary to theconduct of tedious operations, was little valued. It was enough toknow how a party might be led towards their enemies, with the greatestsecrecy, or conducted from them in the compactest order. The officer wasto precipitate himself into a situation, where, but for his example, the soldiers might not have ventured; and, as the opposed parties knewlittle of each other's strength, the event of the day was frequentlydetermined by the boldness of the first movements. In such services thecondottieri were eminent, and in these, where plunder always followedsuccess, their characters acquired a mixture of intrepidity andprofligacy, which awed even those whom they served. 

When they were not thus engaged, their chief had usually his ownfortress, in which, or in its neighbourhood, they enjoyed an irksomerest; and, though their wants were, at one time, partly supplied fromthe property of the inhabitants, the lavish distribution of theirplunder at others, prevented them from being obnoxious; and the peasantsof such districts gradually shared the character of their warlikevisitors. The neighbouring governments sometimes professed, but seldomendeavoured, to suppress these military communities; both because it wasdifficult to do so, and because a disguised protection of them ensured, for the service of their wars, a body of men, who could not otherwisebe so cheaply maintained, or so perfectly qualified. The commanderssometimes even relied so far upon this policy of the several powers, asto frequent their capitals; and Montoni, having met them in the gamingparties of Venice and Padua, conceived a desire to emulate theircharacters, before his ruined fortunes tempted him to adopt theirpractices. It was for the arrangement of his present plan of life, thatthe midnight councils were held at his mansion in Venice, and at whichOrsino and some other members of the present community then assistedwith suggestions, which they had since executed with the wreck of theirfortunes. 

On the return of night, Emily resumed her station at the casement. Therewas now a moon; and, as it rose over the tufted woods, its yellow lightserved to shew the lonely terrace and the surrounding objects, moredistinctly, than the twilight of the stars had done, and promised Emilyto assist her observations, should the mysterious form return. On thissubject, she again wavered in conjecture, and hesitated whether to speakto the figure, to which a strong and almost irresistible interest urgedher; but terror, at intervals, made her reluctant to do so. 

'If this is a person who has designs upon the castle, ' said she, 'mycuriosity may prove fatal to me; yet the mysterious music, and thelamentations I heard, must surely have proceeded from him: if so, hecannot be an enemy. '

She then thought of her unfortunate aunt, and, shuddering with griefand horror, the suggestions of imagination seized her mind with allthe force of truth, and she believed, that the form she had seen wassupernatural. She trembled, breathed with difficulty, an icy coldnesstouched her cheeks, and her fears for a while overcame her judgment. Her resolution now forsook her, and she determined, if the figure shouldappear, not to speak to it. 

Thus the time passed, as she sat at her casement, awed by expectation, and by the gloom and stillness of midnight; for she saw obscurely inthe moon-light only the mountains and woods, a cluster of towers, thatformed the west angle of the castle, and the terrace below; and heardno sound, except, now and then, the lonely watch-word, passed by thecentinels on duty, and afterwards the steps of the men who came torelieve guard, and whom she knew at a distance on the rampart by theirpikes, that glittered in the moonbeam, and then, by the few short words, in which they hailed their fellows of the night. Emily retired withinher chamber, while they passed the casement. When she returned toit, all was again quiet. It was now very late, she was wearied withwatching, and began to doubt the reality of what she had seen on thepreceding night; but she still lingered at the window, for her mind wastoo perturbed to admit of sleep. The moon shone with a clear lustre, that afforded her a complete view of the terrace; but she saw only asolitary centinel, pacing at one end of it; and, at length, tired withexpectation, she withdrew to seek rest. 

Such, however, was the impression, left on her mind by the music, andthe complaining she had formerly heard, as well as by the figure, whichshe fancied she had seen, that she determined to repeat the watch, onthe following night. 

Montoni, on the next day, took no notice of Emily's appointed visit, butshe, more anxious than before to see him, sent Annette to enquire, atwhat hour he would admit her. He mentioned eleven o'clock, and Emilywas punctual to the moment; at which she called up all her fortitudeto support the shock of his presence and the dreadful recollections itenforced. He was with several of his officers, in the cedar room;on observing whom she paused; and her agitation increased, while hecontinued to converse with them, apparently not observing her, till someof his officers, turning round, saw Emily, and uttered an exclamation. She was hastily retiring, when Montoni's voice arrested her, and, in afaultering accent, she said, --'I would speak with you, Signor Montoni, if you are at leisure. '

'These are my friends, ' he replied, 'whatever you would say, they mayhear. '

Emily, without replying, turned from the rude gaze of the chevaliers, and Montoni then followed her to the hall, whence he led her to a smallroom, of which he shut the door with violence. As she looked on his darkcountenance, she again thought she saw the murderer of her aunt; andher mind was so convulsed with horror, that she had not power to recallthought enough to explain the purport of her visit; and to trust herselfwith the mention of Madame Montoni was more than she dared. 

Montoni at length impatiently enquired what she had to say? 'I have notime for trifling, ' he added, 'my moments are important. '

Emily then told him, that she wished to return to France, and came tobeg, that he would permit her to do so. --But when he looked surprised, and enquired for the motive of the request, she hesitated, became palerthan before, trembled, and had nearly sunk at his feet. He observedher emotion, with apparent indifference, and interrupted the silenceby telling her, he must be gone. Emily, however, recalled her spiritssufficiently to enable her to repeat her request. And, when Montoniabsolutely refused it, her slumbering mind was roused. 

'I can no longer remain here with propriety, sir, ' said she, 'and I maybe allowed to ask, by what right you detain me. '

'It is my will that you remain here, ' said Montoni, laying his hand onthe door to go; 'let that suffice you. '

Emily, considering that she had no appeal from this will, forbore todispute his right, and made a feeble effort to persuade him to bejust. 'While my aunt lived, sir, ' said she, in a tremulous voice, 'myresidence here was not improper; but now, that she is no more, I maysurely be permitted to depart. My stay cannot benefit you, sir, and willonly distress me. '

'Who told you, that Madame Montoni was dead?' said Montoni, with aninquisitive eye. Emily hesitated, for nobody had told her so, andshe did not dare to avow the having seen that spectacle in theportal-chamber, which had compelled her to the belief. 

'Who told you so?' he repeated, more sternly. 

'Alas! I know it too well, ' replied Emily: 'spare me on this terriblesubject!'

She sat down on a bench to support herself. 

'If you wish to see her, ' said Montoni, 'you may; she lies in the eastturret. '

He now left the room, without awaiting her reply, and returned to thecedar chamber, where such of the chevaliers as had not before seenEmily, began to rally him, on the discovery they had made; but Montonidid not appear disposed to bear this mirth, and they changed thesubject. 

Having talked with the subtle Orsino, on the plan of an excursion, whichhe meditated for a future day, his friend advised, that they should liein wait for the enemy, which Verezzi impetuously opposed, reproachedOrsino with want of spirit, and swore, that, if Montoni would let himlead on fifty men, he would conquer all that should oppose him. 

Orsino smiled contemptuously; Montoni smiled too, but he also listened. Verezzi then proceeded with vehement declamation and assertion, till hewas stopped by an argument of Orsino, which he knew not how to answerbetter than by invective. His fierce spirit detested the cunning cautionof Orsino, whom he constantly opposed, and whose inveterate, thoughsilent, hatred he had long ago incurred. And Montoni was a calm observerof both, whose different qualifications he knew, and how to bend theiropposite character to the perfection of his own designs. But Verezzi, in the heat of opposition, now did not scruple to accuse Orsino ofcowardice, at which the countenance of the latter, while he made noreply, was overspread with a livid paleness; and Montoni, who watchedhis lurking eye, saw him put his hand hastily into his bosom. ButVerezzi, whose face, glowing with crimson, formed a striking contrast tothe complexion of Orsino, remarked not the action, and continued boldlydeclaiming against cowards to Cavigni, who was slily laughing at hisvehemence, and at the silent mortification of Orsino, when the latter, retiring a few steps behind, drew forth a stilletto to stab hisadversary in the back. Montoni arrested his half-extended arm, and, witha significant look, made him return the poinard into his bosom, unseenby all except himself; for most of the party were disputing at adistant window, on the situation of a dell where they meant to form anambuscade. 

When Verezzi had turned round, the deadly hatred, expressed on thefeatures of his opponent, raising, for the first time, a suspicionof his intention, he laid his hand on his sword, and then, seeming torecollect himself, strode up to Montoni. 

'Signor, ' said he, with a significant look at Orsino, 'we are not aband of assassins; if you have business for brave men employ me on thisexpedition: you shall have the last drop of my blood; if you haveonly work for cowards--keep him, ' pointing to Orsino, 'and let me quitUdolpho. '

Orsino, still more incensed, again drew forth his stilletto, and rushedtowards Verezzi, who, at the same instant, advanced with his sword, whenMontoni and the rest of the party interfered and separated them. 

'This is the conduct of a boy, ' said Montoni to Verezzi, 'not of a man:be more moderate in your speech. '

'Moderation is the virtue of cowards, ' retorted Verezzi; 'they aremoderate in every thing--but in fear. '

'I accept your words, ' said Montoni, turning upon him with a fierce andhaughty look, and drawing his sword out of the scabbard. 

'With all my heart, ' cried Verezzi, 'though I did not mean them foryou. '

He directed a pass at Montoni; and, while they fought, the villainOrsino made another attempt to stab Verezzi, and was again prevented. 

The combatants were, at length, separated; and, after a very long andviolent dispute, reconciled. Montoni then left the room with Orsino, whom he detained in private consultation for a considerable time. 

Emily, meanwhile, stunned by the last words of Montoni, forgot, for themoment, his declaration, that she should continue in the castle, whileshe thought of her unfortunate aunt, who, he had said, was laid inthe east turret. In suffering the remains of his wife to lie thus longunburied, there appeared a degree of brutality more shocking than shehad suspected even Montoni could practise. 

After a long struggle, she determined to accept his permission to visitthe turret, and to take a last look of her ill-fated aunt: with whichdesign she returned to her chamber, and, while she waited for Annetteto accompany her, endeavoured to acquire fortitude sufficient to supporther through the approaching scene; for, though she trembled to encounterit, she knew that to remember the performance of this last act of dutywould hereafter afford her consoling satisfaction. 

Annette came, and Emily mentioned her purpose, from which the formerendeavoured to dissuade her, though without effect, and Annette was, with much difficulty, prevailed upon to accompany her to the turret; butno consideration could make her promise to enter the chamber of death. 

They now left the corridor, and, having reached the foot of thestair-case, which Emily had formerly ascended, Annette declared shewould go no further, and Emily proceeded alone. When she saw the trackof blood, which she had before observed, her spirits fainted, and, beingcompelled to rest on the stairs, she almost determined to proceed nofurther. The pause of a few moments restored her resolution, and shewent on. 

As she drew near the landing-place, upon which the upper chamber opened, she remembered, that the door was formerly fastened, and apprehended, that it might still be so. In this expectation, however, she wasmistaken; for the door opened at once, into a dusky and silent chamber, round which she fearfully looked, and then slowly advanced, when ahollow voice spoke. Emily, who was unable to speak, or to move fromthe spot, uttered no sound of terror. The voice spoke again; and, then, thinking that it resembled that of Madame Montoni, Emily's spirits wereinstantly roused; she rushed towards a bed, that stood in a remote partof the room, and drew aside the curtains. Within, appeared a pale andemaciated face. She started back, then again advanced, shuddered as shetook up the skeleton hand, that lay stretched upon the quilt; then letit drop, and then viewed the face with a long, unsettled gaze. Itwas that of Madame Montoni, though so changed by illness, that theresemblance of what it had been, could scarcely be traced in what it nowappeared. She was still alive, and, raising her heavy eyes, she turnedthem on her niece. 

'Where have you been so long?' said she, in the same tone, 'Ithought you had forsaken me. '

'Do you indeed live, ' said Emily, at length, 'or is this but a terribleapparition?' she received no answer, and again she snatched up the hand. 'This is substance, ' she exclaimed, 'but it is cold--cold as marble!'She let it fall. 'O, if you really live, speak!' said Emily, in a voiceof desperation, 'that I may not lose my senses--say you know me!'

'I do live, ' replied Madame Montoni, 'but--I feel that I am about todie. '

Emily clasped the hand she held, more eagerly, and groaned. They wereboth silent for some moments. Then Emily endeavoured to soothe her, andenquired what had reduced her to this present deplorable state. 

Montoni, when he removed her to the turret under the improbablesuspicion of having attempted his life, had ordered the men employed onthe occasion, to observe a strict secrecy concerning her. To this he wasinfluenced by a double motive. He meant to debar her from the comfortof Emily's visits, and to secure an opportunity of privately dispatchingher, should any new circumstances occur to confirm the presentsuggestions of his suspecting mind. His consciousness of the hatred hedeserved it was natural enough should at first led him to attribute toher the attempt that had been made upon his life; and, though therewas no other reason to believe that she was concerned in that atrociousdesign, his suspicions remained; he continued to confine her in theturret, under a strict guard; and, without pity or remorse, had sufferedher to lie, forlorn and neglected, under a raging fever, till it hadreduced her to the present state. 

The track of blood, which Emily had seen on the stairs, had flowed fromthe unbound wound of one of the men employed to carry Madame Montoni, and which he had received in the late affray. At night these men, havingcontented themselves with securing the door of their prisoner's room, had retired from guard; and then it was, that Emily, at the time of herfirst enquiry, had found the turret so silent and deserted. 

When she had attempted to open the door of the chamber, her aunt wassleeping, and this occasioned the silence, which had contributed todelude her into a belief, that she was no more; yet had her terrorpermitted her to persevere longer in the call, she would probablyhave awakened Madame Montoni, and have been spared much suffering. Thespectacle in the portal-chamber, which afterwards confirmed Emily'shorrible suspicion, was the corpse of a man, who had fallen in theaffray, and the same which had been borne into the servants' hall, whereshe took refuge from the tumult. This man had lingered under his woundsfor some days; and, soon after his death, his body had been removedon the couch, on which he died, for interment in the vault beneath thechapel, through which Emily and Barnardine had passed to the chamber. 

Emily, after asking Madame Montoni a thousand questions concerningherself, left her, and sought Montoni; for the more solemn interestshe felt for her aunt, made her now regardless of the resentment herremonstrances might draw upon herself, and of the improbability of hisgranting what she meant to entreat. 

'Madame Montoni is now dying, sir, ' said Emily, as soon as she sawhim--'Your resentment, surely will not pursue her to the last moment!Suffer her to be removed from that forlorn room to her own apartment, and to have necessary comforts administered. '

'Of what service will that be, if she is dying?' said Montoni, withapparent indifference. 

'The service, at leave, of saving you, sir, from a few of those pangsof conscience you must suffer, when you shall be in the same situation, 'said Emily, with imprudent indignation, of which Montoni soon made hersensible, by commanding her to quit his presence. Then, forgetting herresentment, and impressed only by compassion for the piteous state ofher aunt, dying without succour, she submitted to humble herself toMontoni, and to adopt every persuasive means, that might induce him torelent towards his wife. 

For a considerable time he was proof against all she said, and all shelooked; but at length the divinity of pity, beaming in Emily's eyes, seemed to touch his heart. He turned away, ashamed of his betterfeelings, half sullen and half relenting; but finally consented, thathis wife should be removed to her own apartment, and that Emily shouldattend her. Dreading equally, that this relief might arrive too late, and that Montoni might retract his concession, Emily scarcely staid tothank him for it, but, assisted by Annette, she quickly prepared MadameMontoni's bed, and they carried her a cordial, that might enable herfeeble frame to sustain the fatigue of a removal. 

Madame was scarcely arrived in her own apartment, when an order wasgiven by her husband, that she should remain in the turret; but Emily, thankful that she had made such dispatch, hastened to inform him of it, as well as that a second removal would instantly prove fatal, and hesuffered his wife to continue where she was. 

During this day, Emily never left Madame Montoni, except to prepare suchlittle nourishing things as she judged necessary to sustain her, andwhich Madame Montoni received with quiet acquiescence, though she seemedsensible that they could not save her from approaching dissolution, andscarcely appeared to wish for life. Emily meanwhile watched over herwith the most tender solicitude, no longer seeing her imperious aunt inthe poor object before her, but the sister of her late beloved father, in a situation that called for all her compassion and kindness. Whennight came, she determined to sit up with her aunt, but this the latterpositively forbade, commanding her to retire to rest, and Annette aloneto remain in her chamber. Rest was, indeed, necessary to Emily, whosespirits and frame were equally wearied by the occurrences and exertionsof the day; but she would not leave Madame Montoni, till after the turnof midnight, a period then thought so critical by the physicians. 

Soon after twelve, having enjoined Annette to be wakeful, and to callher, should any change appear for the worse, Emily sorrowfully badeMadame Montoni good night, and withdrew to her chamber. Her spirits weremore than usually depressed by the piteous condition of her aunt, whoserecovery she scarcely dared to expect. To her own misfortunes she saw noperiod, inclosed as she was, in a remote castle, beyond the reach of anyfriends, had she possessed such, and beyond the pity even of strangers;while she knew herself to be in the power of a man capable of anyaction, which his interest, or his ambition, might suggest. 

Occupied by melancholy reflections and by anticipations as sad, shedid not retire immediately to rest, but leaned thoughtfully on her opencasement. The scene before her of woods and mountains, reposing in themoon-light, formed a regretted contrast with the state of her mind;but the lonely murmur of these woods, and the view of this sleepinglandscape, gradually soothed her emotions and softened her to tears. 

She continued to weep, for some time, lost to every thing, but toa gentle sense of her misfortunes. When she, at length, took thehandkerchief from her eyes, she perceived, before her, on the terracebelow, the figure she had formerly observed, which stood fixed andsilent, immediately opposite to her casement. On perceiving it, shestarted back, and terror for some time overcame curiosity;--at length, she returned to the casement, and still the figure was before it, whichshe now compelled herself to observe, but was utterly unable to speak, as she had formerly intended. The moon shone with a clear light, andit was, perhaps, the agitation of her mind, that prevented herdistinguishing, with any degree of accuracy, the form before her. Itwas still stationary, and she began to doubt, whether it was reallyanimated. 

Her scattered thoughts were now so far returned as to remind her, thather light exposed her to dangerous observation, and she was steppingback to remove it, when she perceived the figure move, and then wavewhat seemed to be its arm, as if to beckon her; and, while she gazed, fixed in fear, it repeated the action. She now attempted to speak, butthe words died on her lips, and she went from the casement to remove herlight; as she was doing which, she heard, from without, a faint groan. Listening, but not daring to return, she presently heard it repeated. 

'Good God!--what can this mean!' said she. 

Again she listened, but the sound came no more; and, after a longinterval of silence, she recovered courage enough to go to the casement, when she again saw the same appearance! It beckoned again, and againuttered a low sound. 

'That groan was surely human!' said she. 'I WILL speak. ' 'Who is it, 'cried Emily in a faint voice, 'that wanders at this late hour?'

The figure raised its head but suddenly started away, and glided downthe terrace. She watched it, for a long while, passing swiftly inthe moon-light, but heard no footstep, till a sentinel from the otherextremity of the rampart walked slowly along. The man stopped underher window, and, looking up, called her by name. She was retiringprecipitately, but, a second summons inducing her to reply, thesoldier then respectfully asked if she had seen any thing pass. Onher answering, that she had; he said no more, but walked away down theterrace, Emily following him with her eyes, till he was lost in thedistance. But, as he was on guard, she knew he could not go beyond therampart, and, therefore, resolved to await his return. 

Soon after, his voice was heard, at a distance, calling loudly; andthen a voice still more distant answered, and, in the next moment, thewatch-word was given, and passed along the terrace. As the soldiersmoved hastily under the casement, she called to enquire what hadhappened, but they passed without regarding her. 

Emily's thoughts returning to the figure she had seen, 'It cannot be aperson, who has designs upon the castle, ' said she; 'such an one wouldconduct himself very differently. He would not venture where sentinelswere on watch, nor fix himself opposite to a window, where he perceivedhe must be observed; much less would he beckon, or utter a sound ofcomplaint. Yet it cannot be a prisoner, for how could he obtain theopportunity to wander thus?'

If she had been subject to vanity, she might have supposed this figureto be some inhabitant of the castle, who wandered under her casement inthe hope of seeing her, and of being allowed to declare his admiration;but this opinion never occurred to Emily, and, if it had, she would havedismissed it as improbable, on considering, that, when the opportunityof speaking had occurred, it had been suffered to pass in silence; andthat, even at the moment in which she had spoken, the form had abruptlyquitted the place. 

While she mused, two sentinels walked up the rampart in earnestconversation, of which she caught a few words, and learned from these, that one of their comrades had fallen down senseless. Soon after, threeother soldiers appeared slowly advancing from the bottom of the terrace, but she heard only a low voice, that came at intervals. As they drewnear, she perceived this to be the voice of him, who walked in themiddle, apparently supported by his comrades; and she again calledto them, enquiring what had happened. At the sound of her voice, theystopped, and looked up, while she repeated her question, and was told, that Roberto, their fellow of the watch, had been seized with a fit, andthat his cry, as he fell, had caused a false alarm. 

'Is he subject to fits?' said Emily. 

'Yes, Signora, ' replied Roberto; 'but if I had not, what I saw wasenough to have frightened the Pope himself. '

'What was it?' enquired Emily, trembling. 

'I cannot tell what it was, lady, or what I saw, or how it vanished, 'replied the soldier, who seemed to shudder at the recollection. 

'Was it the person, whom you followed down the rampart, that hasoccasioned you this alarm?' said Emily, endeavouring to conceal her own. 

'Person!' exclaimed the man, --'it was the devil, and this is not thefirst time I have seen him!'

'Nor will it be the last, ' observed one of his comrades, laughing. 

'No, no, I warrant not, ' said another. 

'Well, ' rejoined Roberto, 'you may be as merry now, as you please; youwas none so jocose the other night, Sebastian, when you was on watchwith Launcelot. '

'Launcelot need not talk of that, ' replied Sebastian, 'let him rememberhow he stood trembling, and unable to give the WORD, till the man wasgone, If the man had not come so silently upon us, I would have seizedhim, and soon made him tell who he was. '

'What man?' enquired Emily. 

'It was no man, lady, ' said Launcelot, who stood by, 'but the devilhimself, as my comrade says. What man, who does not live in the castle, could get within the walls at midnight? Why, I might just as wellpretend to march to Venice, and get among all the Senators, when theyare counselling; and I warrant I should have more chance of gettingout again alive, than any fellow, that we should catch within the gatesafter dark. So I think I have proved plainly enough, that this can benobody that lives out of the castle; and now I will prove, that it canbe nobody that lives in the castle--for, if he did--why should he beafraid to be seen? So after this, I hope nobody will pretend to tellme it was anybody. No, I say again, by holy Pope! it was the devil, andSebastian, there, knows this is not the first time we have seen him. '

'When did you see the figure, then, before?' said Emily half smiling, who, though she thought the conversation somewhat too much, felt aninterest, which would not permit her to conclude it. 

'About a week ago, lady, ' said Sebastian, taking up the story. 

'And where?'

'On the rampart, lady, higher up. '

'Did you pursue it, that it fled?'

'No, Signora. Launcelot and I were on watch together, and every thingwas so still, you might have heard a mouse stir, when, suddenly, Launcelot says--Sebastian! do you see nothing? I turned my head alittle to the left, as it might be--thus. No, says I. Hush! saidLauncelot, --look yonder--just by the last cannon on the rampart! Ilooked, and then thought I did see something move; but there being nolight, but what the stars gave, I could not be certain. We stood quitesilent, to watch it, and presently saw something pass along the castlewall just opposite to us!'

'Why did you not seize it, then?' cried a soldier, who had scarcelyspoken till now. 

'Aye, why did you not seize it?' said Roberto. 

'You should have been there to have done that, ' replied Sebastian. 'Youwould have been bold enough to have taken it by the throat, though ithad been the devil himself; we could not take such a liberty, perhaps, because we are not so well acquainted with him, as you are. But, as Iwas saying, it stole by us so quickly, that we had not time to get ridof our surprise, before it was gone. Then, we knew it was in vain tofollow. We kept constant watch all that night, but we saw it no more. Next morning, we told some of our comrades, who were on duty on otherparts of the ramparts, what we had seen; but they had seen nothing, andlaughed at us, and it was not till to-night, that the same figure walkedagain. '

'Where did you lose it, friend?' said Emily to Roberto. 

'When I left you, lady, ' replied the man, 'you might see me go down therampart, but it was not till I reached the east terrace, that I sawany thing. Then, the moon shining bright, I saw something like a shadowflitting before me, as it were, at some distance. I stopped, when Iturned the corner of the east tower, where I had seen this figure nota moment before, --but it was gone! As I stood, looking through theold arch, which leads to the east rampart, and where I am sure it hadpassed, I heard, all of a sudden, such a sound!--it was not like agroan, or a cry, or a shout, or any thing I ever heard in my life. Iheard it only once, and that was enough for me; for I know nothing thathappened after, till I found my comrades, here, about me. '

'Come, ' said Sebastian, 'let us go to our posts--the moon is setting. Good night, lady!'

'Aye, let us go, ' rejoined Roberto. 'Good night, lady. '

'Good night; the holy mother guard you!' said Emily, as she closed hercasement and retired to reflect upon the strange circumstance that hadjust occurred, connecting which with what had happened on former nights, she endeavoured to derive from the whole something more positive, thanconjecture. But her imagination was inflamed, while her judgment was notenlightened, and the terrors of superstition again pervaded her mind. 

CHAPTER IV

 There is one within, Besides the things, that we have heard and seen, Recounts most horrid sights, seen by the watch. JULIUS CAESAR

In the morning, Emily found Madame Montoni nearly in the same condition, as on the preceding night; she had slept little, and that little hadnot refreshed her; she smiled on her niece, and seemed cheered by herpresence, but spoke only a few words, and never named Montoni, who, however, soon after, entered the room. His wife, when she understoodthat he was there, appeared much agitated, but was entirely silent, tillEmily rose from a chair at the bed-side, when she begged, in a feeblevoice, that she would not leave her. 

The visit of Montoni was not to sooth his wife, whom he knew to bedying, or to console, or to ask her forgiveness, but to make a lasteffort to procure that signature, which would transfer her estates inLanguedoc, after her death, to him rather than to Emily. This was ascene, that exhibited, on his part, his usual inhumanity, and, on thatof Madame Montoni, a persevering spirit, contending with a feeble frame;while Emily repeatedly declared to him her willingness to resign allclaim to those estates, rather than that the last hours of her auntshould be disturbed by contention. Montoni, however, did not leave theroom, till his wife, exhausted by the obstinate dispute, had fainted, and she lay so long insensible, that Emily began to fear that the sparkof life was extinguished. At length, she revived, and, looking feeblyup at her niece, whose tears were falling over her, made an effort tospeak, but her words were unintelligible, and Emily again apprehendedshe was dying. Afterwards, however, she recovered her speech, and, beingsomewhat restored by a cordial, conversed for a considerable time, onthe subject of her estates in France, with clearness and precision. Shedirected her niece where to find some papers relative to them, which shehad hitherto concealed from the search of Montoni, and earnestly chargedher never to suffer these papers to escape her. 

Soon after this conversation, Madame Montoni sunk into a dose, andcontinued slumbering, till evening, when she seemed better than shehad been since her removal from the turret. Emily never left her, for amoment, till long after midnight, and even then would not have quittedthe room, had not her aunt entreated, that she would retire to rest. Shethen obeyed, the more willingly, because her patient appeared somewhatrecruited by sleep; and, giving Annette the same injunction, as on thepreceding night, she withdrew to her own apartment. But her spiritswere wakeful and agitated, and, finding it impossible to sleep, shedetermined to watch, once more, for the mysterious appearance, that hadso much interested and alarmed her. 

It was now the second watch of the night, and about the time whenthe figure had before appeared. Emily heard the passing steps of thesentinels, on the rampart, as they changed guard; and, when all wasagain silent, she took her station at the casement, leaving her lamp ina remote part of the chamber, that she might escape notice from without. The moon gave a faint and uncertain light, for heavy vapours surroundedit, and, often rolling over the disk, left the scene below in totaldarkness. It was in one of these moments of obscurity, that she observeda small and lambent flame, moving at some distance on the terrace. Whileshe gazed, it disappeared, and, the moon again emerging from the luridand heavy thunder clouds, she turned her attention to the heavens, wherethe vivid lightnings darted from cloud to cloud, and flashed silently onthe woods below. She loved to catch, in the momentary gleam, the gloomylandscape. Sometimes, a cloud opened its light upon a distant mountain, and, while the sudden splendour illumined all its recesses of rock andwood, the rest of the scene remained in deep shadow; at others, partialfeatures of the castle were revealed by the glimpse--the antient archleading to the east rampart, the turret above, or the fortificationsbeyond; and then, perhaps, the whole edifice with all its towers, itsdark massy walls and pointed casements would appear, and vanish in aninstant. 

Emily, looking again upon the rampart, perceived the flame she hadseen before; it moved onward; and, soon after, she thought she heard afootstep. The light appeared and disappeared frequently, while, as shewatched, it glided under her casements, and, at the same instant, shewas certain, that a footstep passed, but the darkness did not permit herto distinguish any object except the flame. It moved away, and then, bya gleam of lightning, she perceived some person on the terrace. All theanxieties of the preceding night returned. This person advanced, and theplaying flame alternately appeared and vanished. Emily wished to speak, to end her doubts, whether this figure were human or supernatural; buther courage failed as often as she attempted utterance, till the lightmoved again under the casement, and she faintly demanded, who passed. 

'A friend, ' replied a voice. 

'What friend?' said Emily, somewhat encouraged 'who are you, and what isthat light you carry?'

'I am Anthonio, one of the Signor's soldiers, ' replied the voice. 

'And what is that tapering light you bear?' said Emily, 'see how itdarts upwards, --and now it vanishes!'

'This light, lady, ' said the soldier, 'has appeared to-night as you seeit, on the point of my lance, ever since I have been on watch; but whatit means I cannot tell. '

'This is very strange!' said Emily. 

'My fellow-guard, ' continued the man, 'has the same flame on his arms;he says he has sometimes seen it before. I never did; I am but latelycome to the castle, for I have not been long a soldier. '

'How does your comrade account for it?' said Emily. 

'He says it is an omen, lady, and bodes no good. '

'And what harm can it bode?' rejoined Emily. 

'He knows not so much as that, lady. '

Whether Emily was alarmed by this omen, or not, she certainly wasrelieved from much terror by discovering this man to be only a soldieron duty, and it immediately occurred to her, that it might be he, who had occasioned so much alarm on the preceding night. There were, however, some circumstances, that still required explanation. As faras she could judge by the faint moon-light, that had assisted herobservation, the figure she had seen did not resemble this man eitherin shape or size; besides, she was certain it had carried no arms. Thesilence of its steps, if steps it had, the moaning sounds, too, whichit had uttered, and its strange disappearance, were circumstances ofmysterious import, that did not apply, with probability, to a soldierengaged in the duty of his guard. 

She now enquired of the sentinel, whether he had seen any person besideshis fellow watch, walking on the terrace, about midnight; and thenbriefly related what she had herself observed. 

'I was not on guard that night, lady, ' replied the man, 'but I heard ofwhat happened. There are amongst us, who believe strange things. Strangestories, too, have long been told of this castle, but it is no businessof mine to repeat them; and, for my part, I have no reason to complain;our Chief does nobly by us. '

'I commend your prudence, ' said Emily. 'Good night, and accept this fromme, ' she added, throwing him a small piece of coin, and then closing thecasement to put an end to the discourse. 

When he was gone, she opened it again, listened with a gloomy pleasureto the distant thunder, that began to murmur among the mountains, andwatched the arrowy lightnings, which broke over the remoter scene. Thepealing thunder rolled onward, and then, reverbed by the mountains, other thunder seemed to answer from the opposite horizon; while theaccumulating clouds, entirely concealing the moon, assumed a redsulphureous tinge, that foretold a violent storm. 

Emily remained at her casement, till the vivid lightning, that now, every instant, revealed the wide horizon and the landscape below, madeit no longer safe to do so, and she went to her couch; but, unableto compose her mind to sleep, still listened in silent awe to thetremendous sounds, that seemed to shake the castle to its foundation. 

She had continued thus for a considerable time, when, amidst the uproarof the storm, she thought she heard a voice, and, raising herself tolisten, saw the chamber door open, and Annette enter with a countenanceof wild affright. 

'She is dying, ma'amselle, my lady is dying!' said she. 

Emily started up, and ran to Madame Montoni's room. When she entered, her aunt appeared to have fainted, for she was quite still, andinsensible; and Emily with a strength of mind, that refused to yield togrief, while any duty required her activity, applied every means thatseemed likely to restore her. But the last struggle was over--she wasgone for ever. 

When Emily perceived, that all her efforts were ineffectual, sheinterrogated the terrified Annette, and learned, that Madame Montonihad fallen into a doze soon after Emily's departure, in which she hadcontinued, until a few minutes before her death. 

'I wondered, ma'amselle, ' said Annette, 'what was the reason my lady didnot seem frightened at the thunder, when I was so terrified, and I wentoften to the bed to speak to her, but she appeared to be asleep; tillpresently I heard a strange noise, and, on going to her, saw she wasdying. '

Emily, at this recital, shed tears. She had no doubt but that theviolent change in the air, which the tempest produced, had effected thisfatal one, on the exhausted frame of Madame Montoni. 

After some deliberation, she determined that Montoni should not beinformed of this event till the morning, for she considered, that hemight, perhaps, utter some inhuman expressions, such as in the presenttemper of her spirits she could not bear. With Annette alone, therefore, whom she encouraged by her own example, she performed some of the lastsolemn offices for the dead, and compelled herself to watch during thenight, by the body of her deceased aunt. During this solemn period, rendered more awful by the tremendous storm that shook the air, shefrequently addressed herself to Heaven for support and protection, andher pious prayers, we may believe, were accepted of the God, that givethcomfort. 

CHAPTER V

 The midnight clock has toll'd; and hark, the bell Of Death beats slow! heard ye the note profound? It pauses now; and now, with rising knell, Flings to the hollow gale its sullen sound. MASON

When Montoni was informed of the death of his wife, and consideredthat she had died without giving him the signature so necessary tothe accomplishment of his wishes, no sense of decency restrained theexpression of his resentment. Emily anxiously avoided his presence, andwatched, during two days and two nights, with little intermission, bythe corpse of her late aunt. Her mind deeply impressed with the unhappyfate of this object, she forgot all her faults, her unjust and imperiousconduct to herself; and, remembering only her sufferings, thought ofher only with tender compassion. Sometimes, however, she could not avoidmusing upon the strange infatuation that had proved so fatal to heraunt, and had involved herself in a labyrinth of misfortune, from whichshe saw no means of escaping, --the marriage with Montoni. But, whenshe considered this circumstance, it was 'more in sorrow than inanger, '--more for the purpose of indulging lamentation, than reproach. 

In her pious cares she was not disturbed by Montoni, who not onlyavoided the chamber, where the remains of his wife were laid, but thatpart of the castle adjoining to it, as if he had apprehended a contagionin death. He seemed to have given no orders respecting the funeral, and Emily began to fear he meant to offer a new insult to the memory ofMadame Montoni; but from this apprehension she was relieved, when, onthe evening of the second day, Annette informed her, that the intermentwas to take place that night. She knew, that Montoni would not attend;and it was so very grievous to her to think that the remains of herunfortunate aunt would pass to the grave without one relative, or friendto pay them the last decent rites, that she determined to be deterredby no considerations for herself, from observing this duty. She wouldotherwise have shrunk from the circumstance of following them to thecold vault, to which they were to be carried by men, whose air andcountenances seemed to stamp them for murderers, at the midnight hourof silence and privacy, which Montoni had chosen for committing, ifpossible, to oblivion the reliques of a woman, whom his harsh conducthad, at least, contributed to destroy. 

Emily, shuddering with emotions of horror and grief, assisted byAnnette, prepared the corpse for interment; and, having wrapt it incerements, and covered it with a winding-sheet, they watched beside it, till past midnight, when they heard the approaching footsteps of themen, who were to lay it in its earthy bed. It was with difficulty, thatEmily overcame her emotion, when, the door of the chamber being thrownopen, their gloomy countenances were seen by the glare of the torch theycarried, and two of them, without speaking, lifted the body on theirshoulders, while the third preceding them with the light, descendedthrough the castle towards the grave, which was in the lower vault ofthe chapel within the castle walls. 

They had to cross two courts, towards the east wing of the castle, which, adjoining the chapel, was, like it, in ruins: but the silence andgloom of these courts had now little power over Emily's mind, occupiedas it was, with more mournful ideas; and she scarcely heard the lowand dismal hooting of the night-birds, that roosted among the ivyedbattlements of the ruin, or perceived the still flittings of the bat, which frequently crossed her way. But, when, having entered the chapel, and passed between the mouldering pillars of the aisles, the bearersstopped at a flight of steps, that led down to a low arched door, and, their comrade having descended to unlock it, she saw imperfectly thegloomy abyss beyond;--saw the corpse of her aunt carried down thesesteps, and the ruffian-like figure, that stood with a torch at thebottom to receive it--all her fortitude was lost in emotions ofinexpressible grief and terror. She turned to lean upon Annette, who wascold and trembling like herself, and she lingered so long on the summitof the flight, that the gleam of the torch began to die away on thepillars of the chapel, and the men were almost beyond her view. Then, the gloom around her awakening other fears, and a sense of what sheconsidered to be her duty overcoming her reluctance, she descended tothe vaults, following the echo of footsteps and the faint ray, thatpierced the darkness, till the harsh grating of a distant door, that wasopened to receive the corpse, again appalled her. 

After the pause of a moment, she went on, and, as she entered thevaults, saw between the arches, at some distance, the men lay down thebody near the edge of an open grave, where stood another of Montoni'smen and a priest, whom she did not observe, till he began the burialservice; then, lifting her eyes from the ground, she saw the venerablefigure of the friar, and heard him in a low voice, equally solemn andaffecting, perform the service for the dead. At the moment, in whichthey let down the body into the earth, the scene was such as only thedark pencil of a Domenichino, perhaps, could have done justice to. Thefierce features and wild dress of the condottieri, bending with theirtorches over the grave, into which the corpse was descending, werecontrasted by the venerable figure of the monk, wrapt in long blackgarments, his cowl thrown back from his pale face, on which the lightgleaming strongly shewed the lines of affliction softened by piety, andthe few grey locks, which time had spared on his temples: while, beside him, stood the softer form of Emily, who leaned for support uponAnnette; her face half averted, and shaded by a thin veil, that fellover her figure; and her mild and beautiful countenance fixed ingrief so solemn as admitted not of tears, while she thus saw committeduntimely to the earth her last relative and friend. The gleams, thrownbetween the arches of the vaults, where, here and there, the brokenground marked the spots in which other bodies had been recentlyinterred, and the general obscurity beyond were circumstances, thatalone would have led on the imagination of a spectator to scenesmore horrible, than even that, which was pictured at the grave of themisguided and unfortunate Madame Montoni. 

When the service was over, the friar regarded Emily with attention andsurprise, and looked as if he wished to speak to her, but was restrainedby the presence of the condottieri, who, as they now led the way tothe courts, amused themselves with jokes upon his holy order, whichhe endured in silence, demanding only to be conducted safely to hisconvent, and to which Emily listened with concern and even horror. Whenthey reached the court, the monk gave her his blessing, and, after alingering look of pity, turned away to the portal, whither one of themen carried a torch; while Annette, lighting another, preceded Emily toher apartment. The appearance of the friar and the expression of tendercompassion, with which he had regarded her, had interested Emily, who, though it was at her earnest supplication, that Montoni had consentedto allow a priest to perform the last rites for his deceased wife, knewnothing concerning this person, till Annette now informed her, that hebelonged to a monastery, situated among the mountains at a few milesdistance. The Superior, who regarded Montoni and his associates, notonly with aversion, but with terror, had probably feared to offend himby refusing his request, and had, therefore, ordered a monk to officiateat the funeral, who, with the meek spirit of a christian, had overcomehis reluctance to enter the walls of such a castle, by the wish ofperforming what he considered to be his duty, and, as the chapel wasbuilt on consecrated ground, had not objected to commit to it theremains of the late unhappy Madame Montoni. 

Several days passed with Emily in total seclusion, and in a state ofmind partaking both of terror for herself, and grief for the departed. She, at length, determined to make other efforts to persuade Montoni topermit her return to France. Why he should wish to detain her, she couldscarcely dare to conjecture; but it was too certain that he did so, andthe absolute refusal he had formerly given to her departure allowed herlittle hope, that he would now consent to it. But the horror, which hispresence inspired, made her defer, from day to day, the mention of thissubject; and at last she was awakened from her inactivity only by amessage from him, desiring her attendance at a certain hour. She beganto hope he meant to resign, now that her aunt was no more, the authorityhe had usurped over her; till she recollected, that the estates, whichhad occasioned so much contention, were now hers, and she then fearedMontoni was about to employ some stratagem for obtaining them, andthat he would detain her his prisoner, till he succeeded. This thought, instead of overcoming her with despondency, roused all the latentpowers of her fortitude into action; and the property, which she wouldwillingly have resigned to secure the peace of her aunt, she resolved, that no common sufferings of her own should ever compel her to give toMontoni. For Valancourt's sake also she determined to preserve theseestates, since they would afford that competency, by which she hoped tosecure the comfort of their future lives. As she thought of this, sheindulged the tenderness of tears, and anticipated the delight of thatmoment, when, with affectionate generosity, she might tell him theywere his own. She saw the smile, that lighted up his features--theaffectionate regard, which spoke at once his joy and thanks; and, atthis instant, she believed she could brave any suffering, which the evilspirit of Montoni might be preparing for her. Remembering then, for thefirst time since her aunt's death, the papers relative to the estatesin question, she determined to search for them, as soon as her interviewwith Montoni was over. 

With these resolutions she met him at the appointed time, and waited tohear his intention before she renewed her request. With him were Orsinoand another officer, and both were standing near a table, covered withpapers, which he appeared to be examining. 

'I sent for you, Emily, ' said Montoni, raising his head, 'that you mightbe a witness in some business, which I am transacting with my friendOrsino. All that is required of you will be to sign your name to thispaper:' he then took one up, hurried unintelligibly over some lines, and, laying it before her on the table, offered her a pen. She took it, and was going to write--when the design of Montoni came upon her mindlike a flash of lightning; she trembled, let the pen fall, and refusedto sign what she had not read. Montoni affected to laugh at herscruples, and, taking up the paper, again pretended to read; but Emily, who still trembled on perceiving her danger, and was astonished, thather own credulity had so nearly betrayed her, positively refused to signany paper whatever. Montoni, for some time, persevered in affectingto ridicule this refusal; but, when he perceived by her steadyperseverance, that she understood his design, he changed his manner, andbade her follow him to another room. There he told her, that he had beenwilling to spare himself and her the trouble of useless contest, in anaffair, where his will was justice, and where she should find it law;and had, therefore, endeavoured to persuade, rather than to compel, herto the practice of her duty. 

'I, as the husband of the late Signora Montoni, ' he added, 'am the heirof all she possessed; the estates, therefore, which she refused to mein her life-time, can no longer be withheld, and, for your own sake, Iwould undeceive you, respecting a foolish assertion she once made to youin my hearing--that these estates would be yours, if she died withoutresigning them to me. She knew at that moment, she had no power towithhold them from me, after her decease; and I think you have moresense, than to provoke my resentment by advancing an unjust claim. Iam not in the habit of flattering, and you will, therefore, receive, as sincere, the praise I bestow, when I say, that you possess anunderstanding superior to that of your sex; and that you have noneof those contemptible foibles, that frequently mark the femalecharacter--such as avarice and the love of power, which latter makeswomen delight to contradict and to tease, when they cannot conquer. IfI understand your disposition and your mind, you hold in sovereigncontempt these common failings of your sex. '

Montoni paused; and Emily remained silent and expecting; for she knewhim too well, to believe he would condescend to such flattery, unless hethought it would promote his own interest; and, though he had forborneto name vanity among the foibles of women, it was evident, that heconsidered it to be a predominant one, since he designed to sacrifice tohers the character and understanding of her whole sex. 

'Judging as I do, ' resumed Montoni, 'I cannot believe you will oppose, where you know you cannot conquer, or, indeed, that you would wish toconquer, or be avaricious of any property, when you have not justiceon your side. I think it proper, however, to acquaint you with thealternative. If you have a just opinion of the subject in question, youshall be allowed a safe conveyance to France, within a short period;but, if you are so unhappy as to be misled by the late assertion of theSignora, you shall remain my prisoner, till you are convinced of yourerror. '

Emily calmly said, 'I am not so ignorant, Signor, of the laws on this subject, as to bemisled by the assertion of any person. The law, in the present instance, gives me the estates in question, and my own hand shall never betray myright. '

'I have been mistaken in my opinion of you, it appears, ' rejoinedMontoni, sternly. 'You speak boldly, and presumptuously, upon a subject, which you do not understand. For once, I am willing to pardon theconceit of ignorance; the weakness of your sex, too, from which, itseems, you are not exempt, claims some allowance; but, if you persist inthis strain--you have every thing to fear from my justice. '

'From your justice, Signor, ' rejoined Emily, 'I have nothing to fear--Ihave only to hope. '

Montoni looked at her with vexation, and seemed considering what tosay. 'I find that you are weak enough, ' he resumed, 'to credit the idleassertion I alluded to! For your own sake I lament this; as to me, itis of little consequence. Your credulity can punish only yourself; and Imust pity the weakness of mind, which leads you to so much suffering asyou are compelling me to prepare for you. '

'You may find, perhaps, Signor, ' said Emily, with mild dignity, 'thatthe strength of my mind is equal to the justice of my cause; and that Ican endure with fortitude, when it is in resistance of oppression. '

'You speak like a heroine, ' said Montoni, contemptuously; 'we shall seewhether you can suffer like one. '

Emily was silent, and he left the room. 

Recollecting, that it was for Valancourt's sake she had thus resisted, she now smiled complacently upon the threatened sufferings, and retiredto the spot, which her aunt had pointed out as the repository of thepapers, relative to the estates, where she found them as described; and, since she knew of no better place of concealment, than this, returnedthem, without examining their contents, being fearful of discovery, while she should attempt a perusal. 

To her own solitary chamber she once more returned, and there thoughtagain of the late conversation with Montoni, and of the evil she mightexpect from opposition to his will. But his power did not appear soterrible to her imagination, as it was wont to do: a sacred pride wasin her heart, that taught it to swell against the pressure of injustice, and almost to glory in the quiet sufferance of ills, in a cause, whichhad also the interest of Valancourt for its object. For the first time, she felt the full extent of her own superiority to Montoni, and despisedthe authority, which, till now, she had only feared. 

As she sat musing, a peal of laughter rose from the terrace, and, ongoing to the casement, she saw, with inexpressible surprise, threeladies, dressed in the gala habit of Venice, walking with severalgentlemen below. She gazed in an astonishment that made her remain atthe window, regardless of being observed, till the group passed underit; and, one of the strangers looking up, she perceived the features ofSignora Livona, with whose manners she had been so much charmed, the dayafter her arrival at Venice, and who had been there introduced at thetable of Montoni. This discovery occasioned her an emotion of doubtfuljoy; for it was matter of joy and comfort to know, that a person, of amind so gentle, as that of Signora Livona seemed to be, was near her;yet there was something so extraordinary in her being at this castle, circumstanced as it now was, and evidently, by the gaiety of her air, with her own consent, that a very painful surmise arose, concerning hercharacter. But the thought was so shocking to Emily, whose affection thefascinating manners of the Signora had won, and appeared so improbable, when she remembered these manners, that she dismissed it almostinstantly. 

On Annette's appearance, however, she enquired, concerning thesestrangers; and the former was as eager to tell, as Emily was to learn. 

'They are just come, ma'amselle, ' said Annette, 'with two Signors fromVenice, and I was glad to see such Christian faces once again. --Butwhat can they mean by coming here? They must surely be stark mad to comefreely to such a place as this! Yet they do come freely, for they seemmerry enough, I am sure. '

'They were taken prisoners, perhaps?' said Emily. 

'Taken prisoners!' exclaimed Annette; 'no, indeed, ma'amselle, not they. I remember one of them very well at Venice: she came two or three times, to the Signor's you know, ma'amselle, and it was said, but I did notbelieve a word of it--it was said, that the Signor liked her better thanhe should do. Then why, says I, bring her to my lady? Very true, saidLudovico; but he looked as if he knew more, too. '

Emily desired Annette would endeavour to learn who these ladies were, aswell as all she could concerning them; and she then changed the subject, and spoke of distant France. 

'Ah, ma'amselle! we shall never see it more!' said Annette, almostweeping. --'I must come on my travels, forsooth!'

Emily tried to sooth and to cheer her, with a hope, in which shescarcely herself indulged. 

'How--how, ma'amselle, could you leave France, and leave Mons. Valancourt, too?' said Annette, sobbing. 'I--I--am sure, if Ludovico hadbeen in France, I would never have left it. '

'Why do you lament quitting France, then?' said Emily, trying to smile, 'since, if you had remained there, you would not have found Ludovico. '

'Ah, ma'amselle! I only wish I was out of this frightful castle, servingyou in France, and I would care about nothing else!'

'Thank you, my good Annette, for your affectionate regard; the time willcome, I hope, when you may remember the expression of that wish withpleasure. '

Annette departed on her business, and Emily sought to lose the sense ofher own cares, in the visionary scenes of the poet; but she had again tolament the irresistible force of circumstances over the taste and powersof the mind; and that it requires a spirit at ease to be sensible evento the abstract pleasures of pure intellect. The enthusiasm of genius, with all its pictured scenes, now appeared cold, and dim. As she musedupon the book before her, she involuntarily exclaimed, 'Are these, indeed, the passages, that have so often given me exquisite delight?Where did the charm exist?--Was it in my mind, or in the imaginationof the poet? It lived in each, ' said she, pausing. 'But the fire of thepoet is vain, if the mind of his reader is not tempered like his own, however it may be inferior to his in power. '

Emily would have pursued this train of thinking, because it relieved herfrom more painful reflection, but she found again, that thought cannotalways be controlled by will; and hers returned to the consideration ofher own situation. 

In the evening, not choosing to venture down to the ramparts, where shewould be exposed to the rude gaze of Montoni's associates, she walkedfor air in the gallery, adjoining her chamber; on reaching the furtherend of which she heard distant sounds of merriment and laughter. It wasthe wild uproar of riot, not the cheering gaiety of tempered mirth; andseemed to come from that part of the castle, where Montoni usually was. Such sounds, at this time, when her aunt had been so few days dead, particularly shocked her, consistent as they were with the late conductof Montoni. 

As she listened, she thought she distinguished female voices minglingwith the laughter, and this confirmed her worst surmise, concerning thecharacter of Signora Livona and her companions. It was evident, thatthey had not been brought hither by compulsion; and she beheld herselfin the remote wilds of the Apennine, surrounded by men, whom sheconsidered to be little less than ruffians, and their worst associates, amid scenes of vice, from which her soul recoiled in horror. It was atthis moment, when the scenes of the present and the future opened to herimagination, that the image of Valancourt failed in its influence, andher resolution shook with dread. She thought she understood all thehorrors, which Montoni was preparing for her, and shrunk from anencounter with such remorseless vengeance, as he could inflict. Thedisputed estates she now almost determined to yield at once, wheneverhe should again call upon her, that she might regain safety and freedom;but then, the remembrance of Valancourt would steal to her heart, andplunge her into the distractions of doubt. 

She continued walking in the gallery, till evening threw its melancholytwilight through the painted casements, and deepened the gloom ofthe oak wainscoting around her; while the distant perspective ofthe corridor was so much obscured, as to be discernible only by theglimmering window, that terminated it. 

Along the vaulted halls and passages below, peals of laughter echoedfaintly, at intervals, to this remote part of the castle, and seemed torender the succeeding stillness more dreary. Emily, however, unwillingto return to her more forlorn chamber, whither Annette was not yet come, still paced the gallery. As she passed the door of the apartment, whereshe had once dared to lift the veil, which discovered to her a spectacleso horrible, that she had never after remembered it, but with emotionsof indescribable awe, this remembrance suddenly recurred. It now broughtwith it reflections more terrible, than it had yet done, which the lateconduct of Montoni occasioned; and, hastening to quit the gallery, whileshe had power to do so, she heard a sudden step behind her. --It mightbe that of Annette; but, turning fearfully to look, she saw, through thegloom, a tall figure following her, and all the horrors of that chamberrushed upon her mind. In the next moment, she found herself clasped inthe arms of some person, and heard a deep voice murmur in her ear. 

When she had power to speak, or to distinguish articulated sounds, shedemanded who detained her. 

'It is I, ' replied the voice--'Why are you thus alarmed?'

She looked on the face of the person who spoke, but the feeble light, that gleamed through the high casement at the end of the gallery, didnot permit her to distinguish the features. 

'Whoever you are, ' said Emily, in a trembling voice, 'for heaven's sakelet me go!'

'My charming Emily, ' said the man, 'why will you shut yourself up inthis obscure place, when there is so much gaiety below? Return withme to the cedar parlour, where you will be the fairest ornament of theparty;--you shall not repent the exchange. '

Emily disdained to reply, and still endeavoured to liberate herself. 

'Promise, that you will come, ' he continued, 'and I will release youimmediately; but first give me a reward for so doing. '

'Who are you?' demanded Emily, in a tone of mingled terror andindignation, while she still struggled for liberty--'who are you, thathave the cruelty thus to insult me?'

'Why call me cruel?' said the man, 'I would remove you from this drearysolitude to a merry party below. Do you not know me?'

Emily now faintly remembered, that he was one of the officers who werewith Montoni when she attended him in the morning. 'I thank you forthe kindness of your intention, ' she replied, without appearing tounderstand him, 'but I wish for nothing so much as that you would leaveme. '

'Charming Emily!' said he, 'give up this foolish whim for solitude, andcome with me to the company, and eclipse the beauties who make part ofit; you, only, are worthy of my love. ' He attempted to kiss her hand, but the strong impulse of her indignation gave her power to liberateherself, and she fled towards the chamber. She closed the door, beforehe reached it, having secured which, she sunk in a chair, overcome byterror and by the exertion she had made, while she heard his voice, and his attempts to open the door, without having the power to raiseherself. At length, she perceived him depart, and had remained, listening, for a considerable time, and was somewhat revived by nothearing any sound, when suddenly she remembered the door of the privatestair-case, and that he might enter that way, since it was fastened onlyon the other side. She then employed herself in endeavouring to secureit, in the manner she had formerly done. It appeared to her, thatMontoni had already commenced his scheme of vengeance, by withdrawingfrom her his protection, and she repented of the rashness, that had madeher brave the power of such a man. To retain the estates seemed to benow utterly impossible, and to preserve her life, perhaps her honour, she resolved, if she should escape the horrors of this night, to give upall claims to the estates, on the morrow, provided Montoni would sufferher to depart from Udolpho. 

When she had come to this decision, her mind became more composed, though she still anxiously listened, and often started at ideal sounds, that appeared to issue from the stair-case. 

Having sat in darkness for some hours, during all which time Annette didnot appear, she began to have serious apprehensions for her; but, notdaring to venture down into the castle, was compelled to remain inuncertainty, as to the cause of this unusual absence. 

Emily often stole to the stair-case door, to listen if any stepapproached, but still no sound alarmed her: determining, however, towatch, during the night, she once more rested on her dark and desolatecouch, and bathed the pillow with innocent tears. She thought of herdeceased parents and then of the absent Valancourt, and frequentlycalled upon their names; for the profound stillness, that now reigned, was propitious to the musing sorrow of her mind. 

While she thus remained, her ear suddenly caught the notes of distantmusic, to which she listened attentively, and, soon perceiving thisto be the instrument she had formerly heard at midnight, she rose, andstepped softly to the casement, to which the sounds appeared to comefrom a lower room. 

In a few moments, their soft melody was accompanied by a voice so fullof pathos, that it evidently sang not of imaginary sorrows. Its sweetand peculiar tones she thought she had somewhere heard before; yet, ifthis was not fancy, it was, at most, a very faint recollection. Itstole over her mind, amidst the anguish of her present suffering, like acelestial strain, soothing, and re-assuring her;--'Pleasant as the galeof spring, that sighs on the hunter's ear, when he awakens from dreamsof joy, and has heard the music of the spirits of the hill. '*

(*Ossian. [A. R. ])

But her emotion can scarcely be imagined, when she heard sung, with thetaste and simplicity of true feeling, one of the popular airs of hernative province, to which she had so often listened with delight, whena child, and which she had so often heard her father repeat! To thiswell-known song, never, till now, heard but in her native country, herheart melted, while the memory of past times returned. The pleasant, peaceful scenes of Gascony, the tenderness and goodness of her parents, the taste and simplicity of her former life--all rose to her fancy, andformed a picture, so sweet and glowing, so strikingly contrastedwith the scenes, the characters and the dangers, which now surroundedher--that her mind could not bear to pause upon the retrospect, andshrunk at the acuteness of its own sufferings. 

Her sighs were deep and convulsed; she could no longer listen to thestrain, that had so often charmed her to tranquillity, and she withdrewfrom the casement to a remote part of the chamber. But she was not yetbeyond the reach of the music; she heard the measure change, and thesucceeding air called her again to the window, for she immediatelyrecollected it to be the same she had formerly heard in thefishing-house in Gascony. Assisted, perhaps, by the mystery, which hadthen accompanied this strain, it had made so deep an impression on hermemory, that she had never since entirely forgotten it; and the manner, in which it was now sung, convinced her, however unaccountable thecircumstances appeared, that this was the same voice she had thenheard. Surprise soon yielded to other emotions; a thought darted, like lightning, upon her mind, which discovered a train of hopes, thatrevived all her spirits. Yet these hopes were so new, so unexpected, so astonishing, that she did not dare to trust, though she could notresolve to discourage them. She sat down by the casement, breathless, and overcome with the alternate emotions of hope and fear; then roseagain, leaned from the window, that she might catch a nearer sound, listened, now doubting and then believing, softly exclaimed the name ofValancourt, and then sunk again into the chair. Yes, it was possible, that Valancourt was near her, and she recollected circumstances, which induced her to believe it was his voice she had just heard. Sheremembered he had more than once said that the fishing-house, whereshe had formerly listened to this voice and air, and where she had seenpencilled sonnets, addressed to herself, had been his favourite haunt, before he had been made known to her; there, too, she had herselfunexpectedly met him. It appeared, from these circumstances, morethan probable, that he was the musician, who had formerly charmed herattention, and the author of the lines, which had expressed such tenderadmiration;--who else, indeed, could it be? She was unable, atthat time, to form a conjecture, as to the writer, but, sinceher acquaintance with Valancourt, whenever he had mentioned thefishing-house to have been known to him, she had not scrupled to believethat he was the author of the sonnets. 

As these considerations passed over her mind, joy, fear and tendernesscontended at her heart; she leaned again from the casement to catch thesounds, which might confirm, or destroy her hope, though she didnot recollect to have ever heard him sing; but the voice, and theinstrument, now ceased. 

She considered for a moment whether she should venture to speak: then, not choosing, lest it should be he, to mention his name, and yet toomuch interested to neglect the opportunity of enquiring, she called fromthe casement, 'Is that song from Gascony?' Her anxious attention wasnot cheered by any reply; every thing remained silent. Her impatienceincreasing with her fears, she repeated the question; but still no soundwas heard, except the sighings of the wind among the battlements above;and she endeavoured to console herself with a belief, that the stranger, whoever he was, had retired, before she had spoken, beyond the reachof her voice, which, it appeared certain, had Valancourt heard andrecognized, he would instantly have replied to. Presently, however, sheconsidered, that a motive of prudence, and not an accidental removal, might occasion his silence; but the surmise, that led to thisreflection, suddenly changed her hope and joy to terror and grief; for, if Valancourt were in the castle, it was too probable, that he was herea prisoner, taken with some of his countrymen, many of whom were at thattime engaged in the wars of Italy, or intercepted in some attempt toreach her. Had he even recollected Emily's voice, he would have feared, in these circumstances, to reply to it, in the presence of the men, whoguarded his prison. 

What so lately she had eagerly hoped she now believed shedreaded;--dreaded to know, that Valancourt was near her; and, while shewas anxious to be relieved from her apprehension for his safety, shestill was unconscious, that a hope of soon seeing him, struggled withthe fear. 

She remained listening at the casement, till the air began to freshen, and one high mountain in the east to glimmer with the morning; when, wearied with anxiety, she retired to her couch, where she foundit utterly impossible to sleep, for joy, tenderness, doubt andapprehension, distracted her during the whole night. Now she rose fromthe couch, and opened the casement to listen; then she would pace theroom with impatient steps, and, at length, return with despondence toher pillow. Never did hours appear to move so heavily, as those of thisanxious night; after which she hoped that Annette might appear, andconclude her present state of torturing suspense. 

CHAPTER VI

 might we but hear The folded flocks penn'd in their watled cotes, Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops, Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock Count the night watches to his feathery dames, 'Twould be some solace yet, some little cheering In this close dungeon of innumerous boughs. MILTON

In the morning, Emily was relieved from her fears for Annette, who cameat an early hour. 

'Here were fine doings in the castle, last night, ma'amselle, ' saidshe, as soon as she entered the room, --'fine doings, indeed! Was you notfrightened, ma'amselle, at not seeing me?'

'I was alarmed both on your account and on my own, ' replied Emily--'Whatdetained you?'

'Aye, I said so, I told him so; but it would not do. It was not myfault, indeed, ma'amselle, for I could not get out. That rogue Ludovicolocked me up again. '

'Locked you up!' said Emily, with displeasure, 'Why do you permitLudovico to lock you up?'

'Holy Saints!' exclaimed Annette, 'how can I help it! If he will lockthe door, ma'amselle, and take away the key, how am I to get out, unlessI jump through the window? But that I should not mind so much, if thecasements here were not all so high; one can hardly scramble up to themon the inside, and one should break one's neck, I suppose, going downon the outside. But you know, I dare say, ma'am, what a hurly-burly thecastle was in, last night; you must have heard some of the uproar. '

'What, were they disputing, then?' said Emily. 

'No, ma'amselle, nor fighting, but almost as good, for I believe therewas not one of the Signors sober; and what is more, not one of thosefine ladies sober, either. I thought, when I saw them first, that allthose fine silks and fine veils, --why, ma'amselle, their veils wereworked with silver! and fine trimmings--boded no good--I guessed whatthey were!'

'Good God!' exclaimed Emily, 'what will become of me!'

'Aye, ma'am, Ludovico said much the same thing of me. Good God! said he, Annette, what is to become of you, if you are to go running about thecastle among all these drunken Signors?'

'O! says I, for that matter, I only want to go to my young lady'schamber, and I have only to go, you know, along the vaulted passage andacross the great hall and up the marble stair-case and along the northgallery and through the west wing of the castle and I am in the corridorin a minute. ' 'Are you so? says he, and what is to become of you, ifyou meet any of those noble cavaliers in the way?' 'Well, says I, if youthink there is danger, then, go with me, and guard me; I am never afraidwhen you are by. ' 'What! says he, when I am scarcely recovered of onewound, shall I put myself in the way of getting another? for if any ofthe cavaliers meet you, they will fall a-fighting with me directly. No, no, says he, I will cut the way shorter, than through the vaultedpassage and up the marble stair-case, and along the north gallery andthrough the west wing of the castle, for you shall stay here, Annette;you shall not go out of this room, to-night. ' 'So, with that I says'--

'Well, well, ' said Emily, impatiently, and anxious to enquire on anothersubject, --'so he locked you up?'

'Yes, he did indeed, ma'amselle, notwithstanding all I could say to thecontrary; and Caterina and I and he staid there all night. And in a fewminutes after I was not so vexed, for there came Signor Verezzi roaringalong the passage, like a mad bull, and he mistook Ludovico's hall, forold Carlo's; so he tried to burst open the door, and called out for morewine, for that he had drunk all the flasks dry, and was dying of thirst. So we were all as still as night, that he might suppose there was nobodyin the room; but the Signor was as cunning as the best of us, and keptcalling out at the door, "Come forth, my antient hero!" said he, "hereis no enemy at the gate, that you need hide yourself: come forth, myvalorous Signor Steward!" Just then old Carlo opened his door, and hecame with a flask in his hand; for, as soon as the Signor saw him, hewas as tame as could be, and followed him away as naturally as a dogdoes a butcher with a piece of meat in his basket. All this I sawthrough the key-hole. Well, Annette, said Ludovico, jeeringly, shall Ilet you out now? O no, says I, I would not'--

'I have some questions to ask you on another subject, ' interruptedEmily, quite wearied by this story. 'Do you know whether there are anyprisoners in the castle, and whether they are confined at this end ofthe edifice?'

'I was not in the way, ma'amselle, ' replied Annette, 'when the firstparty came in from the mountains, and the last party is not comeback yet, so I don't know, whether there are any prisoners; but it isexpected back to-night, or to-morrow, and I shall know then, perhaps. '

Emily enquired if she had ever heard the servants talk of prisoners. 

'Ah ma'amselle!' said Annette archly, 'now I dare say you are thinkingof Monsieur Valancourt, and that he may have come among the armies, which, they say, are come from our country, to fight against this state, and that he has met with some of OUR people, and is taken captive. OLord! how glad I should be, if it was so!'

'Would you, indeed, be glad?' said Emily, in a tone of mournfulreproach. 

'To be sure I should, ma'am, ' replied Annette, 'and would not you beglad too, to see Signor Valancourt? I don't know any chevalier I likebetter, I have a very great regard for the Signor, truly. '

'Your regard for him cannot be doubted, ' said Emily, 'since you wish tosee him a prisoner. '

'Why no, ma'amselle, not a prisoner either; but one must be glad to seehim, you know. And it was only the other night I dreamt--I dreamt I sawhim drive into the castle-yard all in a coach and six, and dressed out, with a laced coat and a sword, like a lord as he is. '

Emily could not forbear smiling at Annette's ideas of Valancourt, and repeated her enquiry, whether she had heard the servants talk ofprisoners. 

'No, ma'amselle, ' replied she, 'never; and lately they have done nothingbut talk of the apparition, that has been walking about of a night onthe ramparts, and that frightened the sentinels into fits. It came amongthem like a flash of fire, they say, and they all fell down in a row, till they came to themselves again; and then it was gone, and nothing tobe seen but the old castle walls; so they helped one another up again asfast as they could. You would not believe, ma'amselle, though I shewedyou the very cannon, where it used to appear. '

'And are you, indeed, so simple, Annette, ' said Emily, smiling at thiscurious exaggeration of the circumstances she had witnessed, 'as tocredit these stories?'

'Credit them, ma'amselle! why all the world could not persuade me outof them. Roberto and Sebastian and half a dozen more of them went intofits! To be sure, there was no occasion for that; I said, myself, therewas no need of that, for, says I, when the enemy comes, what a prettyfigure they will cut, if they are to fall down in fits, all of a row!The enemy won't be so civil, perhaps, as to walk off, like the ghost, and leave them to help one another up, but will fall to, cutting andslashing, till he makes them all rise up dead men. No, no, says I, thereis reason in all things: though I might have fallen down in a fit thatwas no rule for them, being, because it is no business of mine to lookgruff, and fight battles. '

Emily endeavoured to correct the superstitious weakness of Annette, though she could not entirely subdue her own; to which the latter onlyreplied, 'Nay, ma'amselle, you will believe nothing; you are almost asbad as the Signor himself, who was in a great passion when they toldof what had happened, and swore that the first man, who repeated suchnonsense, should be thrown into the dungeon under the east turret. Thiswas a hard punishment too, for only talking nonsense, as he called it, but I dare say he had other reasons for calling it so, than you have, ma'am. '

Emily looked displeased, and made no reply. As she mused upon therecollected appearance, which had lately so much alarmed her, andconsidered the circumstances of the figure having stationed itselfopposite to her casement, she was for a moment inclined to believe itwas Valancourt, whom she had seen. Yet, if it was he, why did he notspeak to her, when he had the opportunity of doing so--and, if he was aprisoner in the castle, and he could be here in no other character, howcould he obtain the means of walking abroad on the rampart? Thus shewas utterly unable to decide, whether the musician and the form she hadobserved, were the same, or, if they were, whether this was Valancourt. She, however, desired that Annette would endeavour to learn whether anyprisoners were in the castle, and also their names. 

'O dear, ma'amselle!' said Annette, 'I forget to tell you what you bademe ask about, the ladies, as they call themselves, who are lately cometo Udolpho. Why that Signora Livona, that the Signor brought to see mylate lady at Venice, is his mistress now, and was little better then, I dare say. And Ludovico says (but pray be secret, ma'am) that hisexcellenza introduced her only to impose upon the world, that had begunto make free with her character. So when people saw my lady notice her, they thought what they had heard must be scandal. The other two are themistresses of Signor Verezzi and Signor Bertolini; and Signor Montoniinvited them all to the castle; and so, yesterday, he gave a greatentertainment; and there they were, all drinking Tuscany wine and allsorts, and laughing and singing, till they made the castle ring again. But I thought they were dismal sounds, so soon after my poor lady'sdeath too; and they brought to my mind what she would have thought, ifshe had heard them--but she cannot hear them now, poor soul! said I. '

Emily turned away to conceal her emotion, and then desired Annette togo, and make enquiry, concerning the prisoners, that might be in thecastle, but conjured her to do it with caution, and on no account tomention her name, or that of Monsieur Valancourt. 

'Now I think of it, ma'amselle, ' said Annette, 'I do believe there areprisoners, for I overheard one of the Signor's men, yesterday, in theservants hall, talking something about ransoms, and saying what a finething it was for his excellenza to catch up men, and they were asgood booty as any other, because of the ransoms. And the other man wasgrumbling, and saying it was fine enough for the Signor, but none sofine for his soldiers, because, said he, we don't go shares there. '

This information heightened Emily's impatience to know more, and Annetteimmediately departed on her enquiry. 

The late resolution of Emily to resign her estates to Montoni, now gaveway to new considerations; the possibility, that Valancourt was nearher, revived her fortitude, and she determined to brave the threatenedvengeance, at least, till she could be assured whether he was really inthe castle. She was in this temper of mind, when she received a messagefrom Montoni, requiring her attendance in the cedar parlour, which sheobeyed with trembling, and, on her way thither, endeavoured to animateher fortitude with the idea of Valancourt. 

Montoni was alone. 'I sent for you, ' said he, 'to give you anotheropportunity of retracting your late mistaken assertions concerning theLanguedoc estates. I will condescend to advise, where I may command. --Ifyou are really deluded by an opinion, that you have any right to theseestates, at least, do not persist in the error--an error, which youmay perceive, too late, has been fatal to you. Dare my resentment nofurther, but sign the papers. '

'If I have no right in these estates, sir, ' said Emily, 'of what servicecan it be to you, that I should sign any papers, concerning them? Ifthe lands are yours by law, you certainly may possess them, without myinterference, or my consent. '

'I will have no more argument, ' said Montoni, with a look that madeher tremble. 'What had I but trouble to expect, when I condescendedto reason with a baby! But I will be trifled with no longer: let therecollection of your aunt's sufferings, in consequence of her folly andobstinacy, teach you a lesson. --Sign the papers. '

Emily's resolution was for a moment awed:--she shrunk at therecollections he revived, and from the vengeance he threatened; butthen, the image of Valancourt, who so long had loved her, and who wasnow, perhaps, so near her, came to her heart, and, together with thestrong feelings of indignation, with which she had always, from herinfancy, regarded an act of injustice, inspired her with a noble, thoughimprudent, courage. 

'Sign the papers, ' said Montoni, more impatiently than before. 

'Never, sir, ' replied Emily; 'that request would have proved to me theinjustice of your claim, had I even been ignorant of my right. '

Montoni turned pale with anger, while his quivering lip and lurking eyemade her almost repent the boldness of her speech. 

'Then all my vengeance falls upon you, ' he exclaimed, with an horribleoath. 'And think not it shall be delayed. Neither the estates inLanguedoc, or Gascony, shall be yours; you have dared to question myright, --now dare to question my power. I have a punishment which youthink not of; it is terrible! This night--this very night'--

'This night!' repeated another voice. 

Montoni paused, and turned half round, but, seeming to recollecthimself, he proceeded in a lower tone. 

'You have lately seen one terrible example of obstinacy and folly; yetthis, it appears, has not been sufficient to deter you. --I could tellyou of others--I could make you tremble at the bare recital. '

He was interrupted by a groan, which seemed to rise from underneath thechamber they were in; and, as he threw a glance round it, impatience andrage flashed from his eyes, yet something like a shade of fear passedover his countenance. Emily sat down in a chair, near the door, for thevarious emotions she had suffered, now almost overcame her; but Montonipaused scarcely an instant, and, commanding his features, resumed hisdiscourse in a lower, yet sterner voice. 

'I say, I could give you other instances of my power and of mycharacter, which it seems you do not understand, or you would not defyme. --I could tell you, that, when once my resolution is taken--but Iam talking to a baby. Let me, however, repeat, that terrible as are theexamples I could recite, the recital could not now benefit you; for, though your repentance would put an immediate end to opposition, itwould not now appease my indignation. --I will have vengeance as well asjustice. '

Another groan filled the pause which Montoni made. 

'Leave the room instantly!' said he, seeming not to notice this strangeoccurrence. Without power to implore his pity, she rose to go, but foundthat she could not support herself; awe and terror overcame her, and shesunk again into the chair. 

'Quit my presence!' cried Montoni. 'This affectation of fear ill becomesthe heroine who has just dared to brave my indignation. '

'Did you hear nothing, Signor?' said Emily, trembling, and still unableto leave the room. 

'I heard my own voice, ' rejoined Montoni, sternly. 

'And nothing else?' said Emily, speaking with difficulty. --'There again!Do you hear nothing now?'

'Obey my order, ' repeated Montoni. 'And for these fool's tricks--I willsoon discover by whom they are practised. '

Emily again rose, and exerted herself to the utmost to leave theroom, while Montoni followed her; but, instead of calling aloud to hisservants to search the chamber, as he had formerly done on a similaroccurrence, passed to the ramparts. 

As, in her way to the corridor, she rested for a moment at an opencasement, Emily saw a party of Montoni's troops winding down a distantmountain, whom she noticed no further, than as they brought to her mindthe wretched prisoners they were, perhaps, bringing to the castle. Atlength, having reached her apartment, she threw herself upon the couch, overcome with the new horrors of her situation. Her thoughts lost intumult and perplexity, she could neither repent of, or approve, her lateconduct; she could only remember, that she was in the power of a man, who had no principle of action--but his will; and the astonishment andterrors of superstition, which had, for a moment, so strongly assailedher, now yielded to those of reason. 

She was, at length, roused from the reverie, which engaged her, by aconfusion of distant voices, and a clattering of hoofs, that seemed tocome, on the wind, from the courts. A sudden hope, that some good wasapproaching, seized her mind, till she remembered the troops she hadobserved from the casement, and concluded this to be the party, whichAnnette had said were expected at Udolpho. 

Soon after, she heard voices faintly from the halls, and the noiseof horses' feet sunk away in the wind; silence ensued. Emily listenedanxiously for Annette's step in the corridor, but a pause of totalstillness continued, till again the castle seemed to be all tumult andconfusion. She heard the echoes of many footsteps, passing to and froin the halls and avenues below, and then busy tongues were loud on therampart. Having hurried to her casement, she perceived Montoni, withsome of his officers, leaning on the walls, and pointing from them;while several soldiers were employed at the further end of the rampartabout some cannon; and she continued to observe them, careless of thepassing time. 

Annette at length appeared, but brought no intelligence of Valancourt, 'For, ma'amselle, ' said she, 'all the people pretend to know nothingabout any prisoners. But here is a fine piece of business! The rest ofthe party are just arrived, ma'am; they came scampering in, as if theywould have broken their necks; one scarcely knew whether the man, or hishorse would get within the gates first. And they have brought word--andsuch news! they have brought word, that a party of the enemy, as theycall them, are coming towards the castle; so we shall have all theofficers of justice, I suppose, besieging it! all those terrible-lookingfellows one used to see at Venice. '

'Thank God!' exclaimed Emily, fervently, 'there is yet a hope left forme, then!'

'What mean you, ma'amselle? Do you wish to fall into the hands of thosesad-looking men! Why I used to shudder as I passed them, and should haveguessed what they were, if Ludovico had not told me. '

'We cannot be in worse hands than at present, ' replied Emily, unguardedly; 'but what reason have you to suppose these are officers ofjustice?'

'Why OUR people, ma'am, are all in such a fright, and a fuss; and Idon't know any thing but the fear of justice, that could make them so. I used to think nothing on earth could fluster them, unless, indeed, it was a ghost, or so; but now, some of them are for hiding down inthe vaults under the castle; but you must not tell the Signor this, ma'amselle, and I overheard two of them talking--Holy Mother! what makesyou look so sad, ma'amselle? You don't hear what I say!'

'Yes, I do, Annette; pray proceed. '

'Well, ma'amselle, all the castle is in such hurly-burly. Some of themen are loading the cannon, and some are examining the great gates, andthe walls all round, and are hammering and patching up, just as if allthose repairs had never been made, that were so long about. But what isto become of me and you, ma'amselle, and Ludovico? O! when I hear thesound of the cannon, I shall die with fright. If I could but catch thegreat gate open for one minute, I would be even with it for shutting mewithin these walls so long!--it should never see me again. '

Emily caught the latter words of Annette. 'O! if you could find it open, but for one moment!' she exclaimed, 'my peace might yet be saved!'The heavy groan she uttered, and the wildness of her look, terrifiedAnnette, still more than her words; who entreated Emily to explain themeaning of them, to whom it suddenly occurred, that Ludovico might beof some service, if there should be a possibility of escape, and whorepeated the substance of what had passed between Montoni and herself, but conjured her to mention this to no person except to Ludovico. 'Itmay, perhaps, be in his power, ' she added, 'to effect our escape. Go tohim, Annette, tell him what I have to apprehend, and what I havealready suffered; but entreat him to be secret, and to lose no time inattempting to release us. If he is willing to undertake this he shallbe amply rewarded. I cannot speak with him myself, for we might beobserved, and then effectual care would be taken to prevent our flight. But be quick, Annette, and, above all, be discreet--I will await yourreturn in this apartment. '

The girl, whose honest heart had been much affected by the recital, wasnow as eager to obey, as Emily was to employ her, and she immediatelyquitted the room. 

Emily's surprise increased, as she reflected upon Annette'sintelligence. 'Alas!' said she, 'what can the officers of justicedo against an armed castle? these cannot be such. ' Upon furtherconsideration, however, she concluded, that, Montoni's bands havingplundered the country round, the inhabitants had taken arms, and werecoming with the officers of police and a party of soldiers, to forcetheir way into the castle. 'But they know not, ' thought she, 'itsstrength, or the armed numbers within it. Alas! except from flight, Ihave nothing to hope!'

Montoni, though not precisely what Emily apprehended him to be--acaptain of banditti--had employed his troops in enterprises not lessdaring, or less atrocious, than such a character would have undertaken. They had not only pillaged, whenever opportunity offered, the helplesstraveller, but had attacked, and plundered the villas of severalpersons, which, being situated among the solitary recesses of themountains, were totally unprepared for resistance. In these expeditionsthe commanders of the party did not appear, and the men, partlydisguised, had sometimes been mistaken for common robbers, and, atothers, for bands of the foreign enemy, who, at that period, invadedthe country. But, though they had already pillaged several mansions, andbrought home considerable treasures, they had ventured to approach onlyone castle, in the attack of which they were assisted by other troops oftheir own order; from this, however, they were vigorously repulsed, and pursued by some of the foreign enemy, who were in league with thebesieged. Montoni's troops fled precipitately towards Udolpho, but wereso closely tracked over the mountains, that, when they reached one ofthe heights in the neighbourhood of the castle, and looked back upon theroad, they perceived the enemy winding among the cliffs below, andat not more than a league distant. Upon this discovery, they hastenedforward with increased speed, to prepare Montoni for the enemy; and itwas their arrival, which had thrown the castle into such confusion andtumult. 

As Emily awaited anxiously some information from below, she now saw fromher casements a body of troops pour over the neighbouring heights; and, though Annette had been gone a very short time, and had a difficult anddangerous business to accomplish, her impatience for intelligence becamepainful: she listened; opened her door; and often went out upon thecorridor to meet her. 

At length, she heard a footstep approach her chamber; and, on openingthe door, saw, not Annette, but old Carlo! New fears rushed upon hermind. He said he came from the Signor, who had ordered him to informher, that she must be ready to depart from Udolpho immediately, for thatthe castle was about to be besieged; and that mules were preparing toconvey her, with her guides, to a place of safety. 

'Of safety!' exclaimed Emily, thoughtlessly; 'has, then, the Signor somuch consideration for me?'

Carlo looked upon the ground, and made no reply. A thousand oppositeemotions agitated Emily, successively, as she listened to old Carlo;those of joy, grief, distrust and apprehension, appeared, and vanishedfrom her mind, with the quickness of lightning. One moment, it seemedimpossible, that Montoni could take this measure merely for herpreservation; and so very strange was his sending her from the castleat all, that she could attribute it only to the design of carrying intoexecution the new scheme of vengeance, with which he had menaced her. Inthe next instant, it appeared so desirable to quit the castle, under anycircumstances, that she could not but rejoice in the prospect, believingthat change must be for the better, till she remembered the probabilityof Valancourt being detained in it, when sorrow and regret usurped hermind, and she wished, much more fervently than she had yet done, that itmight not be his voice which she had heard. 

Carlo having reminded her, that she had no time to lose, for that theenemy were within sight of the castle, Emily entreated him to informher whither she was to go; and, after some hesitation, he said he hadreceived no orders to tell; but, on her repeating the question, replied, that he believed she was to be carried into Tuscany. '

'To Tuscany!' exclaimed Emily--'and why thither?'

Carlo answered, that he knew nothing further, than that she was tobe lodged in a cottage on the borders of Tuscany, at the feet of theApennines--'Not a day's journey distant, ' said he. 

Emily now dismissed him; and, with trembling hands, prepared the smallpackage, that she meant to take with her; while she was employed aboutwhich Annette returned. 

'O ma'amselle!' said she, 'nothing can be done! Ludovico says the newporter is more watchful even than Barnardine was, and we might as wellthrow ourselves in the way of a dragon, as in his. Ludovico is almost asbroken-hearted as you are, ma'am, on my account, he says, and I am sureI shall never live to hear the cannon fire twice!'

She now began to weep, but revived upon hearing of what had justoccurred, and entreated Emily to take her with her. 

'That I will do most willingly, ' replied Emily, 'if Signor Montonipermits it;' to which Annette made no reply, but ran out of the room, and immediately sought Montoni, who was on the terrace, surrounded byhis officers, where she began her petition. He sharply bade her go intothe castle, and absolutely refused her request. Annette, however, notonly pleaded for herself, but for Ludovico; and Montoni had ordered someof his men to take her from his presence, before she would retire. 

In an agony of disappointment, she returned to Emily, who forebodedlittle good towards herself, from this refusal to Annette, and who, soonafter, received a summons to repair to the great court, where the mules, with her guides, were in waiting. Emily here tried in vain to sooth theweeping Annette, who persisted in saying, that she should never see herdear young lady again; a fear, which her mistress secretly thoughttoo well justified, but which she endeavoured to restrain, while, with apparent composure, she bade this affectionate servant farewell. Annette, however, followed to the courts, which were now thronged withpeople, busy in preparation for the enemy; and, having seen her mounther mule and depart, with her attendants, through the portal, turnedinto the castle and wept again. 

Emily, meanwhile, as she looked back upon the gloomy courts of thecastle, no longer silent as when she had first entered them, butresounding with the noise of preparation for their defence, as well ascrowded with soldiers and workmen, hurrying to and fro; and, when shepassed once more under the huge portcullis, which had formerly struckher with terror and dismay, and, looking round, saw no walls to confineher steps--felt, in spite of anticipation, the sudden joy of a prisoner, who unexpectedly finds himself at liberty. This emotion would not sufferher now to look impartially on the dangers that awaited her without; onmountains infested by hostile parties, who seized every opportunity forplunder; and on a journey commended under the guidance of men, whosecountenances certainly did not speak favourably of their dispositions. In the present moments, she could only rejoice, that she was liberatedfrom those walls, which she had entered with such dismal forebodings;and, remembering the superstitious presentiment, which had then seizedher, she could now smile at the impression it had made upon her mind. 

As she gazed, with these emotions, upon the turrets of the castle, rising high over the woods, among which she wound, the stranger, whomshe believed to be confined there, returned to her remembrance, andanxiety and apprehension, lest he should be Valancourt, again passedlike a cloud upon her joy. She recollected every circumstance, concerning this unknown person, since the night, when she had firstheard him play the song of her native province;--circumstances, whichshe had so often recollected, and compared before, without extractingfrom them any thing like conviction, and which still only prompted herto believe, that Valancourt was a prisoner at Udolpho. It was possible, however, that the men, who were her conductors, might afford herinformation, on this subject; but, fearing to question them immediately, lest they should be unwilling to discover any circumstance to her in thepresence of each other, she watched for an opportunity of speaking withthem separately. 

Soon after, a trumpet echoed faintly from a distance; the guidesstopped, and looked toward the quarter whence it came, but the thickwoods, which surrounded them, excluding all view of the country beyond, one of the men rode on to the point of an eminence, that afforded amore extensive prospect, to observe how near the enemy, whose trumpet heguessed this to be, were advanced; the other, meanwhile, remained withEmily, and to him she put some questions, concerning the stranger atUdolpho. Ugo, for this was his name, said, that there were severalprisoners in the castle, but he neither recollected their persons, or the precise time of their arrival, and could therefore give her noinformation. There was a surliness in his manner, as he spoke, that madeit probable he would not have satisfied her enquiries, even if he couldhave done so. 

Having asked him what prisoners had been taken, about the time, asnearly as she could remember, when she had first heard the music, 'Allthat week, ' said Ugo, 'I was out with a party, upon the mountains, andknew nothing of what was doing at the castle. We had enough upon ourhands, we had warm work of it. '

Bertrand, the other man, being now returned, Emily enquired no further, and, when he had related to his companion what he had seen, theytravelled on in deep silence; while Emily often caught, between theopening woods, partial glimpses of the castle above--the west towers, whose battlements were now crowded with archers, and the rampartsbelow, where soldiers were seen hurrying along, or busy upon the walls, preparing the cannon. 

Having emerged from the woods, they wound along the valley in anopposite direction to that, from whence the enemy were approaching. Emily now had a full view of Udolpho, with its gray walls, towers andterraces, high over-topping the precipices and the dark woods, andglittering partially with the arms of the condottieri, as the sun'srays, streaming through an autumnal cloud, glanced upon a part ofthe edifice, whose remaining features stood in darkened majesty. Shecontinued to gaze, through her tears, upon walls that, perhaps, confinedValancourt, and which now, as the cloud floated away, were lighted upwith sudden splendour, and then, as suddenly were shrouded in gloom;while the passing gleam fell on the wood-tops below, and heightened thefirst tints of autumn, that had begun to steal upon the foliage. Thewinding mountains, at length, shut Udolpho from her view, and sheturned, with mournful reluctance, to other objects. The melancholysighing of the wind among the pines, that waved high over the steeps, and the distant thunder of a torrent assisted her musings, and conspiredwith the wild scenery around, to diffuse over her mind emotions solemn, yet not unpleasing, but which were soon interrupted by the distant roarof cannon, echoing among the mountains. The sounds rolled along thewind, and were repeated in faint and fainter reverberation, till theysunk in sullen murmurs. This was a signal, that the enemy had reachedthe castle, and fear for Valancourt again tormented Emily. She turnedher anxious eyes towards that part of the country, where the edificestood, but the intervening heights concealed it from her view; still, however, she saw the tall head of a mountain, which immediately frontedher late chamber, and on this she fixed her gaze, as if it could havetold her of all that was passing in the scene it overlooked. The guidestwice reminded her, that she was losing time and that they had far togo, before she could turn from this interesting object, and, even whenshe again moved onward, she often sent a look back, till only its bluepoint, brightening in a gleam of sunshine, appeared peeping over othermountains. 

The sound of the cannon affected Ugo, as the blast of the trumpetdoes the war-horse; it called forth all the fire of his nature; hewas impatient to be in the midst of the fight, and uttered frequentexecrations against Montoni for having sent him to a distance. Thefeelings of his comrade seemed to be very opposite, and adapted ratherto the cruelties, than to the dangers of war. 

Emily asked frequent questions, concerning the place of her destination, but could only learn, that she was going to a cottage in Tuscany; and, whenever she mentioned the subject, she fancied she perceived, in thecountenances of these men, an expression of malice and cunning, thatalarmed her. 

It was afternoon, when they had left the castle. During several hours, they travelled through regions of profound solitude, where no bleat ofsheep, or bark of watch-dog, broke on silence, and they were now too faroff to hear even the faint thunder of the cannon. Towards evening, theywound down precipices, black with forests of cypress, pine and cedar, into a glen so savage and secluded, that, if Solitude ever had localhabitation, this might have been 'her place of dearest residence. ' ToEmily it appeared a spot exactly suited for the retreat of banditti, and, in her imagination, she already saw them lurking under the brow ofsome projecting rock, whence their shadows, lengthened by the settingsun, stretched across the road, and warned the traveller of his danger. She shuddered at the idea, and, looking at her conductors, to observewhether they were armed, thought she saw in them the banditti shedreaded!

It was in this glen, that they proposed to alight, 'For, ' said Ugo, 'night will come on presently, and then the wolves will make itdangerous to stop. ' This was a new subject of alarm to Emily, butinferior to what she suffered from the thought of being left in thesewilds, at midnight, with two such men as her present conductors. Darkand dreadful hints of what might be Montoni's purpose in sending herhither, came to her mind. She endeavoured to dissuade the men fromstopping, and enquired, with anxiety, how far they had yet to go. 

'Many leagues yet, ' replied Bertrand. 'As for you, Signora, you may doas you please about eating, but for us, we will make a hearty supper, while we can. We shall have need of it, I warrant, before we finishour journey. The sun's going down apace; let us alight under that rock, yonder. '

His comrade assented, and, turning the mules out of the road, theyadvanced towards a cliff, overhung with cedars, Emily following intrembling silence. They lifted her from her mule, and, having seatedthemselves on the grass, at the foot of the rocks, drew some homelyfare from a wallet, of which Emily tried to eat a little, the better todisguise her apprehensions. 

The sun was now sunk behind the high mountains in the west, upon which apurple haze began to spread, and the gloom of twilight to draw over thesurrounding objects. To the low and sullen murmur of the breeze, passingamong the woods, she no longer listened with any degree of pleasure, for it conspired with the wildness of the scene and the evening hour, todepress her spirits. 

Suspense had so much increased her anxiety, as to the prisoner atUdolpho, that, finding it impracticable to speak alone with Bertrand, onthat subject, she renewed her questions in the presence of Ugo; buthe either was, or pretended to be entirely ignorant, concerning thestranger. When he had dismissed the question, he talked with Ugo on somesubject, which led to the mention of Signor Orsino and of the affairthat had banished him from Venice; respecting which Emily had venturedto ask a few questions. Ugo appeared to be well acquainted withthe circumstances of that tragical event, and related some minuteparticulars, that both shocked and surprised her; for it appearedvery extraordinary how such particulars could be known to any, but topersons, present when the assassination was committed. 

'He was of rank, ' said Bertrand, 'or the State would not have troubleditself to enquire after his assassins. The Signor has been luckyhitherto; this is not the first affair of the kind he has had upon hishands; and to be sure, when a gentleman has no other way of gettingredress--why he must take this. '

'Aye, ' said Ugo, 'and why is not this as good as another? This is theway to have justice done at once, without more ado. If you go to law, you must stay till the judges please, and may lose your cause, at last, Why the best way, then, is to make sure of your right, while you can, and execute justice yourself. '

'Yes, yes, ' rejoined Bertrand, 'if you wait till justice is doneyou--you may stay long enough. Why if I want a friend of mine properlyserved, how am I to get my revenge? Ten to one they will tell me he isin the right, and I am in the wrong. Or, if a fellow has got possessionof property, which I think ought to be mine, why I may wait, till Istarve, perhaps, before the law will give it me, and then, after all, the judge may say--the estate is his. What is to be done then?--Why thecase is plain enough, I must take it at last. '

Emily's horror at this conversation was heightened by a suspicion, thatthe latter part of it was pointed against herself, and that these menhad been commissioned by Montoni to execute a similar kind of JUSTICE, in his cause. 

'But I was speaking of Signor Orsino, ' resumed Bertrand, 'he is one ofthose, who love to do justice at once. I remember, about ten years ago, the Signor had a quarrel with a cavaliero of Milan. The story was toldme then, and it is still fresh in my head. They quarrelled about alady, that the Signor liked, and she was perverse enough to prefer thegentleman of Milan, and even carried her whim so far as to marry him. This provoked the Signor, as well it might, for he had tried to talkreason to her a long while, and used to send people to serenade her, under her windows, of a night; and used to make verses about her, andwould swear she was the handsomest lady in Milan--But all would notdo--nothing would bring her to reason; and, as I said, she went so farat last, as to marry this other cavaliero. This made the Signor wrath, with a vengeance; he resolved to be even with her though, and he watchedhis opportunity, and did not wait long, for, soon after the marriage, they set out for Padua, nothing doubting, I warrant, of what waspreparing for them. The cavaliero thought, to be sure, he was to becalled to no account, but was to go off triumphant; but he was soon madeto know another sort of story. '

'What then, the lady had promised to have Signor Orsino?' said Ugo. 

'Promised! No, ' replied Bertrand, 'she had not wit enough even to tellhim she liked him, as I heard, but the contrary, for she used to say, from the first, she never meant to have him. And this was what provokedthe Signor, so, and with good reason, for, who likes to be told that heis disagreeable? and this was saying as good. It was enough to tell himthis; she need not have gone, and married another. '

'What, she married, then, on purpose to plague the Signor?' said Ugo. 

'I don't know as for that, ' replied Bertrand, 'they said, indeed, thatshe had had a regard for the other gentleman a great while; but that isnothing to the purpose, she should not have married him, and then theSignor would not have been so much provoked. She might have expectedwhat was to follow; it was not to be supposed he would bear her illusage tamely, and she might thank herself for what happened. But, as Isaid, they set out for Padua, she and her husband, and the road lay oversome barren mountains like these. This suited the Signor's purpose well. He watched the time of their departure, and sent his men after them, with directions what to do. They kept their distance, till they sawtheir opportunity, and this did not happen, till the second day'sjourney, when, the gentleman having sent his servants forward tothe next town, may be, to have horses in readiness, the Signor's menquickened their pace, and overtook the carriage, in a hollow, betweentwo mountains, where the woods prevented the servants from seeing whatpassed, though they were then not far off. When we came up, we fired ourtromboni, but missed. '

Emily turned pale, at these words, and then hoped she had mistaken them;while Bertrand proceeded:

'The gentleman fired again, but he was soon made to alight, and it wasas he turned to call his people, that he was struck. It was the mostdexterous feat you ever saw--he was struck in the back with threestillettos at once. He fell, and was dispatched in a minute; but thelady escaped, for the servants had heard the firing, and came up beforeshe could be taken care of. "Bertrand, " said the Signor, when his menreturned'--

'Bertrand!' exclaimed Emily, pale with horror, on whom not a syllable ofthis narrative had been lost. 

'Bertrand, did I say?' rejoined the man, with some confusion--'No, Giovanni. But I have forgot where I was;--"Bertrand, " said the Signor'--

'Bertrand, again!' said Emily, in a faltering voice, 'Why do you repeatthat name?'

Bertrand swore. 'What signifies it, ' he proceeded, 'what the man wascalled--Bertrand, or Giovanni--or Roberto? it's all one for that. Youhave put me out twice with that--question. "Bertrand, " or Giovanni--orwhat you will--"Bertrand, " said the Signor, "if your comrades had donetheir duty, as well as you, I should not have lost the lady. Go, myhonest fellow, and be happy with this. " He game him a purse of gold--andlittle enough too, considering the service he had done him. '

'Aye, aye, ' said Ugo, 'little enough--little enough. '

Emily now breathed with difficulty, and could scarcely support herself. When first she saw these men, their appearance and their connection withMontoni had been sufficient to impress her with distrust; but now, whenone of them had betrayed himself to be a murderer, and she saw herself, at the approach of night, under his guidance, among wild and solitarymountains, and going she scarcely knew whither, the most agonizingterror seized her, which was the less supportable from the necessityshe found herself under of concealing all symptoms of it from hercompanions. Reflecting on the character and the menaces of Montoni, it appeared not improbable, that he had delivered her to them, for thepurpose of having her murdered, and of thus securing to himself, withoutfurther opposition, or delay, the estates, for which he had so long andso desperately contended. Yet, if this was his design, there appearedno necessity for sending her to such a distance from the castle; for, if any dread of discovery had made him unwilling to perpetrate thedeed there, a much nearer place might have sufficed for the purpose ofconcealment. These considerations, however, did not immediately occur toEmily, with whom so many circumstances conspired to rouse terror, thatshe had no power to oppose it, or to enquire coolly into its grounds;and, if she had done so, still there were many appearances which wouldtoo well have justified her most terrible apprehensions. She did notnow dare to speak to her conductors, at the sound of whose voices shetrembled; and when, now and then, she stole a glance at them, theircountenances, seen imperfectly through the gloom of evening, served toconfirm her fears. 

The sun had now been set some time; heavy clouds, whose lower skirtswere tinged with sulphureous crimson, lingered in the west, and threw areddish tint upon the pine forests, which sent forth a solemn sound, asthe breeze rolled over them. The hollow moan struck upon Emily's heart, and served to render more gloomy and terrific every object aroundher, --the mountains, shaded in twilight--the gleaming torrent, hoarselyroaring--the black forests, and the deep glen, broken into rockyrecesses, high overshadowed by cypress and sycamore and winding intolong obscurity. To this glen, Emily, as she sent forth her anxious eye, thought there was no end; no hamlet, or even cottage, was seen, andstill no distant bark of watch dog, or even faint, far-off halloocame on the wind. In a tremulous voice, she now ventured to remind theguides, that it was growing late, and to ask again how far they had togo: but they were too much occupied by their own discourse to attendto her question, which she forbore to repeat, lest it should provoke asurly answer. Having, however, soon after, finished their supper, themen collected the fragments into their wallet, and proceeded along thiswinding glen, in gloomy silence; while Emily again mused upon her ownsituation, and concerning the motives of Montoni for involving her init. That it was for some evil purpose towards herself, she could notdoubt; and it seemed, that, if he did not intend to destroy her, with aview of immediately seizing her estates, he meant to reserve her awhile in concealment, for some more terrible design, for one that mightequally gratify his avarice and still more his deep revenge. At thismoment, remembering Signor Brochio and his behaviour in the corridor, a few preceding nights, the latter supposition, horrible as it was, strengthened in her belief. Yet, why remove her from the castle, where deeds of darkness had, she feared, been often executed withsecrecy?--from chambers, perhaps

 With many a foul, and midnight murder stain'd. 

The dread of what she might be going to encounter was now so excessive, that it sometimes threatened her senses; and, often as she went, shethought of her late father and of all he would have suffered, could hehave foreseen the strange and dreadful events of her future life;and how anxiously he would have avoided that fatal confidence, whichcommitted his daughter to the care of a woman so weak as was MadameMontoni. So romantic and improbable, indeed, did her present situationappear to Emily herself, particularly when she compared it with therepose and beauty of her early days, that there were moments, when shecould almost have believed herself the victim of frightful visions, glaring upon a disordered fancy. 

Restrained by the presence of her guides from expressing her terrors, their acuteness was, at length, lost in gloomy despair. The dreadfulview of what might await her hereafter rendered her almost indifferentto the surrounding dangers. She now looked, with little emotion, on thewild dingles, and the gloomy road and mountains, whose outlines wereonly distinguishable through the dusk;--objects, which but lately hadaffected her spirits so much, as to awaken horrid views of the future, and to tinge these with their own gloom. 

It was now so nearly dark, that the travellers, who proceeded only bythe slowest pace, could scarcely discern their way. The clouds, whichseemed charged with thunder, passed slowly along the heavens, shewing, at intervals, the trembling stars; while the groves of cypress andsycamore, that overhung the rocks, waved high in the breeze, as it sweptover the glen, and then rushed among the distant woods. Emily shiveredas it passed. 

'Where is the torch?' said Ugo, 'It grows dark. '

'Not so dark yet, ' replied Bertrand, 'but we may find our way, and 'tisbest not light the torch, before we can help, for it may betray us, ifany straggling party of the enemy is abroad. '

Ugo muttered something, which Emily did not understand, and theyproceeded in darkness, while she almost wished, that the enemy mightdiscover them; for from change there was something to hope, since shecould scarcely imagine any situation more dreadful than her present one. 

As they moved slowly along, her attention was surprised by a thintapering flame, that appeared, by fits, at the point of the pike, whichBertrand carried, resembling what she had observed on the lance of thesentinel, the night Madame Montoni died, and which he had said wasan omen. The event immediately following it appeared to justify theassertion, and a superstitious impression had remained on Emily's mind, which the present appearance confirmed. She thought it was an omen ofher own fate, and watched it successively vanish and return, in gloomysilence, which was at length interrupted by Bertrand. 

'Let us light the torch, ' said he, 'and get under shelter of thewoods;--a storm is coming on--look at my lance. '

He held it forth, with the flame tapering at its point. *

(*See the Abbe Berthelon on Electricity. [A. R. ])

'Aye, ' said Ugo, 'you are not one of those, that believe in omens: wehave left cowards at the castle, who would turn pale at such a sight. I have often seen it before a thunder storm, it is an omen of that, andone is coming now, sure enough. The clouds flash fast already. '

Emily was relieved by this conversation from some of the terrors ofsuperstition, but those of reason increased, as, waiting while Ugosearched for a flint, to strike fire, she watched the pale lightninggleam over the woods they were about to enter, and illumine the harshcountenances of her companions. Ugo could not find a flint, and Bertrandbecame impatient, for the thunder sounded hollowly at a distance, andthe lightning was more frequent. Sometimes, it revealed the nearerrecesses of the woods, or, displaying some opening in their summits, illumined the ground beneath with partial splendour, the thick foliageof the trees preserving the surrounding scene in deep shadow. 

At length, Ugo found a flint, and the torch was lighted. The men thendismounted, and, having assisted Emily, led the mules towards the woods, that skirted the glen, on the left, over broken ground, frequentlyinterrupted with brush-wood and wild plants, which she was often obligedto make a circuit to avoid. 

She could not approach these woods, without experiencing keener sense ofher danger. Their deep silence, except when the wind swept among theirbranches, and impenetrable glooms shewn partially by the sudden flash, and then, by the red glare of the torch, which served only to make'darkness visible, ' were circumstances, that contributed to renew allher most terrible apprehensions; she thought, too, that, at this moment, the countenances of her conductors displayed more than their usualfierceness, mingled with a kind of lurking exultation, which they seemedendeavouring to disguise. To her affrighted fancy it occurred, that theywere leading her into these woods to complete the will of Montoni byher murder. The horrid suggestion called a groan from her heart, whichsurprised her companions, who turned round quickly towards her, and shedemanded why they led her thither, beseeching them to continue their wayalong the open glen, which she represented to be less dangerous than thewoods, in a thunder storm. 

'No, no, ' said Bertrand, 'we know best where the danger lies. See howthe clouds open over our heads. Besides, we can glide under cover ofthe woods with less hazard of being seen, should any of the enemy bewandering this way. By holy St. Peter and all the rest of them, I've asstout a heart as the best, as many a poor devil could tell, if he werealive again--but what can we do against numbers?'

'What are you whining about?' said Ugo, contemptuously, 'who fearsnumbers! Let them come, though they were as many, as the Signor's castlecould hold; I would shew the knaves what fighting is. For you--I wouldlay you quietly in a dry ditch, where you might peep out, and see me putthe rogues to flight. --Who talks of fear!'

Bertrand replied, with an horrible oath, that he did not like suchjesting, and a violent altercation ensued, which was, at length, silenced by the thunder, whose deep volley was heard afar, rollingonward till it burst over their heads in sounds, that seemed to shakethe earth to its centre. The ruffians paused, and looked upon eachother. Between the boles of the trees, the blue lightning flashed andquivered along the ground, while, as Emily looked under the boughs, themountains beyond, frequently appeared to be clothed in livid flame. Atthis moment, perhaps, she felt less fear of the storm, than did eitherof her companions, for other terrors occupied her mind. 

The men now rested under an enormous chesnut-tree, and fixed theirpikes in the ground, at some distance, on the iron points of which Emilyrepeatedly observed the lightning play, and then glide down them intothe earth. 

'I would we were well in the Signor's castle!' said Bertrand, 'I knownot why he should send us on this business. Hark! how it rattles above, there! I could almost find in my heart to turn priest, and pray. Ugo, hast got a rosary?'

'No, ' replied Ugo, 'I leave it to cowards like thee, to carryrosaries--I, carry a sword. '

'And much good may it do thee in fighting against the storm!' saidBertrand. 

Another peal, which was reverberated in tremendous echoes among themountains, silenced them for a moment. As it rolled away, Ugo proposedgoing on. 'We are only losing time here, ' said he, 'for the thick boughsof the woods will shelter us as well as this chesnut-tree. '

They again led the mules forward, between the boles of the trees, andover pathless grass, that concealed their high knotted roots. The risingwind was now heard contending with the thunder, as it rushed furiouslyamong the branches above, and brightened the red flame of the torch, which threw a stronger light forward among the woods, and shewed theirgloomy recesses to be suitable resorts for the wolves, of which Ugo hadformerly spoken. 

At length, the strength of the wind seemed to drive the storm before it, for the thunder rolled away into distance, and was only faintly heard. After travelling through the woods for nearly an hour, during which theelements seemed to have returned to repose, the travellers, graduallyascending from the glen, found themselves upon the open brow of amountain, with a wide valley, extending in misty moon-light, at theirfeet, and above, the blue sky, trembling through the few thin clouds, that lingered after the storm, and were sinking slowly to the verge ofthe horizon. 

Emily's spirits, now that she had quitted the woods, began to revive;for she considered, that, if these men had received an order to destroyher, they would probably have executed their barbarous purpose in thesolitary wild, from whence they had just emerged, where the deed wouldhave been shrouded from every human eye. Reassured by this reflection, and by the quiet demeanour of her guides, Emily, as they proceededsilently, in a kind of sheep track, that wound along the skirts of thewoods, which ascended on the right, could not survey the sleeping beautyof the vale, to which they were declining, without a momentary sensationof pleasure. It seemed varied with woods, pastures, and sloping grounds, and was screened to the north and the east by an amphitheatre of theApennines, whose outline on the horizon was here broken into variedand elegant forms; to the west and the south, the landscape extendedindistinctly into the lowlands of Tuscany. 

'There is the sea yonder, ' said Bertrand, as if he had known that Emilywas examining the twilight view, 'yonder in the west, though we cannotsee it. '

Emily already perceived a change in the climate, from that of the wildand mountainous tract she had left; and, as she continued descending, the air became perfumed by the breath of a thousand nameless flowersamong the grass, called forth by the late rain. So soothingly beautifulwas the scene around her, and so strikingly contrasted to the gloomygrandeur of those, to which she had long been confined, and to themanners of the people, who moved among them, that she could almost havefancied herself again at La Vallee, and, wondering why Montoni had senther hither, could scarcely believe, that he had selected so enchantinga spot for any cruel design. It was, however, probably not the spot, but the persons, who happened to inhabit it, and to whose care he couldsafely commit the execution of his plans, whatever they might be, thathad determined his choice. 

She now ventured again to enquire, whether they were near the place oftheir destination, and was answered by Ugo, that they had not far to go. 'Only to the wood of chesnuts in the valley yonder, ' said he, 'there, bythe brook, that sparkles with the moon; I wish I was once at rest there, with a flask of good wine, and a slice of Tuscany bacon. '

Emily's spirits revived, when she heard, that the journey was so nearlyconcluded, and saw the wood of chesnuts in an open part of the vale, onthe margin of the stream. 

In a short time, they reached the entrance of the wood, and perceived, between the twinkling leaves, a light, streaming from a distant cottagewindow. They proceeded along the edge of the brook to where the trees, crowding over it, excluded the moon-beams, but a long line of light, from the cottage above, was seen on its dark tremulous surface. Bertrandnow stepped on first, and Emily heard him knock, and call loudly atthe door. As she reached it, the small upper casement, where the lightappeared, was unclosed by a man, who, having enquired what they wanted, immediately descended, let them into a neat rustic cot, and calledup his wife to set refreshments before the travellers. As this manconversed, rather apart, with Bertrand, Emily anxiously surveyed him. Hewas a tall, but not robust, peasant, of a sallow complexion, and had ashrewd and cunning eye; his countenance was not of a character to winthe ready confidence of youth, and there was nothing in his manner, thatmight conciliate a stranger. 

Ugo called impatiently for supper, and in a tone as if he knew hisauthority here to be unquestionable. 'I expected you an hour ago, ' saidthe peasant, 'for I have had Signor Montoni's letter these three hours, and I and my wife had given you up, and gone to bed. How did you fare inthe storm?'

'Ill enough, ' replied Ugo, 'ill enough and we are like to fare illenough here, too, unless you will make more haste. Get us more wine, andlet us see what you have to eat. '

The peasant placed before them all, that his cottage afforded--ham, wine, figs, and grapes of such size and flavour, as Emily had seldomtasted. 

After taking refreshment, she was shewn by the peasant's wife to herlittle bed-chamber, where she asked some questions concerning Montoni, to which the woman, whose name was Dorina, gave reserved answers, pretending ignorance of his excellenza's intention in sending Emilyhither, but acknowledging that her husband had been apprized ofthe circumstance. Perceiving, that she could obtain no intelligenceconcerning her destination, Emily dismissed Dorina, and retired torepose; but all the busy scenes of her past and the anticipated ones ofthe future came to her anxious mind, and conspired with the sense of hernew situation to banish sleep. 

CHAPTER VII

 Was nought around but images of rest, Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between, And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kept, From poppies breath'd, and banks of pleasant green, Where never yet was creeping creature seen. Meantime unnumbered glittering streamlets play'd, And hurled every where their water's sheen, That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade, Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. THOMSON

When Emily, in the morning, opened her casement, she was surprisedto observe the beauties, that surrounded it. The cottage was nearlyembowered in the woods, which were chiefly of chesnut intermixedwith some cypress, larch and sycamore. Beneath the dark and spreadingbranches, appeared, to the north, and to the east, the woody Apennines, rising in majestic amphitheatre, not black with pines, as she had beenaccustomed to see them, but their loftiest summits crowned with antientforests of chesnut, oak, and oriental plane, now animated with the richtints of autumn, and which swept downward to the valley uninterruptedly, except where some bold rocky promontory looked out from among thefoliage, and caught the passing gleam. Vineyards stretched along thefeet of the mountains, where the elegant villas of the Tuscan nobilityfrequently adorned the scene, and overlooked slopes clothed withgroves of olive, mulberry, orange and lemon. The plain, to which thesedeclined, was coloured with the riches of cultivation, whose mingledhues were mellowed into harmony by an Italian sun. Vines, their purpleclusters blushing between the russet foliage, hung in luxuriant festoonsfrom the branches of standard fig and cherry trees, while pastures ofverdure, such as Emily had seldom seen in Italy, enriched the banks ofa stream that, after descending from the mountains, wound along thelandscape, which it reflected, to a bay of the sea. There, far in thewest, the waters, fading into the sky, assumed a tint of the faintestpurple, and the line of separation between them was, now and then, discernible only by the progress of a sail, brightened with the sunbeam, along the horizon. 

The cottage, which was shaded by the woods from the intenser rays of thesun, and was open only to his evening light, was covered entirely withvines, fig-trees and jessamine, whose flowers surpassed in size andfragrance any that Emily had seen. These and ripening clusters of grapeshung round her little casement. The turf, that grew under the woods, wasinlaid with a variety of wild flowers and perfumed herbs, and, on theopposite margin of the stream, whose current diffused freshness beneaththe shades, rose a grove of lemon and orange trees. This, though nearlyopposite to Emily's window, did not interrupt her prospect, but ratherheightened, by its dark verdure, the effect of the perspective; andto her this spot was a bower of sweets, whose charms communicatedimperceptibly to her mind somewhat of their own serenity. 

She was soon summoned to breakfast, by the peasant's daughter, a girlabout seventeen, of a pleasant countenance, which, Emily was glad toobserve, seemed animated with the pure affections of nature, thoughthe others, that surrounded her, expressed, more or less, the worstqualities--cruelty, ferocity, cunning and duplicity; of the latter styleof countenance, especially, were those of the peasant and his wife. Maddelina spoke little, but what she said was in a soft voice, andwith an air of modesty and complacency, that interested Emily, whobreakfasted at a separate table with Dorina, while Ugo and Bertrandwere taking a repast of Tuscany bacon and wine with their host, nearthe cottage door; when they had finished which, Ugo, rising hastily, enquired for his mule, and Emily learned that he was to return toUdolpho, while Bertrand remained at the cottage; a circumstance, which, though it did not surprise, distressed her. 

When Ugo was departed, Emily proposed to walk in the neighbouring woods;but, on being told, that she must not quit the cottage, without havingBertrand for her attendant, she withdrew to her own room. There, as hereyes settled on the towering Apennines, she recollected the terrificscenery they had exhibited and the horrors she had suffered, on thepreceding night, particularly at the moment when Bertrand had betrayedhimself to be an assassin; and these remembrances awakened a train ofimages, which, since they abstracted her from a consideration of her ownsituation, she pursued for some time, and then arranged in the followinglines; pleased to have discovered any innocent means, by which she couldbeguile an hour of misfortune. 

 THE PILGRIM*

 Slow o'er the Apennine, with bleeding feet, A patient Pilgrim wound his lonely way, To deck the Lady of Loretto's seat With all the little wealth his zeal could pay. From mountain-tops cold died the evening ray, And, stretch'd in twilight, slept the vale below; And now the last, last purple streaks of day Along the melancholy West fade slow. High o'er his head, the restless pines complain, As on their summit rolls the breeze of night; Beneath, the hoarse stream chides the rocks in vain: The Pilgrim pauses on the dizzy height. Then to the vale his cautious step he prest, For there a hermit's cross was dimly seen, Cresting the rock, and there his limbs might rest, Cheer'd in the good man's cave, by faggot's sheen, On leafy beds, nor guile his sleep molest. Unhappy Luke! he trusts a treacherous clue! Behind the cliff the lurking robber stood; No friendly moon his giant shadow threw Athwart the road, to save the Pilgrim's blood; On as he went a vesper-hymn he sang, The hymn, that nightly sooth'd him to repose. Fierce on his harmless prey the ruffian sprang! The Pilgrim bleeds to death, his eye-lids close. Yet his meek spirit knew no vengeful care, But, dying, for his murd'rer breath'd--a sainted pray'r!

(* This poem and that entitled THE TRAVELLER in vol. Ii, have alreadyappeared in a periodical publication. [A. R. ])

Preferring the solitude of her room to the company of the persons belowstairs, Emily dined above, and Maddelina was suffered to attend her, from whose simple conversation she learned, that the peasant and hiswife were old inhabitants of this cottage, which had been purchased forthem by Montoni, in reward of some service, rendered him, many yearsbefore, by Marco, to whom Carlo, the steward at the castle, was nearlyrelated. 'So many years ago, Signora, ' added Maddelina, 'that I knownothing about it; but my father did the Signor a great good, for mymother has often said to him, this cottage was the least he ought tohave had. '

To the mention of this circumstance Emily listened with a painfulinterest, since it appeared to give a frightful colour to the characterof Marco, whose service, thus rewarded by Montoni, she could scarcelydoubt have been criminal; and, if so, had too much reason to believe, that she had been committed into his hands for some desperatepurpose. 'Did you ever hear how many years it is, ' said Emily, who wasconsidering of Signora Laurentini's disappearance from Udolpho, 'sinceyour father performed the services you spoke of?'

'It was a little before he came to live at the cottage, Signora, 'replied Maddelina, 'and that is about eighteen years ago. '

This was near the period, when Signora Laurentini had been said todisappear, and it occurred to Emily, that Marco had assisted in thatmysterious affair, and, perhaps, had been employed in a murder! Thishorrible suggestion fixed her in such profound reverie, that Maddelinaquitted the room, unperceived by her, and she remained unconscious ofall around her, for a considerable time. Tears, at length, came to herrelief, after indulging which, her spirits becoming calmer, sheceased to tremble at a view of evils, that might never arrive; and hadsufficient resolution to endeavour to withdraw her thoughts from thecontemplation of her own interests. Remembering the few books, whicheven in the hurry of her departure from Udolpho she had put into herlittle package, she sat down with one of them at her pleasant casement, whence her eyes often wandered from the page to the landscape, whosebeauty gradually soothed her mind into gentle melancholy. 

Here, she remained alone, till evening, and saw the sun descend thewestern sky, throw all his pomp of light and shadow upon the mountains, and gleam upon the distant ocean and the stealing sails, as he sunkamidst the waves. Then, at the musing hour of twilight, her softenedthoughts returned to Valancourt; she again recollected everycircumstance, connected with the midnight music, and all that mightassist her conjecture, concerning his imprisonment at the castle, and, becoming confirmed in the supposition, that it was his voice she hadheard there, she looked back to that gloomy abode with emotions of griefand momentary regret. 

Refreshed by the cool and fragrant air, and her spirits soothed to astate of gentle melancholy by the stilly murmur of the brook below andof the woods around, she lingered at her casement long after the sunhad set, watching the valley sinking into obscurity, till only thegrand outline of the surrounding mountains, shadowed upon the horizon, remained visible. But a clear moon-light, that succeeded, gave to thelandscape, what time gives to the scenes of past life, when it softensall their harsher features, and throws over the whole the mellowingshade of distant contemplation. The scenes of La Vallee, in the earlymorn of her life, when she was protected and beloved by parents equallyloved, appeared in Emily's memory tenderly beautiful, like the prospectbefore her, and awakened mournful comparisons. Unwilling to encounterthe coarse behaviour of the peasant's wife, she remained supperless inher room, while she wept again over her forlorn and perilous situation, a review of which entirely overcame the small remains of her fortitude, and, reducing her to temporary despondence, she wished to be releasedfrom the heavy load of life, that had so long oppressed her, and prayedto Heaven to take her, in its mercy, to her parents. 

Wearied with weeping, she, at length, lay down on her mattress, and sunkto sleep, but was soon awakened by a knocking at her chamber door, and, starting up in terror, she heard a voice calling her. The image ofBertrand, with a stilletto in his hand, appeared to her alarmed fancy, and she neither opened the door, or answered, but listened in profoundsilence, till, the voice repeating her name in the same low tone, shedemanded who called. 'It is I, Signora, ' replied the voice, which shenow distinguished to be Maddelina's, 'pray open the door. Don't befrightened, it is I. '

'And what brings you here so late, Maddelina?' said Emily, as she lether in. 

'Hush! signora, for heaven's sake hush!--if we are overheard I shallnever be forgiven. My father and mother and Bertrand are all goneto bed, ' continued Maddelina, as she gently shut the door, and creptforward, 'and I have brought you some supper, for you had none, youknow, Signora, below stairs. Here are some grapes and figs and half acup of wine. ' Emily thanked her, but expressed apprehension lestthis kindness should draw upon her the resentment of Dorina, when sheperceived the fruit was gone. 'Take it back, therefore, Maddelina, 'added Emily, 'I shall suffer much less from the want of it, thanI should do, if this act of good-nature was to subject you to yourmother's displeasure. '

'O Signora! there is no danger of that, ' replied Maddelina, 'my mothercannot miss the fruit, for I saved it from my own supper. You will makeme very unhappy, if you refuse to take it, Signora. ' Emily was somuch affected by this instance of the good girl's generosity, that sheremained for some time unable to reply, and Maddelina watched her insilence, till, mistaking the cause of her emotion, she said, 'Do notweep so, Signora! My mother, to be sure, is a little cross, sometimes, but then it is soon over, --so don't take it so much to heart. She oftenscolds me, too, but then I have learned to bear it, and, when she hasdone, if I can but steal out into the woods, and play upon my sticcado, I forget it all directly. '

Emily, smiling through her tears, told Maddelina, that she was a goodgirl, and then accepted her offering. She wished anxiously to know, whether Bertrand and Dorina had spoken of Montoni, or of his designs, concerning herself, in the presence of Maddelina, but disdained to temptthe innocent girl to a conduct so mean, as that of betraying the privateconversations of her parents. When she was departing, Emily requested, that she would come to her room as often as she dared, without offendingher mother, and Maddelina, after promising that she would do so, stolesoftly back again to her own chamber. 

Thus several days passed, during which Emily remained in her own room, Maddelina attending her only at her repast, whose gentle countenance andmanners soothed her more than any circumstance she had known for manymonths. Of her pleasant embowered chamber she now became fond, andbegan to experience in it those feelings of security, which we naturallyattach to home. In this interval also, her mind, having been undisturbedby any new circumstance of disgust, or alarm, recovered its tonesufficiently to permit her the enjoyment of her books, among which shefound some unfinished sketches of landscapes, several blank sheets ofpaper, with her drawing instruments, and she was thus enabled to amuseherself with selecting some of the lovely features of the prospect, that her window commanded, and combining them in scenes, to which hertasteful fancy gave a last grace. In these little sketches she generallyplaced interesting groups, characteristic of the scenery they animated, and often contrived to tell, with perspicuity, some simple and affectingstory, when, as a tear fell over the pictured griefs, which herimagination drew, she would forget, for a moment, her real sufferings. Thus innocently she beguiled the heavy hours of misfortune, and, withmeek patience, awaited the events of futurity. 

A beautiful evening, that had succeeded to a sultry day, at lengthinduced Emily to walk, though she knew that Bertrand must attend her, and, with Maddelina for her companion, she left the cottage, followed byBertrand, who allowed her to choose her own way. The hour was cool andsilent, and she could not look upon the country around her, withoutdelight. How lovely, too, appeared the brilliant blue, that coloured allthe upper region of the air, and, thence fading downward, was lost inthe saffron glow of the horizon! Nor less so were the varied shades andwarm colouring of the Apennines, as the evening sun threw his slantingrays athwart their broken surface. Emily followed the course of thestream, under the shades, that overhung its grassy margin. On theopposite banks, the pastures were animated with herds of cattle of abeautiful cream-colour; and, beyond, were groves of lemon and orange, with fruit glowing on the branches, frequent almost as the leaves, which partly concealed it. She pursued her way towards the sea, whichreflected the warm glow of sun-set, while the cliffs, that rose over itsedge, were tinted with the last rays. The valley was terminated on theright by a lofty promontory, whose summit, impending over the waves, wascrowned with a ruined tower, now serving for the purpose of a beacon, whose shattered battlements and the extended wings of some sea-fowl, that circled near it, were still illumined by the upward beams of thesun, though his disk was now sunk beneath the horizon; while the lowerpart of the ruin, the cliff on which it stood and the waves at its foot, were shaded with the first tints of twilight. 

Having reached this headland, Emily gazed with solemn pleasure on thecliffs, that extended on either hand along the sequestered shores, some crowned with groves of pine, and others exhibiting only barrenprecipices of grayish marble, except where the crags were tufted withmyrtle and other aromatic shrubs. The sea slept in a perfect calm;its waves, dying in murmurs on the shores, flowed with the gentlestundulation, while its clear surface reflected in softened beauty thevermeil tints of the west. Emily, as she looked upon the ocean, thoughtof France and of past times, and she wished, Oh! how ardently, andvainly--wished! that its waves would bear her to her distant, nativehome!

'Ah! that vessel, ' said she, 'that vessel, which glides along sostately, with its tall sails reflected in the water is, perhaps, boundfor France! Happy--happy bark!' She continued to gaze upon it, with warmemotion, till the gray of twilight obscured the distance, and veiled itfrom her view. The melancholy sound of the waves at her feet assistedthe tenderness, that occasioned her tears, and this was the only sound, that broke upon the hour, till, having followed the windings of thebeach, for some time, a chorus of voices passed her on the air. Shepaused a moment, wishing to hear more, yet fearing to be seen, and, for the first time, looked back to Bertrand, as her protector, whowas following, at a short distance, in company with some other person. Reassured by this circumstance, she advanced towards the sounds, whichseemed to arise from behind a high promontory, that projected athwartthe beach. There was now a sudden pause in the music, and then onefemale voice was heard to sing in a kind of chant. Emily quickenedher steps, and, winding round the rock, saw, within the sweeping bay, beyond, which was hung with woods from the borders of the beach to thevery summit of the cliffs, two groups of peasants, one seated beneaththe shades, and the other standing on the edge of the sea, round thegirl, who was singing, and who held in her hand a chaplet of flowers, which she seemed about to drop into the waves. 

Emily, listening with surprise and attention, distinguished thefollowing invocation delivered in the pure and elegant tongue ofTuscany, and accompanied by a few pastoral instruments. 

 TO A SEA-NYMPH

 O nymph! who loves to float on the green wave, When Neptune sleeps beneath the moon-light hour, Lull'd by the music's melancholy pow'r, O nymph, arise from out thy pearly cave!

 For Hesper beams amid the twilight shade, And soon shall Cynthia tremble o'er the tide, Gleam on these cliffs, that bound the ocean's pride, And lonely silence all the air pervade. 

 Then, let thy tender voice at distance swell, And steal along this solitary shore, Sink on the breeze, till dying--heard no more-- Thou wak'st the sudden magic of thy shell. 

 While the long coast in echo sweet replies, Thy soothing strains the pensive heart beguile, And bid the visions of the future smile, O nymph! from out thy pearly cave--arise!

 (Chorus)--ARISE! (Semi-chorus)--ARISE!

The last words being repeated by the surrounding group, the garland offlowers was thrown into the waves, and the chorus, sinking graduallyinto a chant, died away in silence. 

'What can this mean, Maddelina?' said Emily, awakening from the pleasingtrance, into which the music had lulled her. 'This is the eve of afestival, Signora, ' replied Maddelina; 'and the peasants then amusethemselves with all kinds of sports. '

'But they talked of a sea-nymph, ' said Emily: 'how came these goodpeople to think of a sea-nymph?'

'O, Signora, ' rejoined Maddelina, mistaking the reason of Emily'ssurprise, 'nobody BELIEVES in such things, but our old songs tell ofthem, and, when we are at our sports, we sometimes sing to them, andthrow garlands into the sea. '

Emily had been early taught to venerate Florence as the seat ofliterature and of the fine arts; but, that its taste for classic storyshould descend to the peasants of the country, occasioned her bothsurprise and admiration. The Arcadian air of the girls next attractedher attention. Their dress was a very short full petticoat of lightgreen, with a boddice of white silk; the sleeves loose, and tied up atthe shoulders with ribbons and bunches of flowers. Their hair, fallingin ringlets on their necks, was also ornamented with flowers, and with asmall straw hat, which, set rather backward and on one side of the head, gave an expression of gaiety and smartness to the whole figure. Whenthe song had concluded, several of these girls approached Emily, and, inviting her to sit down among them, offered her, and Maddelina, whomthey knew, grapes and figs. 

Emily accepted their courtesy, much pleased with the gentleness andgrace of their manners, which appeared to be perfectly natural to them;and when Bertrand, soon after, approached, and was hastily drawing heraway, a peasant, holding up a flask, invited him to drink; a temptation, which Bertrand was seldom very valiant in resisting. 

'Let the young lady join in the dance, my friend, ' said the peasant, 'while we empty this flask. They are going to begin directly. Strike up!my lads, strike up your tambourines and merry flutes!'

They sounded gaily; and the younger peasants formed themselves into acircle, which Emily would readily have joined, had her spirits been inunison with their mirth. Maddelina, however, tripped it lightly, and Emily, as she looked on the happy group, lost the sense of hermisfortunes in that of a benevolent pleasure. But the pensive melancholyof her mind returned, as she sat rather apart from the company, listening to the mellow music, which the breeze softened as it bore itaway, and watching the moon, stealing its tremulous light over the wavesand on the woody summits of the cliffs, that wound along these Tuscanshores. 

Meanwhile, Bertrand was so well pleased with his first flask, that hevery willingly commenced the attack on a second, and it was late beforeEmily, not without some apprehension, returned to the cottage. 

After this evening, she frequently walked with Maddelina, but was neverunattended by Bertrand; and her mind became by degrees as tranquil asthe circumstances of her situation would permit. The quiet, in whichshe was suffered to live, encouraged her to hope, that she was not senthither with an evil design; and, had it not appeared probable, thatValancourt was at this time an inhabitant of Udolpho, she would havewished to remain at the cottage, till an opportunity should offer ofreturning to her native country. But, concerning Montoni's motive forsending her into Tuscany, she was more than ever perplexed, nor couldshe believe that any consideration for her safety had influenced him onthis occasion. 

She had been some time at the cottage, before she recollected, that, inthe hurry of leaving Udolpho, she had forgotten the papers committedto her by her late aunt, relative to the Languedoc estates; but, thoughthis remembrance occasioned her much uneasiness, she had some hope, that, in the obscure place, where they were deposited, they would escapethe detection of Montoni. 

CHAPTER VIII

 My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say. I play the torturer, by small and small, To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken. RICHARD II

We now return, for a moment, to Venice, where Count Morano was sufferingunder an accumulation of misfortunes. Soon after his arrival in thatcity, he had been arrested by order of the Senate, and, without knowingof what he was suspected, was conveyed to a place of confinement, whither the most strenuous enquiries of his friends had been unable totrace him. Who the enemy was, that had occasioned him this calamity, hehad not been able to guess, unless, indeed, it was Montoni, on whom hissuspicions rested, and not only with much apparent probability, but withjustice. 

In the affair of the poisoned cup, Montoni had suspected Morano; but, being unable to obtain the degree of proof, which was necessary toconvict him of a guilty intention, he had recourse to means of otherrevenge, than he could hope to obtain by prosecution. He employeda person, in whom he believed he might confide, to drop a letter ofaccusation into the DENUNZIE SECRETE, or lions' mouths, which arefixed in a gallery of the Doge's palace, as receptacles for anonymousinformation, concerning persons, who may be disaffected towards thestate. As, on these occasions, the accuser is not confronted with theaccused, a man may falsely impeach his enemy, and accomplish an unjustrevenge, without fear of punishment, or detection. That Montoni shouldhave recourse to these diabolical means of ruining a person, whom hesuspected of having attempted his life, is not in the least surprising. In the letter, which he had employed as the instrument of his revenge, he accused Morano of designs against the state, which he attempted toprove, with all the plausible simplicity of which he was master; andthe Senate, with whom a suspicion was, at that time, almost equal toa proof, arrested the Count, in consequence of this accusation; and, without even hinting to him his crime, threw him into one of thosesecret prisons, which were the terror of the Venetians, and in whichpersons often languished, and sometimes died, without being discoveredby their friends. 

Morano had incurred the personal resentment of many members of thestate; his habits of life had rendered him obnoxious to some; and hisambition, and the bold rivalship, which he discovered, on several publicoccasions, --to others; and it was not to be expected, that mercy wouldsoften the rigour of a law, which was to be dispensed from the hands ofhis enemies. 

Montoni, meantime, was beset by dangers of another kind. His castlewas besieged by troops, who seemed willing to dare every thing, and tosuffer patiently any hardships in pursuit of victory. The strengthof the fortress, however, withstood their attack, and this, with thevigorous defence of the garrison and the scarcity of provision on thesewild mountains, soon compelled the assailants to raise the siege. 

When Udolpho was once more left to the quiet possession of Montoni, he dispatched Ugo into Tuscany for Emily, whom he had sent fromconsiderations of her personal safety, to a place of greater security, than a castle, which was, at that time, liable to be overrun by hisenemies. Tranquillity being once more restored to Udolpho, he wasimpatient to secure her again under his roof, and had commissioned Ugoto assist Bertrand in guarding her back to the castle. Thus compelled toreturn, Emily bade the kind Maddelina farewell, with regret, and, after about a fortnight's stay in Tuscany, where she had experiencedan interval of quiet, which was absolutely necessary to sustain herlong-harassed spirits, began once more to ascend the Apennines, fromwhose heights she gave a long and sorrowful look to the beautifulcountry, that extended at their feet, and to the distant Mediterranean, whose waves she had so often wished would bear her back to France. The distress she felt, on her return towards the place of her formersufferings, was, however, softened by a conjecture, that Valancourt wasthere, and she found some degree of comfort in the thought of being nearhim, notwithstanding the consideration, that he was probably a prisoner. 

It was noon, when she had left the cottage, and the evening was closed, long before she came within the neighbourhood of Udolpho. There was amoon, but it shone only at intervals, for the night was cloudy, and, lighted by the torch, which Ugo carried, the travellers paced silentlyalong, Emily musing on her situation, and Bertrand and Ugo anticipatingthe comforts of a flask of wine and a good fire, for they had perceivedfor some time the difference between the warm climate of the lowlandsof Tuscany and the nipping air of these upper regions. Emily was, atlength, roused from her reverie by the far-off sound of the castleclock, to which she listened not without some degree of awe, as itrolled away on the breeze. Another and another note succeeded, and diedin sullen murmur among the mountains:--to her mournful imagination itseemed a knell measuring out some fateful period for her. 

'Aye, there is the old clock, ' said Bertrand, 'there he is still; thecannon have not silenced him!'

'No, ' answered Ugo, 'he crowed as loud as the best of them in the midstof it all. There he was roaring out in the hottest fire I have seen thismany a day! I said that some of them would have a hit at the old fellow, but he escaped, and the tower too. '

The road winding round the base of a mountain, they now came within viewof the castle, which was shewn in the perspective of the valley by agleam of moon-shine, and then vanished in shade; while even a transientview of it had awakened the poignancy of Emily's feelings. Its massy andgloomy walls gave her terrible ideas of imprisonment and suffering:yet, as she advanced, some degree of hope mingled with her terror; for, though this was certainly the residence of Montoni, it was possibly, also, that of Valancourt, and she could not approach a place, where hemight be, without experiencing somewhat of the joy of hope. 

They continued to wind along the valley, and, soon after, she saw againthe old walls and moon-lit towers, rising over the woods: the strongrays enabled her, also, to perceive the ravages, which the siege hadmade, --with the broken walls, and shattered battlements, for they werenow at the foot of the steep, on which Udolpho stood. Massy fragmentshad rolled down among the woods, through which the travellers now beganto ascend, and there mingled with the loose earth, and pieces of rockthey had brought with them. The woods, too, had suffered much from thebatteries above, for here the enemy had endeavoured to screen themselvesfrom the fire of the ramparts. Many noble trees were levelled with theground, and others, to a wide extent, were entirely stripped of theirupper branches. 'We had better dismount, ' said Ugo, 'and lead the mulesup the hill, or we shall get into some of the holes, which the ballshave left. Here are plenty of them. Give me the torch, ' continued Ugo, after they had dismounted, 'and take care you don't stumble over anything, that lies in your way, for the ground is not yet cleared of theenemy. '

'How!' exclaimed Emily, 'are any of the enemy here, then?'

'Nay, I don't know for that, now, ' he replied, 'but when I came away Isaw one or two of them lying under the trees. '

As they proceeded, the torch threw a gloomy light upon the ground, andfar among the recesses of the woods, and Emily feared to look forward, lest some object of horror should meet her eye. The path was oftenstrewn with broken heads of arrows, and with shattered remains ofarmour, such as at that period was mingled with the lighter dress of thesoldiers. 'Bring the light hither, ' said Bertrand, 'I have stumbled oversomething, that rattles loud enough. ' Ugo holding up the torch, theyperceived a steel breastplate on the ground, which Bertrand raised, andthey saw, that it was pierced through, and that the lining was entirelycovered with blood; but upon Emily's earnest entreaties, that they wouldproceed, Bertrand, uttering some joke upon the unfortunate person, towhom it had belonged, threw it hard upon the ground, and they passed on. 

At every step she took, Emily feared to see some vestige of death. Coming soon after to an opening in the woods, Bertrand stopped to surveythe ground, which was encumbered with massy trunks and branches of thetrees, that had so lately adorned it, and seemed to have been a spotparticularly fatal to the besiegers; for it was evident from thedestruction of the trees, that here the hottest fire of the garrisonhad been directed. As Ugo held again forth the torch, steel glitteredbetween the fallen trees; the ground beneath was covered with brokenarms, and with the torn vestments of soldiers, whose mangled formsEmily almost expected to see; and she again entreated her companions toproceed, who were, however, too intent in their examination, to regardher, and she turned her eyes from this desolated scene to the castleabove, where she observed lights gliding along the ramparts. Presently, the castle clock struck twelve, and then a trumpet sounded, of whichEmily enquired the occasion. 

'O! they are only changing watch, ' replied Ugo. 'I do not rememberthis trumpet, ' said Emily, 'it is a new custom. ' 'It is only an old onerevived, lady; we always use it in time of war. We have sounded it, atmidnight, ever since the place was besieged. '

'Hark!' said Emily, as the trumpet sounded again; and, in the nextmoment, she heard a faint clash of arms, and then the watchword passedalong the terrace above, and was answered from a distant part of thecastle; after which all was again still. She complained of cold, andbegged to go on. 'Presently, lady, ' said Bertrand, turning over somebroken arms with the pike he usually carried. 'What have we here?'

'Hark!' cried Emily, 'what noise was that?'

'What noise was it?' said Ugo, starting up and listening. 

'Hush!' repeated Emily. 'It surely came from the ramparts above:' and, on looking up, they perceived a light moving along the walls, while, in the next instant, the breeze swelling, the voice sounded louder thanbefore. 

'Who goes yonder?' cried a sentinel of the castle. 'Speak or it will beworse for you. ' Bertrand uttered a shout of joy. 'Hah! my brave comrade, is it you?' said he, and he blew a shrill whistle, which signal wasanswered by another from the soldier on watch; and the party, thenpassing forward, soon after emerged from the woods upon the broken road, that led immediately to the castle gates, and Emily saw, with renewedterror, the whole of that stupendous structure. 'Alas!' said she toherself, 'I am going again into my prison!'

'Here has been warm work, by St. Marco!' cried Bertrand, waving atorch over the ground; 'the balls have torn up the earth here with avengeance. '

'Aye, ' replied Ugo, 'they were fired from that redoubt, yonder, andrare execution they did. The enemy made a furious attack upon the greatgates; but they might have guessed they could never carry it there; for, besides the cannon from the walls, our archers, on the two round towers, showered down upon them at such a rate, that, by holy Peter! there wasno standing it. I never saw a better sight in my life; I laughed, till my sides aked, to see how the knaves scampered. Bertrand, my goodfellow, thou shouldst have been among them; I warrant thou wouldst havewon the race!'

'Hah! you are at your old tricks again, ' said Bertrand in a surly tone. 'It is well for thee thou art so near the castle; thou knowest I havekilled my man before now. ' Ugo replied only by a laugh, and then gavesome further account of the siege, to which as Emily listened, she wasstruck by the strong contrast of the present scene with that which hadso lately been acted here. 

The mingled uproar of cannon, drums, and trumpets, the groans of theconquered, and the shouts of the conquerors were now sunk into a silenceso profound, that it seemed as if death had triumphed alike over thevanquished and the victor. The shattered condition of one of the towersof the great gates by no means confirmed the VALIANT account just givenby Ugo of the scampering party, who, it was evident, had not only madea stand, but had done much mischief before they took to flight; for thistower appeared, as far as Emily could judge by the dim moon-lightthat fell upon it, to be laid open, and the battlements were nearlydemolished. While she gazed, a light glimmered through one of the lowerloop-holes, and disappeared; but, in the next moment, she perceivedthrough the broken wall, a soldier, with a lamp, ascending the narrowstaircase, that wound within the tower, and, remembering that it was thesame she had passed up, on the night, when Barnardine had deluded herwith a promise of seeing Madame Montoni, fancy gave her somewhat ofthe terror she had then suffered. She was now very near the gates, overwhich the soldier having opened the door of the portal-chamber, the lamphe carried gave her a dusky view of that terrible apartment, and shealmost sunk under the recollected horrors of the moment, when she haddrawn aside the curtain, and discovered the object it was meant toconceal. 

'Perhaps, ' said she to herself, 'it is now used for a similar purpose;perhaps, that soldier goes, at this dead hour, to watch over the corpseof his friend!' The little remains of her fortitude now gave way to theunited force of remembered and anticipated horrors, for the melancholyfate of Madame Montoni appeared to foretell her own. She considered, that, though the Languedoc estates, if she relinquished them, wouldsatisfy Montoni's avarice, they might not appease his vengeance, whichwas seldom pacified but by a terrible sacrifice; and she even thought, that, were she to resign them, the fear of justice might urge him eitherto detain her a prisoner, or to take away her life. 

They were now arrived at the gates, where Bertrand, observing the lightglimmer through a small casement of the portal-chamber, called aloud;and the soldier, looking out, demanded who was there. 'Here, I havebrought you a prisoner, ' said Ugo, 'open the gate, and let us in. '

'Tell me first who it is, that demands entrance, ' replied the soldier. 'What! my old comrade, ' cried Ugo, 'don't you know me? not know Ugo? Ihave brought home a prisoner here, bound hand and foot--a fellow, whohas been drinking Tuscany wine, while we here have been fighting. '

'You will not rest till you meet with your match, ' said Bertrandsullenly. 'Hah! my comrade, is it you?' said the soldier--'I'll be withyou directly. '

Emily presently heard his steps descending the stairs within, and thenthe heavy chain fall, and the bolts undraw of a small postern door, which he opened to admit the party. He held the lamp low, to shew thestep of the gate, and she found herself once more beneath the gloomyarch, and heard the door close, that seemed to shut her from the worldfor ever. In the next moment, she was in the first court of the castle, where she surveyed the spacious and solitary area, with a kind of calmdespair; while the dead hour of the night, the gothic gloom of thesurrounding buildings, and the hollow and imperfect echoes, whichthey returned, as Ugo and the soldier conversed together, assisted toincrease the melancholy forebodings of her heart. Passing on to thesecond court, a distant sound broke feebly on the silence, and graduallyswelling louder, as they advanced, Emily distinguished voices of revelryand laughter, but they were to her far other than sounds of joy. 'Why, you have got some Tuscany wine among you, HERE, ' said Bertrand, 'if onemay judge by the uproar that is going forward. Ugo has taken a largershare of that than of fighting, I'll be sworn. Who is carousing at thislate hour?'

'His excellenza and the Signors, ' replied the soldier: 'it is a sign youare a stranger at the castle, or you would not need to ask the question. They are brave spirits, that do without sleep--they generally pass thenight in good cheer; would that we, who keep the watch, had a little ofit! It is cold work, pacing the ramparts so many hours of the night, ifone has no good liquor to warm one's heart. '

'Courage, my lad, courage ought to warm your heart, ' said Ugo. 'Courage!' replied the soldier sharply, with a menacing air, which Ugoperceiving, prevented his saying more, by returning to the subject ofthe carousal. 'This is a new custom, ' said he; 'when I left the castle, the Signors used to sit up counselling. '

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

They had now crossed the second court, and reached the hall door, whenthe soldier, bidding them good night, hastened back to his post; and, while they waited for admittance, Emily considered how she might avoidseeing Montoni, and retire unnoticed to her former apartment, for sheshrunk 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, thoughUgo knocked repeatedly at the hall door, he was not heard by any ofthe servants, a circumstance, which increased Emily's alarm, while itallowed her time to deliberate on the means of retiring unobserved; for, though she might, perhaps, pass up the great stair-case unseen, it wasimpossible she could find the way to her chamber, without a light, thedifficulty of procuring which, and the danger of wandering about thecastle, without one, immediately struck her. Bertrand had only a torch, and she knew, that the servants never brought a taper to the door, forthe hall was sufficiently lighted by the large tripod lamp, which hungin the vaulted roof; and, while she should wait till Annette could bringa taper, Montoni, or some of his companions, might discover her. 

The door was now opened by Carlo; and Emily, having requested him tosend Annette immediately with a light to the great gallery, whereshe determined to await her, passed on with hasty steps towards thestair-case; while Bertrand and Ugo, with the torch, followed old Carloto the servants' hall, impatient for supper and the warm blaze of a woodfire. Emily, lighted only by the feeble rays, which the lamp above threwbetween the arches of this extensive hall, endeavoured to find her wayto the stair-case, 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 seethe door of that room open, and Montoni and his companions issue forth. Having, at length, reached the stair-case, 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 proceedingfarther, and, while she listened for her footstep, she heard onlydistant sounds of revelry, which rose in sullen echoes from among thearcades below. Once she thought she heard a low sound from the darkgallery behind her; and, turning her eyes, fancied she saw somethingluminous move in it; and, since she could not, at this moment, subduethe weakness that caused her fears, she quitted her seat, and creptsoftly down a few stairs lower. 

Annette not yet appearing, Emily now concluded, that she was goneto bed, and that nobody chose to call her up; and the prospect, thatpresented itself, of passing the night in darkness, in this place, orin some other equally forlorn (for she knew it would be impracticable tofind 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 fromthe gallery, and she listened, scarcely daring to breathe, but theincreasing voices below overcame every other sound. Soon after, sheheard Montoni and his companions burst into the hall, who spoke, asif they were much intoxicated, and seemed to be advancing towards thestair-case. She now remembered, that they must come this way to theirchambers, and, forgetting all the terrors of the gallery, hurriedtowards it with an intention of secreting herself in some of thepassages, that opened beyond, and of endeavouring, when the Signors wereretired, to find her way to her own room, or to that of Annette, whichwas in a remote part of the castle. 

With extended arms, she crept along the gallery, still hearing thevoices of persons below, who seemed to stop in conversation at the footof the stair-case, and then pausing for a moment to listen, half fearfulof going further into the darkness of the gallery, where she stillimagined, from the noise she had heard, that some person was lurking, 'They are already informed of my arrival, ' said she, 'and Montoni iscoming himself to seek me! In the present state of his mind, his purposemust be desperate. ' Then, recollecting the scene, that had passed inthe corridor, on the night preceding her departure from the castle, 'OValancourt!' said she, 'I must then resign you for ever. To brave anylonger the injustice of Montoni, would not be fortitude, but rashness. 'Still the voices below did not draw nearer, but they became louder, andshe distinguished those of Verezzi and Bertolini above the rest, whilethe few words she caught made her listen more anxiously for others. Theconversation seemed to concern herself; and, having ventured to stepa few paces nearer to the stair-case, she discovered, that they weredisputing about her, each seeming to claim some former promise ofMontoni, who appeared, at first, inclined to appease and to persuadethem 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 returningwith 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 ofimpatience: 'tell us where she is. ' 'I have already told you that Ido not know, ' replied Montoni, who seemed to be somewhat overcome withwine; 'but she is most probably gone to her apartment. ' Verezziand Bertolini now desisted from their enquiries, and sprang to thestair-case together, while Emily, who, during this discourse, hadtrembled so excessively, that she had with difficulty supported herself, seemed inspired with new strength, the moment she heard the soundof their steps, and ran along the gallery, dark as it was, with thefleetness of a fawn. But, long before she reached its extremity, thelight, 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 impatienceovercame what little caution he had hitherto used, stumbled, and fellat his length. The lamp fell with him, and was presently expiring on thefloor; but Verezzi, regardless of saving it, seized the advantage thisaccident 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 shehad taken, and this he pursued; but the sound of her steps soon sunkin distance, while he, less acquainted with the passage, was obligedto proceed through the dark, with caution, lest he should fall downa flight of steps, such as in this extensive old castle frequentlyterminated an avenue. This passage at length brought Emily to thecorridor, into which her own chamber opened, and, not hearing anyfootstep, she paused to take breath, and consider what was the safestdesign to be adopted. She had followed this passage, merely because itwas 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 herway in the dark, she knew not; she was aware only that she must not seekher apartment, for there she would certainly be sought, and her dangerincreased every instant, while she remained near it. Her spirits and herbreath, 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 nosteps approaching. As thus she stood, light glimmered under an oppositedoor of the gallery, and, from its situation, she knew, that it wasthe door of that mysterious chamber, where she had made a discovery soshocking, that she never remembered it but with the utmost horror. Thatthere should be light in this chamber, and at this hour, excited herstrong surprise, and she felt a momentary terror concerning it, whichdid not permit her to look again, for her spirits were now in such astate of weakness, that she almost expected to see the door slowly open, and some horrible object appear at it. Still she listened for astep along the passage, and looked up it, where, not a ray of lightappearing, she concluded, that Verezzi had gone back for the lamp; and, believing that he would shortly be there, she again considered which wayshe 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 notagain have tempted its secrets, though she had been certain of obtainingthe light so important to her safety. She was still breathing withdifficulty, and resting at the end of the passage, when she heard arustling sound, and then a low voice, so very near her, that it seemedclose 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 bethe 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: 'thisshould be the corridor. ' Perhaps, he was one of those heroes, whosecourage can defy an enemy better than darkness, and he tried to rallyhis 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 anintoxicated person, he followed pertinaciously the one idea, that hadpossessed his imagination. 

The moment she heard his steps steal away, she left her station andmoved softly to the other end of the corridor, determined to trustagain 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, asshe thought, being perceived; but, in the next instant, another light, glimmering at the further end of this passage, threw her into newterror. While she stopped and hesitated which way to go, the pauseallowed her to perceive, that it was Annette, who advanced, andshe hurried to meet her: but her imprudence again alarmed Emily, on perceiving whom, she burst into a scream of joy, and it was someminutes, before she could be prevailed with to be silent, or to releaseher mistress from the ardent clasp, in which she held her. When, atlength, Emily made Annette comprehend her danger, they hurriedtowards Annette's room, which was in a distant part of the castle. No apprehensions, however, could yet silence the latter. 'Oh dearma'amselle, ' said she, as they passed along, 'what a terrified time haveI had of it! Oh! I thought I should have died an hundred times! I neverthought I should live to see you again! and I never was so glad to seeany body 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, ' saidAnnette, 'it was only the echo of a door shutting; sound runs alongthese vaulted passages so, that one is continually deceived by it; ifone 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 thedoor, Emily sat down on her little bed, to recover breath and composure. To her enquiry, whether Valancourt was among the prisoners in thecastle, Annette replied, that she had not been able to hear, but thatshe knew there were several persons confined. She then proceeded, in hertedious way, to give an account of the siege, or rather a detail of herterrors and various sufferings, during the attack. 'But, ' added she, 'when I heard the shouts of victory from the ramparts, I thought we wereall taken, and gave myself up for lost, instead of which, WE had driventhe enemy away. I went then to the north gallery, and saw a great manyof them scampering away among the mountains; but the rampart walls wereall in ruins, as one may say, and there was a dismal sight to see downamong the woods below, where the poor fellows were lying in heaps, butwere carried off presently by their comrades. While the siege was goingon, the Signor was here, and there, and every where, at the same time, as Ludovico told me, for he would not let me see any thing hardly, andlocked me up, as he has often done before, in a room in the middle ofthe castle, and used to bring me food, and come and talk with me asoften as he could; and I must say, if it had not been for Ludovico, Ishould have died outright. '

'Well, Annette, ' said Emily, 'and how have affairs gone on, since thesiege?'

'O! sad hurly burly doings, ma'amselle, ' replied Annette; 'the Signorshave done nothing but sit and drink and game, ever since. They sit up, all night, and play among themselves, for all those riches and finethings, they brought in, some time since, when they used to go outa-robbing, or as good, for days together; and then they have dreadfulquarrels about who loses, and who wins. That fierce Signor Verezzi isalways losing, as they tell me, and Signor Orsino wins from him, andthis makes him very wroth, and they have had several hard set-to's aboutit. Then, all those fine ladies are at the castle still; and I declare Iam frighted, whenever I meet any of them in the passages. '--

'Surely, Annette, ' said Emily starting, 'I heard a noise: listen. ' Aftera long pause, 'No, ma'amselle, ' said Annette, 'it was only the wind inthe gallery; I often hear it, when it shakes the old doors, at the otherend. But won't you go to bed, ma'amselle? you surely will not sit upstarving, all night. ' Emily now laid herself down on the mattress, anddesired Annette to leave the lamp burning on the hearth; having donewhich, the latter placed herself beside Emily, who, however, was notsuffered to sleep, for she again thought she heard a noise from thepassage; and Annette was again trying to convince her, that it was onlythe wind, when footsteps were distinctly heard near the door. Annettewas now starting from the bed, but Emily prevailed with her to remainthere, and listened with her in a state of terrible expectation. Thesteps still loitered at the door, when presently an attempt was made onthe lock, and, in the next instant, a voice called. 'For heaven's sake, Annette, do not answer, ' said Emily softly, 'remain quite still; but Ifear we must extinguish the lamp, or its glare will betray us. ' 'HolyVirgin!' exclaimed Annette, forgetting her discretion, 'I would not bein darkness now for the whole world. ' While she spoke, the voice becamelouder than before, and repeated Annette's name; 'Blessed Virgin!' criedshe suddenly, 'it is only Ludovico. ' She rose to open the door, butEmily prevented her, till they should be more certain, that it was healone; 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 herroom 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 throughthe door, consented that it should be opened, and a young man appeared, whose open countenance confirmed the favourable opinion of him, whichhis care of Annette had already prompted her to form. She entreated hisprotection, should Verezzi make this requisite; and Ludovico offeredto pass the night in an old chamber, adjoining, that opened from thegallery, and, on the first alarm, to come to their defence. 

Emily was much soothed by this proposal; and Ludovico, having lightedhis lamp, went to his station, while she, once more, endeavoured torepose on her mattress. But a variety of interests pressed upon herattention, and prevented sleep. She thought much on what Annette hadtold her of the dissolute manners of Montoni and his associates, andmore of his present conduct towards herself, and of the danger, fromwhich she had just escaped. From the view of her present situation sheshrunk, as from a new picture of terror. She saw herself in a castle, inhabited by vice and violence, seated beyond the reach of law orjustice, and in the power of a man, whose perseverance was equal toevery occasion, and in whom passions, of which revenge was not theweakest, 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 futurehappiness with Valancourt, she determined, that, on the followingmorning, she would compromise with Montoni, and give up her estates, on condition, that he would permit her immediate return to France. Suchconsiderations 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, inwhich she heard circumstances concerning the castle, and received hintsof the designs of Montoni, that considerably increased her alarms. Onexpressing her surprise, that Ludovico, who seemed to be so sensible ofthe evils of his situation, should continue in it, he informed her, thatit was not his intention to do so, and she then ventured to ask him, ifhe would assist her to escape from the castle. Ludovico assured her ofhis readiness to attempt this, but strongly represented the difficultyof the enterprise, and the certain destruction which must ensure, should Montoni overtake them, before they had passed the mountains;he, however, promised to be watchful of every circumstance, that mightcontribute to the success of the attempt, and to think upon some plan ofdeparture. 

Emily now confided to him the name of Valancourt, and begged he wouldenquire for such a person among the prisoners in the castle; for thefaint hope, which this conversation awakened, made her now recede fromher 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 estatesat once. Her thoughts were on this subject, when Montoni, who was nowrecovered 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?' Emilyrelated to him some circumstances of her alarm, and entreated hisprotection from a repetition of them. 'You know the terms of myprotection, ' 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, shewed Emily the necessityof an immediate compliance with his terms; but she first demanded, whether he would permit her immediately to depart, if she gave up herclaim to the contested estates. In a very solemn manner he then assuredher, that he would, and immediately laid before her a paper, which wasto transfer the right of those estates to himself. 

She was, for a considerable time, unable to sign it, and her heartwas torn with contending interests, for she was about to resign thehappiness of all her future years--the hope, which had sustained her inso many hours of adversity. 

After hearing from Montoni a recapitulation of the conditions of hercompliance, and a remonstrance, that his time was valuable, she put herhand 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 herdeparture, and that he would allow Annette to accompany her. Montonismiled. 'It was necessary to deceive you, ' said he, --'there was no otherway of making you act reasonably; you shall go, but it must not be atpresent. I must first secure these estates by possession: when that isdone, you may return to France if you will. '

The deliberate villany, with which he violated the solemn engagement hehad just entered into, shocked Emily as much, as the certainty, that shehad made a fruitless sacrifice, and must still remain his prisoner. Shehad no words to express what she felt, and knew, that it would have beenuseless, 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, andsighed heavily. She had neither words nor tears. 

'Why will you indulge this childish grief?' said he. 'Endeavour tostrengthen your mind, to bear patiently what cannot now be avoided; youhave no real evil to lament; be patient, and you will be sent back toFrance. At present retire to your apartment. '

'I dare not go, sir, ' said she, 'where I shall be liable to theintrusion of Signor Verezzi. ' 'Have I not promised to protect you?'said Montoni. 'You have promised, sir, '--replied Emily, after somehesitation. 'And is not my promise sufficient?' added he sternly. 'Youwill recollect your former promise, Signor, ' said Emily, trembling, 'and may determine for me, whether I ought to rely upon this. ' 'Will youprovoke me to declare to you, that I will not protect you then?' saidMontoni, in a tone of haughty displeasure. 'If that will satisfy you, I will do it immediately. Withdraw to your chamber, before I retract mypromise; you have nothing to fear there. ' Emily left the room, and movedslowly 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 lookedfearfully round her, to examine if any person was there, and havingsearched every part of it, she fastened the door, and sat down by one ofthe casements. Here, while she looked out for some hope to support herfainting spirits, which had been so long harassed and oppressed, that, if she had not now struggled much against misfortune, they would haveleft her, perhaps, for ever, she endeavoured to believe, that Montonidid really intend to permit her return to France as soon as he hadsecured her property, and that he would, in the mean time, protect herfrom insult; but her chief hope rested with Ludovico, who, she doubtednot, would be zealous in her cause, though he seemed almost to despairof success in it. One circumstance, however, she had to rejoice in. Herprudence, or rather her fears, had saved her from mentioning the nameof Valancourt to Montoni, which she was several times on the point ofdoing, 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 Valancourtwith new severities, and have suggested the advantage of holding him acaptive for life. 

Thus passed the melancholy day, as she had before passed many in thissame chamber. When night drew on, she would have withdrawn herself toAnnette's bed, had not a particular interest inclined her to remainin this chamber, in spite of her fears; for, when the castle should bestill, and the customary hour arrived, she determined to watch for themusic, which she had formerly heard. Though its sounds might not enableher positively to determine, whether Valancourt was there, they wouldperhaps strengthen her opinion that he was, and impart the comfort, sonecessary to her present support. --But, on the other hand, if all shouldbe 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 inthe 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 sentinelspass along the terrace to their posts, and, looking out from hercasement, observed, that the watch was doubled; a precaution, whichappeared necessary enough, when she threw her eyes on the walls, and sawtheir shattered condition. The well-known sounds of the soldiers' march, and of their distant voices, which passed her in the wind, and were lostagain, recalled to her memory the melancholy sensation she hadsuffered, when she formerly heard the same sounds; and occasioned almostinvoluntary comparisons between her present, and her late situation. But this was no subject for congratulations, and she wisely checked thecourse of her thoughts, while, as the hour was not yet come, in whichshe had been accustomed to hear the music, she closed the casement, and endeavoured to await it in patience. The door of the stair-case shetried to secure, as usual, with some of the furniture of the room; butthis expedient her fears now represented to her to be very inadequate tothe power and perseverance of Verezzi; and she often looked at a largeand heavy chest, that stood in the chamber, with wishes that she andAnnette had strength enough to move it. While she blamed the longstay of this girl, who was still with Ludovico and some other of theservants, she trimmed her wood fire, to make the room appear lessdesolate, and sat down beside it with a book, which her eyes perused, while her thoughts wandered to Valancourt, and her own misfortunes. Asshe sat thus, she thought, in a pause of the wind, she distinguishedmusic, and went to the casement to listen, but the loud swell of thegust overcame every other sound. When the wind sunk again, she hearddistinctly, in the deep pause that succeeded, the sweet strings of alute; but again the rising tempest bore away the notes, and again wassucceeded by a solemn pause. Emily, trembling with hope and fear, openedher casement to listen, and to try whether her own voice could beheard by the musician; for to endure any longer this state of torturingsuspense concerning Valancourt, seemed to be utterly impossible. Therewas a kind of breathless stillness in the chambers, that permitted herto distinguish from below the tender notes of the very lute she hadformerly heard, and with it, a plaintive voice, made sweeter by the lowrustling sound, that now began to creep along the wood-tops, till itwas 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 theright, 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 meltingsweetness of the lute was heard, and the same solemn-breathing voice. Convinced that these came from an apartment underneath, she leaned farout 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 inthe thick walls of the castle, that she could not see them, or even thefaint ray, that probably glimmered through their bars. She then venturedto 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 drewherself within the casement; but, in a moment after, distinguishingAnnette's voice at the door, she concluded it was her she had heardbefore, and she let her in. 'Move softly, Annette, to the casement, 'said she, 'and listen with me; the music is returned. ' They were silenttill, the measure changing, Annette exclaimed, 'Holy Virgin! I know thatsong well; it is a French song, one of the favourite songs of my dearcountry. ' This was the ballad Emily had heard on a former night, thoughnot 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 MonsieurValancourt. ' 'Hark! Annette, do not speak so loud, ' said Emily, 'we maybe overheard. ' 'What! by the Chevalier?' said Annette. 'No, ' repliedEmily mournfully, 'but by somebody, who may report us to the Signor. What reason have you to think it is Monsieur Valancourt, who sings? Buthark! now the voice swells louder! Do you recollect those tones? I fearto trust my own judgment. ' 'I never happened to hear the Chevaliersing, Mademoiselle, ' replied Annette, who, as Emily was disappointed toperceive, had no stronger reason for concluding this to be Valancourt, than that the musician must be a Frenchman. Soon after, she heard thesong of the fishing-house, and distinguished her own name, which wasrepeated so distinctly, that Annette had heard it also. She trembled, sunk into a chair by the window, and Annette called aloud, 'MonsieurValancourt! Monsieur Valancourt!' while Emily endeavoured to check her, but she repeated the call more loudly than before, and the lute and thevoice suddenly stopped. Emily listened, for some time, in a stateof intolerable suspense; but, no answer being returned, 'It does notsignify, Mademoiselle, ' said Annette; 'it is the Chevalier, and I willspeak 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, ' saidshe, 'that sings at this late hour?'

A long silence ensued, and, having repeated the question, she perceivedsome faint accents, mingling in the blast, that swept by; but the soundswere so distant, and passed so suddenly, that she could scarcely hearthem, much less distinguish the words they uttered, or recognise thevoice. After another pause, Emily called again; and again they hearda voice, but as faintly as before; and they perceived, that there wereother circumstances, besides the strength, and direction of the wind, tocontent with; for the great depth, at which the casements were fixed inthe castle walls, contributed, still more than the distance, to preventarticulated sounds from being understood, though general ones wereeasily heard. Emily, however, ventured to believe, from the circumstanceof her voice alone having been answered, that the stranger wasValancourt, as well as that he knew her, and she gave herself up tospeechless joy. Annette, however, was not speechless. --She renewedher calls, but received no answer; and Emily, fearing, that a furtherattempt, which certainly was, as present, highly dangerous, might exposethem to the guards of the castle, while it could not perhaps terminateher suspense, insisted on Annette's dropping the enquiry for this night;though she determined herself to question Ludovico, on the subject, inthe morning, more urgently than she had yet done. She was now enabledto say, that the stranger, whom she had formerly heard, was still inthe castle, and to direct Ludovico to that part of it, in which he wasconfined. 

Emily, attended by Annette, continued at the casement, for some time, but all remained still; they heard neither lute or voice again, andEmily was now as much oppressed by anxious joy, as she lately was by asense of her misfortunes. With hasty steps she paced the room, now halfcalling on Valancourt's name, then suddenly stopping, and now going tothe casement and listening, where, however, she heard nothing butthe solemn waving of the woods. Sometimes her impatience to speak toLudovico prompted her to send Annette to call him; but a sense of theimpropriety of this at midnight restrained her. Annette, meanwhile, asimpatient as her mistress, went as often to the casement to listen, andreturned almost as much disappointed. She, at length, mentionedSignor Verezzi, and her fear, lest he should enter the chamber by thestaircase, door. 'But the night is now almost past, Mademoiselle, ' saidshe, recollecting herself; 'there is the morning light, beginning topeep over those mountains yonder in the east. '

Emily had forgotten, till this moment, that such a person existed asVerezzi, and all the danger that had appeared to threaten her; but themention of his name renewed her alarm, and she remembered the old chest, that she had wished to place against the door, which she now, withAnnette, attempted to move, but it was so heavy, that they could notlift it from the floor. 'What is in this great old chest, Mademoiselle, 'said Annette, 'that makes it so weighty?' Emily having replied, 'thatshe found it in the chamber, when she first came to the castle, and hadnever examined it. '--'Then I will, ma'amselle, ' said Annette, and shetried to lift the lid; but this was held by a lock, for which she hadno key, and which, indeed, appeared, from its peculiar construction, toopen with a spring. The morning now glimmered through the casements, andthe 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 thewhole scene, after the storm, lying in profound stillness, the woodsmotionless, and the clouds above, through which the dawn trembled, scarcely appearing to move along the heavens. One soldier was pacing theterrace beneath, with measured steps; and two, more distant, were sunkasleep on the walls, wearied with the night's watch. Having inhaled, fora while, the pure spirit of the air, and of vegetation, which the laterains had called forth; and having listened, once more, for a note ofmusic, she now closed the casement, and retired to rest. 

CHAPTER IV

 Thus on the chill Lapponian's dreary land, For many a long month lost in snow profound, When Sol from Cancer sends the seasons bland, And in their northern cave the storms hath bound; From silent mountains, straight, with startling sound, Torrents are hurl'd, green hills emerge, and lo, The trees with foliage, cliffs with flow'rs are crown'd; Pure rills through vales of verdure warbling go; And wonder, love, and joy, the peasant's heart o'erflow. BEATTIE

Several of her succeeding days passed in suspense, for Ludovicocould only learn from the soldiers, that there was a prisoner in theapartment, described to him by Emily, and that he was a Frenchman, whom they had taken in one of their skirmishes, with a party of hiscountrymen. During this interval, Emily escaped the persecutions ofBertolini, and Verezzi, by confining herself to her apartment; exceptthat sometimes, in an evening, she ventured to walk in the adjoiningcorridor. Montoni appeared to respect his last promise, though he hadprophaned his first; for to his protection only could she attribute herpresent repose; and in this she was now so secure, that she did not wishto leave the castle, till she could obtain some certainty concerningValancourt; for which she waited, indeed, without any sacrifice ofher own comfort, since no circumstance had occurred to make her escapeprobable. 

On the fourth day, Ludovico informed her, that he had hopes of beingadmitted to the presence of the prisoner; it being the turn of asoldier, with whom he had been for some time familiar, to attend himon the following night. He was not deceived in his hope; for, underpretence of carrying in a pitcher of water, he entered the prison, though, his prudence having prevented him from telling the sentinel thereal motive of his visit, he was obliged to make his conference with theprisoner a very short one. 

Emily awaited the result in her own apartment, Ludovico having promisedto accompany Annette to the corridor, in the evening; where, afterseveral hours impatiently counted, he arrived. Emily, having thenuttered the name of Valancourt, could articulate no more, but hesitatedin trembling expectation. 'The Chevalier would not entrust me with hisname, Signora, ' replied Ludovico; 'but, when I just mentioned yours, heseemed overwhelmed with joy, though he was not so much surprised as Iexpected. ' 'Does he then remember me?' she exclaimed. 

'O! it is Mons. Valancourt, ' said Annette, and looked impatiently atLudovico, who understood her look, and replied to Emily: 'Yes, lady, theChevalier does, indeed, remember you, and, I am sure, has a very greatregard for you, and I made bold to say you had for him. He then enquiredhow you came to know he was in the castle, and whether you ordered meto speak to him. The first question I could not answer, but the second Idid; and then he went off into his ecstasies again. I was afraid his joywould have betrayed him to the sentinel at the door. '

'But how does he look, Ludovico?' interrupted Emily: 'is he notmelancholy and ill with this long confinement?'--'Why, as to melancholy, I saw no symptom of that, lady, while I was with him, for he seemedin the finest spirits I ever saw any body in, in all my life. Hiscountenance was all joy, and, if one may judge from that, he was verywell; but I did not ask him. ' 'Did he send me no message?' said Emily. 'O yes, Signora, and something besides, ' replied Ludovico, who searchedhis pockets. 'Surely, I have not lost it, ' added he. 'The Chevaliersaid, he would have written, madam, if he had had pen and ink, and wasgoing to have sent a very long message, when the sentinel entered theroom, but not before he had give me this. ' Ludovico then drew forth aminiature from his bosom, which Emily received with a trembling hand, and perceived to be a portrait of herself--the very picture, which hermother had lost so strangely in the fishing-house at La Vallee. 

Tears of mingled joy and tenderness flowed to her eyes, while Ludovicoproceeded--'"Tell your lady, " said the Chevalier, as he gave me thepicture, "that this has been my companion, and only solace in all mymisfortunes. Tell her, that I have worn it next my heart, and that Isent it her as the pledge of an affection, which can never die; that Iwould not part with it, but to her, for the wealth of worlds, and that Inow part with it, only in the hope of soon receiving it from her hands. Tell her"--Just then, Signora, the sentinel came in, and the Chevaliersaid no more; but he had before asked me to contrive an interview forhim with you; and when I told him, how little hope I had of prevailingwith the guard to assist me, he said, that was not, perhaps, of somuch consequence as I imagined, and bade me contrive to bring back youranswer, and he would inform me of more than he chose to do then. Sothis, I think, lady, is the whole of what passed. '

'How, Ludovico, shall I reward you for your zeal?' said Emily: 'but, indeed, I do not now possess the means. When can you see the Chevalieragain?' 'That is uncertain, Signora, ' replied he. 'It depends upon whostands guard next: there are not more than one or two among them, fromwhom I would dare to ask admittance to the prison-chamber. '

'I need not bid you remember, Ludovico, ' resumed Emily, 'how very muchinterested I am in your seeing the Chevalier soon; and, when you do so, tell him, that I have received the picture, and, with the sentiments hewished. Tell him I have suffered much, and still suffer--' She paused. 'But shall I tell him you will see him, lady?' said Ludovico. 'Mostcertainly I will, ' replied Emily. 'But when, Signora, and where?' 'Thatmust depend upon circumstances, ' returned Emily. 'The place, and thehour, must be regulated by his opportunities. '

'As to the place, mademoiselle, ' said Annette, 'there is no other placein the castle, besides this corridor, where WE can see him in safety, you know; and, as for the hour, --it must be when all the Signors areasleep, if that ever happens!' 'You may mention these circumstances tothe Chevalier, Ludovico, ' said she, checking the flippancy of Annette, 'and leave them to his judgment and opportunity. Tell him, my heart isunchanged. But, above all, let him see you again as soon as possible;and, Ludovico, I think it is needless to tell you I shall very anxiouslylook for you. ' Having then wished her good night, Ludovico descendedthe staircase, and Emily retired to rest, but not to sleep, for joy nowrendered her as wakeful, as she had ever been from grief. Montoni andhis castle had all vanished from her mind, like the frightful vision ofa necromancer, and she wandered, once more, in fairy scenes of unfadinghappiness:

 As when, beneath the beam Of summer moons, the distant woods among, Or by some flood, all silver'd with the gleam, The soft embodied Fays thro' airy portals stream. 

A week elapsed, before Ludovico again visited the prison; for thesentinels, during that period, were men, in whom he could not confide, and he feared to awaken curiosity, by asking to see their prisoner. Inthis interval, he communicated to Emily terrific reports of whatwas passing in the castle; of riots, quarrels, and of carousals morealarming than either; while from some circumstances, which he mentioned, she not only doubted, whether Montoni meant ever to release her, butgreatly feared, that he had designs, concerning her, --such as shehad formerly dreaded. Her name was frequently mentioned in theconversations, which Bertolini and Verezzi held together, and, at thosetimes, they were frequently in contention. Montoni had lost large sumsto Verezzi, so that there was a dreadful possibility of his designingher to be a substitute for the debt; but, as she was ignorant, that hehad formerly encouraged the hopes of Bertolini also, concerning herself, after the latter had done him some signal service, she knew not how toaccount for these contentions between Bertolini and Verezzi. The causeof them, however, appeared to be of little consequence, for she thoughtshe saw destruction approaching in many forms, and her entreaties toLudovico to contrive an escape and to see the prisoner again, were moreurgent than ever. 

At length, he informed her, that he had again visited the Chevalier, whohad directed him to confide in the guard of the prison, from whom hehad already received some instances of kindness, and who had promised topermit his going into the castle for half an hour, on the ensuing night, when Montoni and his companions should be engaged at their carousals. 'This was kind, to be sure, ' added Ludovico: 'but Sebastian knows heruns no risque in letting the Chevalier out, for, if he can get beyondthe bars and iron doors of the castle, he must be cunning indeed. Butthe Chevalier desired me, Signora, to go to you immediately, and tobeg you would allow him to visit you, this night, if it was only for amoment, for that he could no longer live under the same roof, withoutseeing you; the hour, he said, he could not mention, for it must dependon circumstances (just as you said, Signora); and the place he desiredyou would appoint, as knowing which was best for your own safety. '

Emily was now so much agitated by the near prospect of meetingValancourt, that it was some time, before she could give any answer toLudovico, or consider of the place of meeting; when she did, she sawnone, that promised so much security, as the corridor, near her ownapartment, which she was checked from leaving, by the apprehension ofmeeting any of Montoni's guests, on their way to their rooms; and shedismissed the scruples, which delicacy opposed, now that a seriousdanger was to be avoided by encountering them. It was settled, therefore, that the Chevalier should meet her in the corridor, at thathour of the night, which Ludovico, who was to be upon the watch, shouldjudge safest: and Emily, as may be imagined, passed this interval ina tumult of hope and joy, anxiety and impatience. Never, since herresidence in the castle, had she watched, with so much pleasure, thesun set behind the mountains, and twilight shade, and darkness veil thescene, as on this evening. She counted the notes of the great clock, andlistened to the steps of the sentinels, as they changed the watch, only to rejoice, that another hour was gone. 'O, Valancourt!' said she, 'after all I have suffered; after our long, long separation, when Ithought I should never--never see you more--we are still to meet again!O! I have endured grief, and anxiety, and terror, and let me, then, notsink beneath this joy!' These were moments, when it was impossiblefor her to feel emotions of regret, or melancholy, for any ordinaryinterests;--even the reflection, that she had resigned the estates, which would have been a provision for herself and Valancourt for life, threw only a light and transient shade upon her spirits. The idea ofValancourt, and that she should see him so soon, alone occupied herheart. 

At length the clock struck twelve; she opened the door to listen, ifany noise was in the castle, and heard only distant shouts of riot andlaughter, echoed feebly along the gallery. She guessed, that the Signorand his guests were at the banquet. 'They are now engaged for thenight, ' said she; 'and Valancourt will soon be here. ' Having softlyclosed the door, she paced the room with impatient steps, and often wentto the casement to listen for the lute; but all was silent, and, heragitation every moment increasing, she was at length unable to supportherself, and sat down by the window. Annette, whom she detained, was, inthe meantime, as loquacious as usual; but Emily heard scarcely any thingshe said, and having at length risen to the casement, she distinguishedthe chords of the lute, struck with an expressive hand, and then thevoice, she had formerly listened to, accompanied it. 

 Now rising love they fann'd, now pleasing dole They breath'd in tender musings through the heart; And now a graver, sacred strain they stole, As when seraphic hands an hymn impart!

Emily wept in doubtful joy and tenderness; and, when the strain ceased, she considered it as a signal, that Valancourt was about to leave theprison. Soon after, she heard steps in the corridor;--they were thelight, quick steps of hope; she could scarcely support herself, as theyapproached, but opening the door of the apartment, she advanced to meetValancourt, and, in the next moment, sunk in the arms of a stranger. Hisvoice--his countenance instantly convinced her, and she fainted away. 

On reviving, she found herself supported by the stranger, who waswatching over her recovery, with a countenance of ineffable tendernessand anxiety. She had no spirits for reply, or enquiry; she asked noquestions, but burst into tears, and disengaged herself from hisarms; when the expression of his countenance changed to surprise anddisappointment, and he turned to Ludovico, for an explanation; Annettesoon gave the information, which Ludovico could not. 'O, sir!' saidshe, in a voice, interrupted with sobs; 'O, sir! you are not the otherChevalier. We expected Monsieur Valancourt, but you are not he! OLudovico! how could you deceive us so? my poor lady will never recoverit--never!' The stranger, who now appeared much agitated, attempted tospeak, but his words faltered; and then striking his hand against hisforehead, as if in sudden despair, he walked abruptly to the other endof the corridor. 

Suddenly, Annette dried her tears, and spoke to Ludovico. 'But, perhaps, ' said she, 'after all, the other Chevalier is not this: perhapsthe Chevalier Valancourt is still below. ' Emily raised her head. 'No, ' replied Ludovico, 'Monsieur Valancourt never was below, if thisgentleman is not he. ' 'If you, sir, ' said Ludovico, addressing thestranger, 'would but have had the goodness to trust me with your name, this mistake had been avoided. ' 'Most true, ' replied the stranger, speaking in broken Italian, 'but it was of the utmost consequence to me, that my name should be concealed from Montoni. Madam, ' added he then, addressing Emily in French, 'will you permit me to apologize for thepain I have occasioned you, and to explain to you alone my name, and thecircumstance, which has led me into this error? I am of France;--I amyour countryman;--we are met in a foreign land. ' Emily tried tocompose her spirits; yet she hesitated to grant his request. At length, desiring, that Ludovico would wait on the stair-case, and detainingAnnette, she told the stranger, that her woman understood very littleItalian, and begged he would communicate what he wished to say, in thatlanguage. --Having withdrawn to a distant part of the corridor, he said, with a long-drawn sigh, 'You, madam, are no stranger to me, though I amso unhappy as to be unknown to you. --My name is Du Pont; I am of France, of Gascony, your native province, and have long admired, --and, whyshould I affect to disguise it?--have long loved you. ' He paused, but, in the next moment, proceeded. 'My family, madam, is probably notunknown to you, for we lived within a few miles of La Vallee, and Ihave, sometimes, had the happiness of meeting you, on visits inthe neighbourhood. I will not offend you by repeating how much youinterested me; how much I loved to wander in the scenes you frequented;how often I visited your favourite fishing-house, and lamented thecircumstance, which, at that time, forbade me to reveal my passion. Iwill not explain how I surrendered to temptation, and became possessedof a treasure, which was to me inestimable; a treasure, which Icommitted to your messenger, a few days ago, with expectationsvery different from my present ones. I will say nothing of thesecircumstances, for I know they will avail me little; let me onlysupplicate from you forgiveness, and the picture, which I so unwarilyreturned. Your generosity will pardon the theft, and restore theprize. My crime has been my punishment; for the portrait I stole hascontributed to nourish a passion, which must still be my torment. '

Emily now interrupted him. 'I think, sir, I may leave it to yourintegrity to determine, whether, after what has just appeared, concerning Mons. Valancourt, I ought to return the picture. I think youwill acknowledge, that this would not be generosity; and you will allowme to add, that it would be doing myself an injustice. I must considermyself honoured by your good opinion, but'--and she hesitated, --'themistake of this evening makes it unnecessary for me to say more. '

'It does, madam, --alas! it does!' said the stranger, who, after a longpause, proceeded. --'But you will allow me to shew my disinterestedness, though not my love, and will accept the services I offer. Yet, alas!what services can I offer? I am myself a prisoner, a sufferer, likeyou. But, dear as liberty is to me, I would not seek it through halfthe hazards I would encounter to deliver you from this recess of vice. Accept the offered services of a friend; do not refuse me the reward ofhaving, at least, attempted to deserve your thanks. '

'You deserve them already, sir, ' said Emily; 'the wish deserves mywarmest thanks. But you will excuse me for reminding you of the dangeryou incur by prolonging this interview. It will be a great consolationto me to remember, whether your friendly attempts to release me succeedor not, that I have a countryman, who would so generously protectme. '--Monsieur Du Pont took her hand, which she but feebly attempted towithdraw, and pressed it respectfully to his lips. 'Allow me to breatheanother fervent sigh for your happiness, ' said he, 'and to applaudmyself for an affection, which I cannot conquer. ' As he said this, Emilyheard a noise from her apartment, and, turning round, saw the door fromthe stair-case open, and a man rush into her chamber. 'I will teach youto conquer it, ' cried he, as he advanced into the corridor, and drew astiletto, which he aimed at Du Pont, who was unarmed, but who, steppingback, avoided the blow, and then sprung upon Verezzi, from whom hewrenched the stiletto. While they struggled in each other's grasp, Emily, followed by Annette, ran further into the corridor, callingon Ludovico, who was, however, gone from the stair-case, and, as sheadvanced, terrified and uncertain what to do, a distant noise, thatseemed to arise from the hall, reminded her of the danger she wasincurring; and, sending Annette forward in search of Ludovico, shereturned to the spot where Du Pont and Verezzi were still struggling forvictory. It was her own cause which was to be decided with that ofthe former, whose conduct, independently of this circumstance, would, however, have interested her in his success, even had she not dislikedand dreaded Verezzi. She threw herself in a chair, and supplicated themto desist from further violence, till, at length, Du Pont forced Verezzito the floor, where he lay stunned by the violence of his fall; and shethen entreated Du Pont to escape from the room, before Montoni, or hisparty, should appear; but he still refused to leave her unprotected;and, while Emily, now more terrified for him, than for herself, enforcedthe entreaty, they heard steps ascending the private stair-case. 

'O you are lost!' cried she, 'these are Montoni's people. ' Du Pontmade no reply, but supported Emily, while, with a steady, though eager, countenance, he awaited their appearance, and, in the next moment, Ludovico, alone, mounted the landing-place. Throwing an hasty glanceround the chamber, 'Follow me, ' said he, 'as you value your lives; wehave not an instant to lose!'

Emily enquired what had occurred, and whither they were to go?

'I cannot stay to tell you now, Signora, ' replied Ludovico: 'fly! fly!'

She immediately followed him, accompanied by Mons. Du Pont, down thestair-case, and along a vaulted passage, when suddenly she recollectedAnnette, and enquired for her. 'She awaits us further on, Signora, ' saidLudovico, almost breathless with haste; 'the gates were open, a momentsince, to a party just come in from the mountains: they will be shut, I fear, before we can reach them! Through this door, Signora, ' addedLudovico, holding down the lamp, 'take care, here are two steps. '

Emily followed, trembling still more, than before she had understood, that her escape from the castle, depended upon the present moment; whileDu Pont supported her, and endeavoured, as they passed along, to cheerher spirits. 

'Speak low, Signor, ' said Ludovico, 'these passages send echoes allround the castle. '

'Take care of the light, ' cried Emily, 'you go so fast, that the airwill extinguish it. '

Ludovico now opened another door, where they found Annette, and theparty then descended a short flight of steps into a passage, which, Ludovico said, led round the inner court of the castle, and opened intothe outer one. As they advanced, confused and tumultuous sounds, thatseemed to come from the inner court, alarmed Emily. 'Nay, Signora, ' saidLudovico, 'our only hope is in that tumult; while the Signor's peopleare busied about the men, who are just arrived, we may, perhaps, passunnoticed through the gates. But hush!' he added, as they approached thesmall door, that opened into the outer court, 'if you will remain here amoment, I will go to see whether the gates are open, and any body isin the way. Pray extinguish the light, Signor, if you hear me talking, 'continued Ludovico, delivering the lamp to Du Pont, 'and remain quitestill. '

Saying this, he stepped out upon the court, and they closed the door, listening anxiously to his departing steps. No voice, however, was heardin the court, which he was crossing, though a confusion of many voicesyet issued from the inner one. 'We shall soon be beyond the walls, ' saidDu Pont softly to Emily, 'support yourself a little longer, Madam, andall will be well. '

But soon they heard Ludovico speaking loud, and the voice also of someother person, and Du Pont immediately extinguished the lamp. 'Ah! itis too late!' exclaimed Emily, 'what is to become of us?' They listenedagain, and then perceived, that Ludovico was talking with a sentinel, whose voices were heard also by Emily's favourite dog, that had followedher from the chamber, and now barked loudly. 'This dog will betray us!'said Du Pont, 'I will hold him. ' 'I fear he has already betrayed us!'replied Emily. Du Pont, however, caught him up, and, again listeningto what was going on without, they heard Ludovico say, 'I'll watch thegates the while. '

'Stay a minute, ' replied the sentinel, 'and you need not have thetrouble, for the horses will be sent round to the outer stables, thenthe gates will be shut, and I can leave my post. ' 'I don't mind thetrouble, comrade, ' said Ludovico, 'you will do such another good turnfor me, some time. Go--go, and fetch the wine; the rogues, that are justcome in, will drink it all else. '

The soldier hesitated, and then called aloud to the people in the secondcourt, to know why they did not send out the horses, that the gatesmight be shut; but they were too much engaged, to attend to him, even ifthey had heard his voice. 

'Aye--aye, ' said Ludovico, 'they know better than that; they are sharingit all among them; if you wait till the horses come out, you must waittill the wine is drunk. I have had my share already, but, since you donot care about yours, I see no reason why I should not have that too. '

'Hold, hold, not so fast, ' cried the sentinel, 'do watch then, for amoment: I'll be with you presently. '

'Don't hurry yourself, ' said Ludovico, coolly, 'I have kept guard beforenow. But you may leave me your trombone, * that, if the castle should beattacked, you know, I may be able to defend the pass, like a hero. '

(* A kind of blunderbuss. [A. R. ])

'There, my good fellow, ' returned the soldier, 'there, take it--it hasseen service, though it could do little in defending the castle. I'lltell you a good story, though, about this same trombone. '

'You'll tell it better when you have had the wine, ' said Ludovico. 'There! they are coming out from the court already. '

'I'll have the wine, though, ' said the sentinel, running off. 'I won'tkeep you a minute. '

'Take your time, I am in no haste, ' replied Ludovico, who was alreadyhurrying across the court, when the soldier came back. 'Whither so fast, friend--whither so fast?' said the latter. 'What! is this the way youkeep watch! I must stand to my post myself, I see. '

'Aye, well, ' replied Ludovico, 'you have saved me the trouble offollowing you further, for I wanted to tell you, if you have a mind todrink the Tuscany wine, you must go to Sebastian, he is dealing it out;the other that Federico has, is not worth having. But you are not likelyto have any, I see, for they are all coming out. '

'By St. Peter! so they are, ' said the soldier, and again ran off, whileLudovico, once more at liberty, hastened to the door of the passage, where Emily was sinking under the anxiety this long discourse hadoccasioned; but, on his telling them the court was clear, they followedhim to the gates, without waiting another instant, yet not before hehad seized two horses, that had strayed from the second court, and werepicking a scanty meal among the grass, which grew between the pavementof the first. 

They passed, without interruption, the dreadful gates, and took the roadthat led down among the woods, Emily, Monsieur Du Pont and Annette onfoot, and Ludovico, who was mounted on one horse, leading the other. Having reached them, they stopped, while Emily and Annette were placedon horseback with their two protectors, when, Ludovico leading the way, they set off as fast as the broken road, and the feeble light, which arising moon threw among the foliage, would permit. 

Emily was so much astonished by this sudden departure, that she scarcelydared to believe herself awake; and she yet much doubted whether thisadventure would terminate in escape, --a doubt, which had too muchprobability to justify it; for, before they quitted the woods, theyheard shouts in the wind, and, on emerging from them, saw lights movingquickly near the castle above. Du Pont whipped his horse, and with somedifficulty compelled him to go faster. 

'Ah! poor beast, ' said Ludovico, 'he is weary enough;--he has been outall day; but, Signor, we must fly for it, now; for yonder are lightscoming this way. '

Having given his own horse a lash, they now both set off on a fullgallop; and, when they again looked back, the lights were so distantas scarcely to be discerned, and the voices were sunk into silence. Thetravellers then abated their pace, and, consulting whither they shoulddirect their course, it was determined they should descend into Tuscany, and endeavour to reach the Mediterranean, where they could readilyembark for France. Thither Du Pont meant to attend Emily, if he shouldlearn, that the regiment he had accompanied into Italy, was returned tohis native country. 

They were now in the road, which Emily had travelled with Ugo andBertrand; but Ludovico, who was the only one of the party, acquaintedwith the passes of these mountains, said, that, a little further on, abye-road, branching from this, would lead them down into Tuscany withvery little difficulty; and that, at a few leagues distance, was a smalltown, where necessaries could be procured for their journey. 

'But, I hope, ' added he, 'we shall meet with no straggling parties ofbanditti; some of them are abroad, I know. However, I have got a goodtrombone, which will be of some service, if we should encounter any ofthose brave spirits. You have no arms, Signor?' 'Yes, ' replied Du Pont, 'I have the villain's stilletto, who would have stabbed me--but let usrejoice in our escape from Udolpho, nor torment ourselves with lookingout for dangers, that may never arrive. '

The moon was now risen high over the woods, that hung upon the sides ofthe narrow glen, through which they wandered, and afforded them lightsufficient to distinguish their way, and to avoid the loose and brokenstones, that frequently crossed it. They now travelled leisurely, andin profound silence; for they had scarcely yet recovered from theastonishment, into which this sudden escape had thrown them. --Emily'smind, especially, was sunk, after the various emotions it had suffered, into a kind of musing stillness, which the reposing beauty of thesurrounding scene and the creeping murmur of the night-breeze among thefoliage above contributed to prolong. She thought of Valancourt and ofFrance, with hope, and she would have thought of them with joy, hadnot the first events of this evening harassed her spirits too much, topermit her now to feel so lively a sensation. Meanwhile, Emily wasalone the object of Du Pont's melancholy consideration; yet, with thedespondency he suffered, as he mused on his recent disappointment, wasmingled a sweet pleasure, occasioned by her presence, though theydid not now exchange a single word. Annette thought of this wonderfulescape, of the bustle in which Montoni and his people must be, now thattheir flight was discovered; of her native country, whither she hopedshe was returning, and of her marriage with Ludovico, to which there nolonger appeared any impediment, for poverty she did not consider such. Ludovico, on his part, congratulated himself, on having rescued hisAnnette and Signora Emily from the danger, that had surrounded them; onhis own liberation from people, whose manners he had long detested;on the freedom he had given to Monsieur Du Pont; on his prospect ofhappiness with the object of his affections, and not a little on theaddress, with which he had deceived the sentinel, and conducted thewhole of this affair. 

Thus variously engaged in thought, the travellers passed on silently, for above an hour, a question only being, now and then, asked by DuPont, concerning the road, or a remark uttered by Annette, respectingobjects, seen imperfectly in the twilight. At length, lights wereperceived twinkling on the side of a mountain, and Ludovico had nodoubt, that they proceeded from the town he had mentioned, while hiscompanions, satisfied by this assurance, sunk again into silence. Annette was the first who interrupted this. 'Holy Peter!' said she, 'What shall we do for money on our journey? for I know neither I, or mylady, have a single sequin; the Signor took care of that!'

This remark produced a serious enquiry, which ended in as serious anembarrassment, for Du Pont had been rifled of nearly all his money, whenhe was taken prisoner; the remainder he had given to the sentinel, whohad enabled him occasionally to leave his prison-chamber; and Ludovico, who had for some time found a difficulty, in procuring any part of thewages due to him, had now scarcely cash sufficient to procure necessaryrefreshment at the first town, in which they should arrive. 

Their poverty was the more distressing, since it would detain themamong the mountains, where, even in a town, they could scarcely considerthemselves safe from Montoni. The travellers, however, had only toproceed and dare the future; and they continued their way through lonelywilds and dusky vallies, where the overhanging foliage now admitted, andthen excluded the moon-light;--wilds so desolate, that they appeared, onthe first glance, as if no human being had ever trode them before. Eventhe road, in which the party were, did but slightly contradict thiserror, for the high grass and other luxuriant vegetation, with which itwas overgrown, told how very seldom the foot of a traveller had passedit. 

At length, from a distance, was heard the faint tinkling of asheep-bell; and, soon after, the bleat of flocks, and the party thenknew, that they were near some human habitation, for the light, whichLudovico had fancied to proceed from a town, had long been concealed byintervening mountains. Cheered by this hope, they quickened their pacealong the narrow pass they were winding, and it opened upon one of thosepastoral vallies of the Apennines, which might be painted for a sceneof Arcadia, and whose beauty and simplicity are finely contrasted by thegrandeur of the snow-topt mountains above. 

The morning light, now glimmering in the horizon, shewed faintly, ata little distance, upon the brow of a hill, which seemed to peep from'under the opening eye-lids of the morn, ' the town they were insearch of, and which they soon after reached. It was not without somedifficulty, that they there found a house, which could afford shelterfor themselves and their horses; and Emily desired they might not restlonger than was necessary for refreshment. Her appearance excited somesurprise, for she was without a hat, having had time only to throw onher veil before she left the castle, a circumstance, that compelled herto regret again the want of money, without which it was impossible toprocure this necessary article of dress. 

Ludovico, on examining his purse, found it even insufficient to supplypresent refreshment, and Du Pont, at length, ventured to inform thelandlord, whose countenance was simple and honest, of their exactsituation, and requested, that he would assist them to pursue theirjourney; a purpose, which he promised to comply with, as far as he wasable, when he learned that they were prisoners escaping from Montoni, whom he had too much reason to hate. But, though he consented to lendthem fresh horses to carry them to the next town, he was too poorhimself to trust them with money, and they were again lamenting theirpoverty, when Ludovico, who had been with his tired horses to the hovel, which served for a stable, entered the room, half frantic with joy, inwhich his auditors soon participated. On removing the saddle from one ofthe horses, he had found beneath it a small bag, containing, no doubt, the booty of one of the condottieri, who had returned from a plunderingexcursion, just before Ludovico left the castle, and whose horse havingstrayed from the inner court, while his master was engaged in drinking, had brought away the treasure, which the ruffian had considered thereward of his exploit. 

On counting over this, Du Pont found, that it would be more thansufficient to carry them all to France, where he now determined toaccompany Emily, whether he should obtain intelligence of his regiment, or not; for, though he had as much confidence in the integrity ofLudovico, as his small knowledge of him allowed, he could not endure thethought of committing her to his care for the voyage; nor, perhaps, hadhe resolution enough to deny himself the dangerous pleasure, which hemight derive from her presence. 

He now consulted them, concerning the sea-port, to which they shoulddirect their way, and Ludovico, better informed of the geography of thecountry, said, that Leghorn was the nearest port of consequence, whichDu Pont knew also to be the most likely of any in Italy to assisttheir plan, since from thence vessels of all nations were continuallydeparting. Thither, therefore, it was determined, that they shouldproceed. 

Emily, having purchased a little straw hat, such as was worn by thepeasant girls of Tuscany, and some other little necessary equipments forthe journey, and the travellers, having exchanged their tired horses forothers better able to carry them, re-commenced their joyous way, as thesun was rising over the mountains, and, after travelling through thisromantic country, for several hours, began to descend into the valeof Arno. And here Emily beheld all the charms of sylvan and pastorallandscape united, adorned with the elegant villas of the Florentinenobles, and diversified with the various riches of cultivation. Howvivid the shrubs, that embowered the slopes, with the woods, thatstretched amphitheatrically along the mountains! and, above all, howelegant the outline of these waving Apennines, now softening from thewildness, which their interior regions exhibited! At a distance, in theeast, Emily discovered Florence, with its towers rising on thebrilliant horizon, and its luxuriant plain, spreading to the feet ofthe Apennines, speckled with gardens and magnificent villas, or colouredwith groves of orange and lemon, with vines, corn, and plantations ofolives and mulberry; while, to the west, the vale opened to the watersof the Mediterranean, so distant, that they were known only by a blueishline, that appeared upon the horizon, and by the light marine vapour, which just stained the aether above. 

With a full heart, Emily hailed the waves, that were to bear her back toher native country, the remembrance of which, however, brought with ita pang; for she had there no home to receive, no parents to welcome her, but was going, like a forlorn pilgrim, to weep over the sad spot, wherehe, who WAS her father, lay interred. Nor were her spirits cheered, when she considered how long it would probably be before she should seeValancourt, who might be stationed with his regiment in a distant partof France, and that, when they did meet, it would be only to lamentthe successful villany of Montoni; yet, still she would have feltinexpressible delight at the thought of being once more in the samecountry with Valancourt, had it even been certain, that she could notsee him. 

The intense heat, for it was now noon, obliged the travellers to lookout for a shady recess, where they might rest, for a few hours, andthe neighbouring thickets, abounding with wild grapes, raspberries, andfigs, promised them grateful refreshment. Soon after, they turnedfrom the road into a grove, whose thick foliage entirely excluded thesun-beams, and where a spring, gushing from the rock, gave coolness tothe air; and, having alighted and turned the horses to graze, Annetteand Ludovico ran to gather fruit from the surrounding thickets, of whichthey soon returned with an abundance. The travellers, seated under theshade of a pine and cypress grove and on turf, enriched with such aprofusion of fragrant flowers, as Emily had scarcely ever seen, evenamong the Pyrenees, took their simple repast, and viewed, with newdelight, beneath the dark umbrage of gigantic pines, the glowinglandscape stretching to the sea. 

Emily and Du Pont gradually became thoughtful and silent; but Annettewas all joy and loquacity, and Ludovico was gay, without forgetting therespectful distance, which was due to his companions. The repast beingover, Du Pont recommended Emily to endeavour to sleep, during thesesultry hours, and, desiring the servants would do the same, said hewould watch the while; but Ludovico wished to spare him this trouble;and Emily and Annette, wearied with travelling, tried to repose, whilehe stood guard with his trombone. 

When Emily, refreshed by slumber, awoke, she found the sentinel asleepon his post and Du Pont awake, but lost in melancholy thought. As thesun was yet too high to allow them to continue their journey, and asit was necessary, that Ludovico, after the toils and trouble he hadsuffered, should finish his sleep, Emily took this opportunity ofenquiring by what accident Du Pont became Montoni's prisoner, and he, pleased with the interest this enquiry expressed and with the excuseit gave him for talking to her of himself, immediately answered hercuriosity. 

'I came into Italy, madam, ' said Du Pont, 'in the service of my country. In an adventure among the mountains our party, engaging with the bandsof Montoni, was routed, and I, with a few of my comrades, was takenprisoner. When they told me, whose captive I was, the name of Montonistruck me, for I remembered, that Madame Cheron, your aunt, had marriedan Italian of that name, and that you had accompanied them into Italy. It was not, however, till some time after, that I became convinced thiswas the same Montoni, or learned that you, madam, was under the sameroof with myself. I will not pain you by describing what were myemotions upon this discovery, which I owed to a sentinel, whom I hadso far won to my interest, that he granted me many indulgences, one ofwhich was very important to me, and somewhat dangerous to himself; buthe persisted in refusing to convey any letter, or notice of my situationto you, for he justly dreaded a discovery and the consequent vengeanceof Montoni. He however enabled me to see you more than once. You aresurprised, madam, and I will explain myself. My health and spiritssuffered extremely from want of air and exercise, and, at length, Igained so far upon the pity, or the avarice of the man, that he gave methe means of walking on the terrace. '

Emily now listened, with very anxious attention, to the narrative of DuPont, who proceeded:

'In granting this indulgence, he knew, that he had nothing to apprehendfrom a chance of my escaping from a castle, which was vigilantlyguarded, and the nearest terrace of which rose over a perpendicularrock; he shewed me also, ' continued Du Pont, 'a door concealed inthe cedar wainscot of the apartment where I was confined, which heinstructed me how to open; and which, leading into a passage, formedwithin the thickness of the wall, that extended far along the castle, finally opened in an obscure corner of the eastern rampart. I have sincebeen informed, that there are many passages of the same kindconcealed within the prodigious walls of that edifice, and which were, undoubtedly, contrived for the purpose of facilitating escapes in timeof war. Through this avenue, at the dead of night, I often stole to theterrace, where I walked with the utmost caution, lest my steps shouldbetray me to the sentinels on duty in distant parts; for this end of it, being guarded by high buildings, was not watched by soldiers. In one ofthese midnight wanderings, I saw light in a casement that overlooked therampart, and which, I observed, was immediately over my prison-chamber. It occurred to me, that you might be in that apartment, and, with thehope of seeing you, I placed myself opposite to the window. '

Emily, remembering the figure that had formerly appeared on the terrace, and which had occasioned her so much anxiety, exclaimed, 'It was youthen, Monsieur Du Pont, who occasioned me much foolish terror; myspirits were, at that time, so much weakened by long suffering, thatthey took alarm at every hint. ' Du Pont, after lamenting, that hehad occasioned her any apprehension, added, 'As I rested on thewall, opposite to your casement, the consideration of your melancholysituation and of my own called from me involuntary sounds oflamentation, which drew you, I fancy, to the casement; I saw there aperson, whom I believed to be you. O! I will say nothing of my emotionat that moment; I wished to speak, but prudence restrained me, tillthe distant foot-step of a sentinel compelled me suddenly to quit mystation. 

'It was some time, before I had another opportunity of walking, for Icould only leave my prison, when it happened to be the turn of oneman to guard me; meanwhile I became convinced from some circumstancesrelated by him, that your apartment was over mine, and, when again Iventured forth, I returned to your casement, where again I saw you, butwithout daring to speak. I waved my hand, and you suddenly disappeared;then it was, that I forgot my prudence, and yielded to lamentation;again you appeared--you spoke--I heard the well-known accent of yourvoice! and, at that moment, my discretion would have forsaken meagain, had I not heard also the approaching steps of a soldier, when Iinstantly quitted the place, though not before the man had seen me. He followed down the terrace and gained so fast upon me, that I wascompelled to make use of a stratagem, ridiculous enough, to save myself. I had heard of the superstition of many of these men, and I uttereda strange noise, with a hope, that my pursuer would mistake it forsomething supernatural, and desist from pursuit. Luckily for myself Isucceeded; the man, it seems, was subject to fits, and the terror hesuffered threw him into one, by which accident I secured my retreat. Asense of the danger I had escaped, and the increased watchfulness, whichmy appearance had occasioned among the sentinels, deterred me everafter from walking on the terrace; but, in the stillness of night, I frequently beguiled myself with an old lute, procured for me by asoldier, which I sometimes accompanied with my voice, and sometimes, Iwill acknowledge, with a hope of making myself heard by you; but it wasonly a few evenings ago, that this hope was answered. I then thought Iheard a voice in the wind, calling me; yet, even then I feared to reply, lest the sentinel at the prison door should hear me. Was I right, madam, in this conjecture--was it you who spoke?'

'Yes, ' said Emily, with an involuntary sigh, 'you was right indeed. '

Du Pont, observing the painful emotions, which this question revived, now changed the subject. 'In one of my excursions through the passage, which I have mentioned, I overheard a singular conversation, ' said he. 

'In the passage!' said Emily, with surprise. 

'I heard it in the passage, ' said Du Pont, 'but it proceeded from anapartment, adjoining the wall, within which the passage wound, and theshell of the wall was there so thin, and was also somewhat decayed, that I could distinctly hear every word, spoken on the other side. Ithappened that Montoni and his companions were assembled in the room, and Montoni began to relate the extraordinary history of the lady, hispredecessor, in the castle. He did, indeed, mention some very surprisingcircumstances, and whether they were strictly true, his consciencemust decide; I fear it will determine against him. But you, madam, havedoubtless heard the report, which he designs should circulate, on thesubject of that lady's mysterious fate. '

'I have, sir, ' replied Emily, 'and I perceive, that you doubt it. '

'I doubted it before the period I am speaking of, ' rejoined DuPont;--'but some circumstances, mentioned by Montoni, greatlycontributed to my suspicions. The account I then heard, almost convincedme, that he was a murderer. I trembled for you;--the more so that I hadheard the guests mention your name in a manner, that threatened yourrepose; and, knowing, that the most impious men are often the mostsuperstitious, I determined to try whether I could not awaken theirconsciences, and awe them from the commission of the crime I dreaded. Ilistened closely to Montoni, and, in the most striking passages of hisstory, I joined my voice, and repeated his last words, in a disguisedand hollow tone. '

'But was you not afraid of being discovered?' said Emily. 

'I was not, ' replied Du Pont; 'for I knew, that, if Montoni had beenacquainted with the secret of this passage, he would not have confinedme in the apartment, to which it led. I knew also, from betterauthority, that he was ignorant of it. The party, for some time, appeared inattentive to my voice; but, at length, were so much alarmed, that they quitted the apartment; and, having heard Montoni order hisservants to search it, I returned to my prison, which was very distantfrom this part of the passage. ' 'I remember perfectly to have heard ofthe conversation you mention, ' said Emily; 'it spread a general alarmamong Montoni's people, and I will own I was weak enough to partake ofit. '

Monsieur Du Pont and Emily thus continued to converse of Montoni, andthen of France, and of the plan of their voyage; when Emily told him, that it was her intention to retire to a convent in Languedoc, where shehad been formerly treated with much kindness, and from thence to writeto her relation Monsieur Quesnel, and inform him of her conduct. There, she designed to wait, till La Vallee should again be her own, whithershe hoped her income would some time permit her to return; for DuPont now taught her to expect, that the estate, of which Montoni hadattempted to defraud her, was not irrecoverably lost, and he againcongratulated her on her escape from Montoni, who, he had not a doubt, meant to have detained her for life. The possibility of recovering heraunt's estates for Valancourt and herself lighted up a joy in Emily'sheart, such as she had not known for many months; but she endeavoured toconceal this from Monsieur Du Pont, lest it should lead him to a painfulremembrance of his rival. 

They continued to converse, till the sun was declining in the west, whenDu Pont awoke Ludovico, and they set forward on their journey. Graduallydescending the lower slopes of the valley, they reached the Arno, andwound along its pastoral margin, for many miles, delighted with thescenery around them, and with the remembrances, which its classic wavesrevived. At a distance, they heard the gay song of the peasants amongthe vineyards, and observed the setting sun tint the waves with yellowlustre, and twilight draw a dusky purple over the mountains, which, atlength, deepened into night. Then the LUCCIOLA, the fire-fly of Tuscany, was seen to flash its sudden sparks among the foliage, while thecicala, with its shrill note, became more clamorous than even during thenoon-day heat, loving best the hour when the English beetle, with lessoffensive sound, winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum. *

(* Collins. [A. R. ])

The travellers crossed the Arno by moon-light, at a ferry, and, learningthat Pisa was distant only a few miles down the river, they wished tohave proceeded thither in a boat, but, as none could be procured, theyset out on their wearied horses for that city. As they approached it, the vale expanded into a plain, variegated with vineyards, corn, olivesand mulberry groves; but it was late, before they reached its gates, where Emily was surprised to hear the busy sound of footsteps and thetones of musical instruments, as well as to see the lively groups, thatfilled the streets, and she almost fancied herself again at Venice;but here was no moon-light sea--no gay gondolas, dashing the waves, --noPALLADIAN palaces, to throw enchantment over the fancy and lead it intothe wilds of fairy story. The Arno rolled through the town, but no musictrembled from balconies over its waters; it gave only the busy voicesof sailors on board vessels just arrived from the Mediterranean;the melancholy heaving of the anchor, and the shrill boatswain'swhistle;--sounds, which, since that period, have there sunk almost intosilence. They then served to remind Du Pont, that it was probable hemight hear of a vessel, sailing soon to France from this port, and thusbe spared the trouble of going to Leghorn. As soon as Emily had reachedthe inn, he went therefore to the quay, to make his enquiries; but, after all the endeavours of himself and Ludovico, they could hear of nobark, destined immediately for France, and the travellers returned totheir resting-place. Here also, Du Pont endeavoured to learn where hisregiment then lay, but could acquire no information concerning it. Thetravellers retired early to rest, after the fatigues of this day;and, on the following, rose early, and, without pausing to view thecelebrated antiquities of the place, or the wonders of its hangingtower, pursued their journey in the cooler hours, through a charmingcountry, rich with wine, and corn and oil. The Apennines, no longerawful, or even grand, here softened into the beauty of sylvan andpastoral landscape; and Emily, as she descended them, looked downdelighted on Leghorn, and its spacious bay, filled with vessels, andcrowned with these beautiful hills. 

She was no less surprised and amused, on entering this town, to findit crowded with persons in the dresses of all nations; a scene, whichreminded her of a Venetian masquerade, such as she had witnessed at thetime of the Carnival; but here, was bustle, without gaiety, and noiseinstead of music, while elegance was to be looked for only in the wavingoutlines of the surrounding hills. 

Monsieur Du Pont, immediately on their arrival, went down to the quay, where he heard of several French vessels, and of one, that was to sail, in a few days, for Marseilles, from whence another vessel could beprocured, without difficulty, to take them across the gulf of Lyonstowards Narbonne, on the coast not many leagues from which city heunderstood the convent was seated, to which Emily wished to retire. He, therefore, immediately engaged with the captain to take them toMarseilles, and Emily was delighted to hear, that her passage to Francewas secured. Her mind was now relieved from the terror of pursuit, andthe pleasing hope of soon seeing her native country--that country whichheld Valancourt, restored to her spirits a degree of cheerfulness, suchas she had scarcely known, since the death of her father. At Leghornalso, Du Pont heard of his regiment, and that it had embarked forFrance; a circumstance, which gave him great satisfaction, for he couldnow accompany Emily thither, without reproach to his conscience, orapprehension of displeasure from his commander. During these days, hescrupulously forbore to distress her by a mention of his passion, andshe was compelled to esteem and pity, though she could not love him. Heendeavoured to amuse her by shewing the environs of the town, and theyoften walked together on the sea-shore, and on the busy quays, whereEmily was frequently interested by the arrival and departure of vessels, participating in the joy of meeting friends, and, sometimes, sheddinga sympathetic tear to the sorrow of those, that were separating. It wasafter having witnessed a scene of the latter kind, that she arranged thefollowing stanzas:

THE MARINER

 Soft came the breath of spring; smooth flow'd the tide; And blue the heaven in its mirror smil'd; The white sail trembled, swell'd, expanded wide, The busy sailors at the anchor toil'd. 

 With anxious friends, that shed the parting tear, The deck was throng'd--how swift the moments fly! The vessel heaves, the farewel signs appear; Mute is each tongue, and eloquent each eye!

 The last dread moment comes!--The sailor-youth Hides the big drop, then smiles amid his pain, Sooths his sad bride, and vows eternal truth, 'Farewel, my love--we shall--shall meet again!'

 Long on the stern, with waving hand, he stood; The crowded shore sinks, lessening, from his view, As gradual glides the bark along the flood; His bride is seen no more--'Adieu!--adieu!'

 The breeze of Eve moans low, her smile is o'er, Dim steals her twilight down the crimson'd west, He climbs the top-most mast, to seek once more The far-seen coast, where all his wishes rest. 

 He views its dark line on the distant sky, And Fancy leads him to his little home, He sees his weeping love, he hears her sigh, He sooths her griefs, and tells of joys to come. 

 Eve yields to night, the breeze to wintry gales, In one vast shade the seas and shores repose; He turns his aching eyes, --his spirit fails, The chill tear falls;--sad to the deck he goes!

 The storm of midnight swells, the sails are furl'd, Deep sounds the lead, but finds no friendly shore, Fast o'er the waves the wretched bark is hurl'd, 'O Ellen, Ellen! we must meet no more!'

 Lightnings, that shew the vast and foamy deep, The rending thunders, as they onward roll, The loud, loud winds, that o'er the billows sweep-- Shake the firm nerve, appall the bravest soul!

 Ah! what avails the seamen's toiling care! The straining cordage bursts, the mast is riv'n; The sounds of terror groan along the air, Then sink afar;--the bark on rocks is driv'n!

 Fierce o'er the wreck the whelming waters pass'd, The helpless crew sunk in the roaring main! Henry's faint accents trembled in the blast-- 'Farewel, my love!--we ne'er shall meet again!'

 Oft, at the calm and silent evening hour, When summer-breezes linger on the wave, A melancholy voice is heard to pour Its lonely sweetness o'er poor Henry's grave!

 And oft, at midnight, airy strains are heard Around the grove, where Ellen's form is laid; Nor is the dirge by village-maidens fear'd, For lovers' spirits guard the holy shade!

CHAPTER X

 Oh! the joy Of young ideas, painted on the mind In the warm glowing colours fancy spreads On objects not yet known, when all is new, And all is lovely! SACRED DRAMAS

We now return to Languedoc and to the mention of Count De Villefort, thenobleman, who succeeded to an estate of the Marquis De Villeroi situatednear the monastery of St. Claire. It may be recollected, that thischateau was uninhabited, when St. Aubert and his daughter were in theneighbourhood, and that the former was much affected on discoveringhimself to be so near Chateau-le-Blanc, a place, concerning which thegood old La Voisin afterwards dropped some hints, that had alarmedEmily's curiosity. 

It was in the year 1584, the beginning of that, in which St. Aubertdied, that Francis Beauveau, Count De Villefort, came into possessionof the mansion and extensive domain called Chateau-le-Blanc, situatedin the province of Languedoc, on the shore of the Mediterranean. Thisestate, which, during some centuries, had belonged to his family, now descended to him, on the decease of his relative, the Marquis DeVilleroi, who had been latterly a man of reserved manners and austerecharacter; circumstances, which, together with the duties of hisprofession, that often called him into the field, had prevented anydegree of intimacy with his cousin, the Count De Villefort. For manyyears, they had known little of each other, and the Count received thefirst intelligence of his death, which happened in a distant part ofFrance, together with the instruments, that gave him possession of thedomain Chateau-le-Blanc; but it was not till the following year, thathe determined to visit that estate, when he designed to pass the autumnthere. The scenes of Chateau-le-Blanc often came to his remembrance, heightened by the touches, which a warm imagination gives to therecollection of early pleasures; for, many years before, in thelife-time of the Marchioness, and at that age when the mind isparticularly sensible to impressions of gaiety and delight, he had oncevisited this spot, and, though he had passed a long intervening periodamidst the vexations and tumults of public affairs, which too frequentlycorrode the heart, and vitiate the taste, the shades of Languedoc andthe grandeur of its distant scenery had never been remembered by himwith indifference. 

During many years, the chateau had been abandoned by the late Marquis, and, being inhabited only by an old steward and his wife, had beensuffered to fall much into decay. To superintend the repairs, that wouldbe requisite to make it a comfortable residence, had been a principalmotive with the Count for passing the autumnal months in Languedoc; andneither the remonstrances, or the tears of the Countess, for, onurgent occasions, she could weep, were powerful enough to overcome hisdetermination. She prepared, therefore, to obey the command, which shecould not conquer, and to resign the gay assemblies of Paris, --where herbeauty was generally unrivalled and won the applause, to which herwit had but feeble claim--for the twilight canopy of woods, the lonelygrandeur of mountains and the solemnity of gothic halls and of long, long galleries, which echoed only the solitary step of a domestic, orthe measured clink, that ascended from the great clock--the ancientmonitor of the hall below. From these melancholy expectations sheendeavoured to relieve her spirits by recollecting all that she had everheard, concerning the joyous vintage of the plains of Languedoc; butthere, alas! no airy forms would bound to the gay melody of Parisiandances, and a view of the rustic festivities of peasants could affordlittle pleasure to a heart, in which even the feelings of ordinarybenevolence had long since decayed under the corruptions of luxury. 

The Count had a son and a daughter, the children of a former marriage, who, he designed, should accompany him to the south of France; Henri, who was in his twentieth year, was in the French service; and Blanche, who was not yet eighteen, had been hitherto confined to the convent, where she had been placed immediately on her father's secondmarriage. The present Countess, who had neither sufficient ability, orinclination, to superintend the education of her daughter-in-law, hadadvised this step, and the dread of superior beauty had since urgedher to employ every art, that might prevail on the Count to prolongthe period of Blanche's seclusion; it was, therefore, with extrememortification, that she now understood he would no longer submit on thissubject, yet it afforded her some consolation to consider, that, thoughthe Lady Blanche would emerge from her convent, the shades of thecountry would, for some time, veil her beauty from the public eye. 

On the morning, which commenced the journey, the postillions stopped atthe convent, by the Count's order, to take up Blanche, whose heart beatwith delight, at the prospect of novelty and freedom now before her. Asthe time of her departure drew nigh, her impatience had increased, andthe last night, during which she counted every note of every hour, hadappeared the most tedious of any she had ever known. The morning light, at length, dawned; the matin-bell rang; she heard the nuns descendingfrom their chambers, and she started from a sleepless pillow to welcomethe day, which was to emancipate her from the severities of a cloister, and introduce her to a world, where pleasure was ever smiling, andgoodness ever blessed--where, in short, nothing but pleasure andgoodness reigned! When the bell of the great gate rang, and the soundwas followed by that of carriage wheels, she ran, with a palpitatingheart, to her lattice, and, perceiving her father's carriage in thecourt below, danced, with airy steps, along the gallery, where she wasmet by a nun with a summons from the abbess. In the next moment, she wasin the parlour, and in the presence of the Countess who now appeared toher as an angel, that was to lead her into happiness. But the emotionsof the Countess, on beholding her, were not in unison with those ofBlanche, who had never appeared so lovely as at this moment, when hercountenance, animated by the lightning smile of joy, glowed with thebeauty of happy innocence. 

After conversing for a few minutes with the abbess, the Countess rose togo. This was the moment, which Blanche had anticipated with such eagerexpectation, the summit from which she looked down upon the fairy-landof happiness, and surveyed all its enchantment; was it a moment, then, for tears of regret? Yet it was so. She turned, with an altered anddejected countenance, to her young companions, who were come to bid herfarewell, and wept! Even my lady abbess, so stately and so solemn, shesaluted with a degree of sorrow, which, an hour before, she wouldhave believed it impossible to feel, and which may be accounted for byconsidering how reluctantly we all part, even with unpleasing objects, when the separation is consciously for ever. Again, she kissed the poornuns and then followed the Countess from that spot with tears, which sheexpected to leave only with smiles. 

But the presence of her father and the variety of objects, on the road, soon engaged her attention, and dissipated the shade, which tenderregret had thrown upon her spirits. Inattentive to a conversation, whichwas passing between the Countess and a Mademoiselle Bearn, her friend, Blanche sat, lost in pleasing reverie, as she watched the cloudsfloating silently along the blue expanse, now veiling the sun andstretching their shadows along the distant scene, and then disclosingall his brightness. The journey continued to give Blanche inexpressibledelight, for new scenes of nature were every instant opening to herview, and her fancy became stored with gay and beautiful imagery. 

It was on the evening of the seventh day, that the travellers camewithin view of Chateau-le-Blanc, the romantic beauty of whose situationstrongly impressed the imagination of Blanche, who observed, withsublime astonishment, the Pyrenean mountains, which had been seen onlyat a distance during the day, now rising within a few leagues, withtheir wild cliffs and immense precipices, which the evening clouds, floating round them, now disclosed, and again veiled. The setting rays, that tinged their snowy summits with a roseate hue, touched their lowerpoints with various colouring, while the blueish tint, that pervadedtheir shadowy recesses, gave the strength of contrast to the splendourof light. The plains of Languedoc, blushing with the purple vine anddiversified with groves of mulberry, almond and olives, spread far tothe north and the east; to the south, appeared the Mediterranean, clearas crystal, and blue as the heavens it reflected, bearing on its bosomvessels, whose white sails caught the sun-beams, and gave animationto the scene. On a high promontory, washed by the waters of theMediterranean, stood her father's mansion, almost secluded from theeye by woods of intermingled pine, oak and chesnut, which crowned theeminence, and sloped towards the plains, on one side; while, on theother, they extended to a considerable distance along the sea-shores. 

As Blanche drew nearer, the gothic features of this antient mansionsuccessively appeared--first an embattled turret, rising above thetrees--then the broken arch of an immense gate-way, retiring beyondthem; and she almost fancied herself approaching a castle, such as isoften celebrated in early story, where the knights look out from thebattlements on some champion below, who, clothed in black armour, comes, with his companions, to rescue the fair lady of his love fromthe oppression of his rival; a sort of legends, to which she had onceor twice obtained access in the library of her convent, that, likemany others, belonging to the monks, was stored with these reliques ofromantic fiction. 

The carriages stopped at a gate, which led into the domain of thechateau, but which was now fastened; and the great bell, that hadformerly served to announce the arrival of strangers, having long sincefallen from its station, a servant climbed over a ruined part of theadjoining wall, to give notice to those within of the arrival of theirlord. 

As Blanche leaned from the coach window, she resigned herself to thesweet and gentle emotions, which the hour and the scenery awakened. Thesun had now left the earth, and twilight began to darken the mountains;while the distant waters, reflecting the blush that still glowed inthe west, appeared like a line of light, skirting the horizon. The lowmurmur of waves, breaking on the shore, came in the breeze, and, now andthen, the melancholy dashing of oars was feebly heard from a distance. She was suffered to indulge her pensive mood, for the thoughts of therest of the party were silently engaged upon the subjects of theirseveral interests. Meanwhile, the Countess, reflecting, with regret, upon the gay parties she had left at Paris, surveyed, with disgust, whatshe thought the gloomy woods and solitary wildness of the scene; and, shrinking from the prospect of being shut up in an old castle, wasprepared to meet every object with displeasure. The feelings of Henriwere somewhat similar to those of the Countess; he gave a mournful sighto the delights of the capital, and to the remembrance of a lady, who, he believed, had engaged his affections, and who had certainlyfascinated his imagination; but the surrounding country, and the modeof life, on which he was entering, had, for him, at least, the charm ofnovelty, and his regret was softened by the gay expectations of youth. The gates being at length unbarred, the carriage moved slowly on, underspreading chesnuts, that almost excluded the remains of day, followingwhat had been formerly a road, but which now, overgrown with luxuriantvegetation, could be traced only by the boundary, formed by trees, on either side, and which wound for near half a mile among the woods, before it reached the chateau. This was the very avenue that St. Aubert and Emily had formerly entered, on their first arrival in theneighbourhood, with the hope of finding a house, that would receivethem, for the night, and had so abruptly quitted, on perceiving thewildness of the place, and a figure, which the postillion had fanciedwas a robber. 

'What a dismal place is this!' exclaimed the Countess, as the carriagepenetrated the deeper recesses of the woods. 'Surely, my lord, you donot mean to pass all the autumn in this barbarous spot! One ought tobring hither a cup of the waters of Lethe, that the remembrance ofpleasanter scenes may not heighten, at least, the natural dreariness ofthese. '

'I shall be governed by circumstances, madam, ' said the Count, 'thisbarbarous spot was inhabited by my ancestors. '

The carriage now stopped at the chateau, where, at the door of the greathall, appeared the old steward and the Parisian servants, who had beensent to prepare the chateau, waiting to receive their lord. Lady Blanchenow perceived, that the edifice was not built entirely in the gothicstyle, but that it had additions of a more modern date; the large andgloomy hall, however, into which she now entered, was entirely gothic, and sumptuous tapestry, which it was now too dark to distinguish, hungupon the walls, and depictured scenes from some of the antient Provencalromances. A vast gothic window, embroidered with CLEMATIS and eglantine, that ascended to the south, led the eye, now that the casements werethrown open, through this verdant shade, over a sloping lawn, to thetops of dark woods, that hung upon the brow of the promontory. Beyond, appeared the waters of the Mediterranean, stretching far to the south, and to the east, where they were lost in the horizon; while, to thenorth-east, they were bounded by the luxuriant shores of Languedoc andProvence, enriched with wood, and gay with vines and sloping pastures;and, to the south-west, by the majestic Pyrenees, now fading from theeye, beneath the gradual gloom. 

Blanche, as she crossed the hall, stopped a moment to observe thislovely prospect, which the evening twilight obscured, yet did notconceal. But she was quickly awakened from the complacent delight, which this scene had diffused upon her mind, by the Countess, who, discontented with every object around, and impatient for refreshmentand repose, hastened forward to a large parlour, whose cedar wainscot, narrow, pointed casements, and dark ceiling of carved cypress wood, gave it an aspect of peculiar gloom, which the dingy green velvet of thechairs and couches, fringed with tarnished gold, had once been designedto enliven. 

While the Countess enquired for refreshment, the Count, attended byhis son, went to look over some part of the chateau, and Lady Blanchereluctantly remained to witness the discontent and ill-humour of herstep-mother. 

'How long have you lived in this desolate place?' said her ladyship, tothe old house keeper, who came to pay her duty. 

'Above twenty years, your ladyship, on the next feast of St. Jerome. '

'How happened it, that you have lived here so long, and almost alone, too? I understood, that the chateau had been shut up for some years?'

'Yes, madam, it was for many years after my late lord, the Count, wentto the wars; but it is above twenty years, since I and my husband cameinto his service. The place is so large, and has of late been so lonely, that we were lost in it, and, after some time, we went to live in acottage at the end of the woods, near some of the tenants, and came tolook after the chateau, every now and then. When my lord returned toFrance from the wars, he took a dislike to the place, and never cameto live here again, and so he was satisfied with our remaining at thecottage. Alas--alas! how the chateau is changed from what it once was!What delight my late lady used to take in it! I well remember when shecame here a bride, and how fine it was. Now, it has been neglected solong, and is gone into such decay! I shall never see those days again!'

The Countess appearing to be somewhat offended by the thoughtlesssimplicity, with which the old woman regretted former times, Dorotheeadded--'But the chateau will now be inhabited, and cheerful again; notall the world could tempt me to live in it alone. '

'Well, the experiment will not be made, I believe, ' said the Countess, displeased that her own silence had been unable to awe the loquacity ofthis rustic old housekeeper, now spared from further attendance by theentrance of the Count, who said he had been viewing part of thechateau, and found, that it would require considerable repairs and somealterations, before it would be perfectly comfortable, as a place ofresidence. 'I am sorry to hear it, my lord, ' replied the Countess. 'Andwhy sorry, madam?' 'Because the place will ill repay your trouble; andwere it even a paradise, it would be insufferable at such a distancefrom Paris. '

The Count made no reply, but walked abruptly to a window. 'There arewindows, my lord, but they neither admit entertainment, or light; theyshew only a scene of savage nature. '

'I am at a loss, madam, ' said the Count, 'to conjecture what you mean bysavage nature. Do those plains, or those woods, or that fine expanse ofwater, deserve the name?'

'Those mountains certainly do, my lord, ' rejoined the Countess, pointingto the Pyrenees, 'and this chateau, though not a work of rude nature, is, to my taste, at least, one of savage art. ' The Count colouredhighly. 'This place, madam, was the work of my ancestors, ' said he, 'and you must allow me to say, that your present conversation discoversneither good taste, or good manners. ' Blanche, now shocked at analtercation, which appeared to be increasing to a serious disagreement, rose to leave the room, when her mother's woman entered it; and theCountess, immediately desiring to be shewn to her own apartment, withdrew, attended by Mademoiselle Bearn. 

Lady Blanche, it being not yet dark, took this opportunity of exploringnew scenes, and, leaving the parlour, she passed from the hall intoa wide gallery, whose walls were decorated by marble pilasters, whichsupported an arched roof, composed of a rich mosaic work. Through adistant window, that seemed to terminate the gallery, were seen thepurple clouds of evening and a landscape, whose features, thinly veiledin twilight, no longer appeared distinctly, but, blended into one grandmass, stretched to the horizon, coloured only with a tint of solemngrey. 

The gallery terminated in a saloon, to which the window she had seenthrough an open door, belonged; but the increasing dusk permitted heronly an imperfect view of this apartment, which seemed to be magnificentand of modern architecture; though it had been either suffered to fallinto decay, or had never been properly finished. The windows, which werenumerous and large, descended low, and afforded a very extensive, andwhat Blanche's fancy represented to be, a very lovely prospect; andshe stood for some time, surveying the grey obscurity and depicturingimaginary woods and mountains, vallies and rivers, on this scene ofnight; her solemn sensations rather assisted, than interrupted, by thedistant bark of a watch-dog, and by the breeze, as it trembled upon thelight foliage of the shrubs. Now and then, appeared for a moment, amongthe woods, a cottage light; and, at length, was heard, afar off, theevening bell of a convent, dying on the air. When she withdrew herthoughts from these subjects of fanciful delight, the gloom and silenceof the saloon somewhat awed her; and, having sought the door of thegallery, and pursued, for a considerable time, a dark passage, she cameto a hall, but one totally different from that she had formerly seen. By the twilight, admitted through an open portico, she could justdistinguish this apartment to be of very light and airy architecture, and that it was paved with white marble, pillars of which supported theroof, that rose into arches built in the Moorish style. While Blanchestood on the steps of this portico, the moon rose over the sea, andgradually disclosed, in partial light, the beauties of the eminence, onwhich she stood, whence a lawn, now rude and overgrown with high grass, sloped to the woods, that, almost surrounding the chateau, extended in agrand sweep down the southern sides of the promontory to the very marginof the ocean. Beyond the woods, on the north-side, appeared a long tractof the plains of Languedoc; and, to the east, the landscape she hadbefore dimly seen, with the towers of a monastery, illumined by themoon, rising over dark groves. 

The soft and shadowy tint, that overspread the scene, the waves, undulating in the moon-light, and their low and measured murmurs on thebeach, were circumstances, that united to elevate the unaccustomed mindof Blanche to enthusiasm. 

'And have I lived in this glorious world so long, ' said she, 'and nevertill now beheld such a prospect--never experienced these delights! Everypeasant girl, on my father's domain, has viewed from her infancy theface of nature; has ranged, at liberty, her romantic wilds, while I havebeen shut in a cloister from the view of these beautiful appearances, which were designed to enchant all eyes, and awaken all hearts. Howcan the poor nuns and friars feel the full fervour of devotion, if theynever see the sun rise, or set? Never, till this evening, did I knowwhat true devotion is; for, never before did I see the sun sink belowthe vast earth! To-morrow, for the first time in my life, I will seeit rise. O, who would live in Paris, to look upon black walls and dirtystreets, when, in the country, they might gaze on the blue heavens, andall the green earth!'

This enthusiastic soliloquy was interrupted by a rustling noise in thehall; and, while the loneliness of the place made her sensible to fear, she thought she perceived something moving between the pillars. Fora moment, she continued silently observing it, till, ashamed of herridiculous apprehensions, she recollected courage enough to demand whowas there. 'O my young lady, is it you?' said the old housekeeper, whowas come to shut the windows, 'I am glad it is you. ' The manner, inwhich she spoke this, with a faint breath, rather surprised Blanche, whosaid, 'You seemed frightened, Dorothee, what is the matter?'

'No, not frightened, ma'amselle, ' replied Dorothee, hesitating andtrying to appear composed, 'but I am old, and--a little matter startlesme. ' The Lady Blanche smiled at the distinction. 'I am glad, that mylord the Count is come to live at the chateau, ma'amselle, ' continuedDorothee, 'for it has been many a year deserted, and dreary enough; now, the place will look a little as it used to do, when my poor lady wasalive. ' Blanche enquired how long it was, since the Marchioness died?'Alas! my lady, ' replied Dorothee, 'so long--that I have ceased to countthe years! The place, to my mind, has mourned ever since, and I am suremy lord's vassals have! But you have lost yourself, ma'amselle, --shall Ishew you to the other side of the chateau?'

Blanche enquired how long this part of the edifice had been built. 'Soonafter my lord's marriage, ma'am, ' replied Dorothee. 'The place was largeenough without this addition, for many rooms of the old building wereeven then never made use of, and my lord had a princely household too;but he thought the antient mansion gloomy, and gloomy enough it is!'Lady Blanche now desired to be shewn to the inhabited part of thechateau; and, as the passages were entirely dark, Dorothee conducted heralong the edge of the lawn to the opposite side of the edifice, where, a door opening into the great hall, she was met by Mademoiselle Bearn. 'Where have you been so long?' said she, 'I had begun to think somewonderful adventure had befallen you, and that the giant of thisenchanted castle, or the ghost, which, no doubt, haunts it, had conveyedyou through a trap-door into some subterranean vault, whence you wasnever to return. '

'No, ' replied Blanche, laughingly, 'you seem to love adventures so well, that I leave them for you to achieve. '

'Well, I am willing to achieve them, provided I am allowed to describethem. '

'My dear Mademoiselle Bearn, ' said Henri, as he met her at the door ofthe parlour, 'no ghost of these days would be so savage as to imposesilence on you. Our ghosts are more civilized than to condemn a lady toa purgatory severer even, than their own, be it what it may. '

Mademoiselle Bearn replied only by a laugh; and, the Count now enteringthe room, supper was served, during which he spoke little, frequentlyappeared to be abstracted from the company, and more than once remarked, that the place was greatly altered, since he had last seen it. 'Manyyears have intervened since that period, ' said he; 'and, though thegrand features of the scenery admit of no change, they impress me withsensations very different from those I formerly experienced. '

'Did these scenes, sir, ' said Blanche, 'ever appear more lovely, thanthey do now? To me this seems hardly possible. ' The Count, regarding herwith a melancholy smile, said, 'They once were as delightful to me, asthey are now to you; the landscape is not changed, but time has changedme; from my mind the illusion, which gave spirit to the colouring ofnature, is fading fast! If you live, my dear Blanche, to re-visit thisspot, at the distance of many years, you will, perhaps, remember andunderstand the feelings of your father. '

Lady Blanche, affected by these words, remained silent; she lookedforward to the period, which the Count anticipated, and considering, that he, who now spoke, would then probably be no more, her eyes, bentto the ground, were filed with tears. She gave her hand to her father, who, smiling affectionately, rose from his chair, and went to a windowto conceal his emotion. 

The fatigues of the day made the party separate at an early hour, when Blanche retired through a long oak gallery to her chamber, whosespacious and lofty walls, high antiquated casements, and, what was theeffect of these, its gloomy air, did not reconcile her to its remotesituation, in this antient building. The furniture, also, was of antientdate; the bed was of blue damask, trimmed with tarnished gold lace, and its lofty tester rose in the form of a canopy, whence the curtainsdescended, like those of such tents as are sometimes represented in oldpictures, and, indeed, much resembling those, exhibited on the fadedtapestry, with which the chamber was hung. To Blanche, every object herewas matter of curiosity; and, taking the light from her woman to examinethe tapestry, she perceived, that it represented scenes from the warsof Troy, though the almost colourless worsted now mocked the glowingactions they once had painted. She laughed at the ludicrous absurdityshe observed, till, recollecting, that the hands, which had wove it, were, like the poet, whose thoughts of fire they had attempted toexpress, long since mouldered into dust, a train of melancholy ideaspassed over her mind, and she almost wept. 

Having given her woman a strict injunction to awaken her, beforesun-rise, she dismissed her; and then, to dissipate the gloom, whichreflection had cast upon her spirits, opened one of the high casements, and was again cheered by the face of living nature. The shadowy earth, the air, and ocean--all was still. Along the deep serene of the heavens, a few light clouds floated slowly, through whose skirts the stars nowseemed to tremble, and now to emerge with purer splendour. Blanche'sthoughts arose involuntarily to the Great Author of the sublime objectsshe contemplated, and she breathed a prayer of finer devotion, than anyshe had ever uttered beneath the vaulted roof of a cloister. At thiscasement, she remained till the glooms of midnight were stretched overthe prospect. She then retired to her pillow, and, 'with gay visions ofto-morrow, ' to those sweet slumbers, which health and happy innocenceonly know. 

 To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. 

CHAPTER XI

 What transport to retrace our early plays, Our easy bliss, when each thing joy supplied The woods, the mountains and the warbling maze Of the wild brooks! THOMSON

Blanche's slumbers continued, till long after the hour, which she hadso impatiently anticipated, for her woman, fatigued with travelling, did not call her, till breakfast was nearly ready. Her disappointment, however, was instantly forgotten, when, on opening the casement, shesaw, on one hand, the wide sea sparkling in the morning rays, with itsstealing sails and glancing oars; and, on the other, the fresh woods, the plains far-stretching and the blue mountains, all glowing with thesplendour of day. 

As she inspired the pure breeze, health spread a deeper blush upon hercountenance, and pleasure danced in her eyes. 

'Who could first invent convents!' said she, 'and who could firstpersuade people to go into them? and to make religion a pretence, too, where all that should inspire it, is so carefully shut out! God isbest pleased with the homage of a grateful heart, and, when we view hisglories, we feel most grateful. I never felt so much devotion, duringthe many dull years I was in the convent, as I have done in the fewhours, that I have been here, where I need only look on all aroundme--to adore God in my inmost heart!'

Saying this, she left the window, bounded along the gallery, and, inthe next moment, was in the breakfast room, where the Count wasalready seated. The cheerfulness of a bright sunshine had dispersedthe melancholy glooms of his reflections, a pleasant smile was on hiscountenance, and he spoke in an enlivening voice to Blanche, whoseheart echoed back the tones. Henri and, soon after, the Countess withMademoiselle Bearn appeared, and the whole party seemed to acknowledgethe influence of the scene; even the Countess was so much re-animated asto receive the civilities of her husband with complacency, and but onceforgot her good-humour, which was when she asked whether they had anyneighbours, who were likely to make THIS BARBAROUS SPOT more tolerable, and whether the Count believed it possible for her to exist here, without some amusement?

Soon after breakfast the party dispersed; the Count, ordering hissteward to attend him in the library, went to survey the condition ofhis premises, and to visit some of his tenants; Henri hastened withalacrity to the shore to examine a boat, that was to bear them on alittle voyage in the evening and to superintend the adjustment of a silkawning; while the Countess, attended by Mademoiselle Bearn, retired toan apartment on the modern side of the chateau, which was fitted up withairy elegance; and, as the windows opened upon balconies, that frontedthe sea, she was there saved from a view of the HORRID Pyrenees. Here, while she reclined on a sofa, and, casting her languid eyes over theocean, which appeared beyond the wood-tops, indulged in the luxuries ofENNUI, her companion read aloud a sentimental novel, on some fashionablesystem of philosophy, for the Countess was herself somewhat of aPHILOSOPHER, especially as to INFIDELITY, and among a certain circle heropinions were waited for with impatience, and received as doctrines. 

The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, hastened to indulge, amidst the wildwood-walks around the chateau, her new enthusiasm, where, as shewandered under the shades, her gay spirits gradually yielded to pensivecomplacency. Now, she moved with solemn steps, beneath the gloom ofthickly interwoven branches, where the fresh dew still hung upon everyflower, that peeped from among the grass; and now tripped sportivelyalong the path, on which the sunbeams darted and the checquered foliagetrembled--where the tender greens of the beech, the acacia and themountain-ash, mingling with the solemn tints of the cedar, the pine andcypress, exhibited as fine a contrast of colouring, as the majestic oakand oriental plane did of form, to the feathery lightness of the corktree and the waving grace of the poplar. 

Having reached a rustic seat, within a deep recess of the woods, sherested awhile, and, as her eyes caught, through a distant opening, aglimpse of the blue waters of the Mediterranean, with the white sail, gliding on its bosom, or of the broad mountain, glowing beneath themid-day sun, her mind experienced somewhat of that exquisite delight, which awakens the fancy, and leads to poetry. The hum of bees alonebroke the stillness around her, as, with other insects of varioushues, they sported gaily in the shade, or sipped sweets from the freshflowers: and, while Blanche watched a butter-fly, flitting from bud tobud, she indulged herself in imagining the pleasures of its short day, till she had composed the following stanzas. 

 THE BUTTER-FLY TO HIS LOVE

 What bowery dell, with fragrant breath, Courts thee to stay thy airy flight; Nor seek again the purple heath, So oft the scene of gay delight?

 Long I've watch'd i' the lily's bell, Whose whiteness stole the morning's beam; No fluttering sounds thy coming tell, No waving wings, at distance, gleam. 

 But fountain fresh, nor breathing grove, Nor sunny mead, nor blossom'd tree, So sweet as lily's cell shall prove, -- The bower of constant love and me. 

 When April buds begin to blow, The prim-rose, and the hare-bell blue, That on the verdant moss bank grow, With violet cups, that weep in dew;

 When wanton gales breathe through the shade, And shake the blooms, and steal their sweets, And swell the song of ev'ry glade, I range the forest's green retreats:

 There, through the tangled wood-walks play, Where no rude urchin paces near, Where sparely peeps the sultry day, And light dews freshen all the air. 

 High on a sun-beam oft I sport O'er bower and fountain, vale and hill; Oft ev'ry blushing flow'ret court, That hangs its head o'er winding rill. 

 But these I'll leave to be thy guide, And shew thee, where the jasmine spreads Her snowy leaf, where may-flow'rs hide, And rose-buds rear their peeping heads. 

 With me the mountain's summit scale, And taste the wild-thyme's honied bloom, Whose fragrance, floating on the gale, Oft leads me to the cedar's gloom. 

 Yet, yet, no sound comes in the breeze! What shade thus dares to tempt thy stay? Once, me alone thou wish'd to please, And with me only thou wouldst stray. 

 But, while thy long delay I mourn, And chide the sweet shades for their guile, Thou may'st be true, and they forlorn, And fairy favours court thy smile. 

 The tiny queen of fairy-land, Who knows thy speed, hath sent thee far, To bring, or ere the night-watch stand, Rich essence for her shadowy car:

 Perchance her acorn-cups to fill With nectar from the Indian rose, Or gather, near some haunted rill, May-dews, that lull to sleep Love's woes:

 Or, o'er the mountains, bade thee fly, To tell her fairy love to speed, When ev'ning steals upon the sky, To dance along the twilight mead. 

 But now I see thee sailing low, Gay as the brightest flow'rs of spring, Thy coat of blue and jet I know, And well thy gold and purple wing. 

 Borne on the gale, thou com'st to me; O! welcome, welcome to my home! In lily's cell we'll live in glee, Together o'er the mountains roam!

When Lady Blanche returned to the chateau, instead of going to theapartment of the Countess, she amused herself with wandering over thatpart of the edifice, which she had not yet examined, of which the mostantient first attracted her curiosity; for, though what she had seen ofthe modern was gay and elegant, there was something in the former moreinteresting to her imagination. Having passed up the great stair-case, and through the oak gallery, she entered upon a long suite of chambers, whose walls were either hung with tapestry, or wainscoted with cedar, the furniture of which looked almost as antient as the rooms themselves;the spacious fire-places, where no mark of social cheer remained, presented an image of cold desolation; and the whole suite had so muchthe air of neglect and desertion, that it seemed, as if the venerablepersons, whose portraits hung upon the walls, had been the last toinhabit them. 

On leaving these rooms, she found herself in another gallery, one end ofwhich was terminated by a back stair-case, and the other by a door, that seemed to communicate with the north-side of the chateau, but whichbeing fastened, she descended the stair-case, and, opening a door inthe wall, a few steps down, found herself in a small square room, thatformed part of the west turret of the castle. Three windows presentedeach a separate and beautiful prospect; that to the north, overlookingLanguedoc; another to the west, the hills ascending towards thePyrenees, whose awful summits crowned the landscape; and a third, fronting the south, gave the Mediterranean, and a part of the wildshores of Rousillon, to the eye. 

Having left the turret, and descended the narrow stair-case, she foundherself in a dusky passage, where she wandered, unable to find her way, till impatience yielded to apprehension, and she called for assistance. Presently steps approached, and light glimmered through a door at theother extremity of the passage, which was opened with caution by someperson, who did not venture beyond it, and whom Blanche observedin silence, till the door was closing, when she called aloud, and, hastening towards it, perceived the old housekeeper. 'Dear ma'amselle!is it you?' said Dorothee, 'How could you find your way hither?' HadBlanche been less occupied by her own fears, she would probably haveobserved the strong expressions of terror and surprise on Dorothee'scountenance, who now led her through a long succession of passages androoms, that looked as if they had been uninhabited for a century, till they reached that appropriated to the housekeeper, where Dorotheeentreated she would sit down and take refreshment. Blanche accepted thesweet meats, offered to her, mentioned her discovery of the pleasantturret, and her wish to appropriate it to her own use. WhetherDorothee's taste was not so sensible to the beauties of landscape as heryoung lady's, or that the constant view of lovely scenery had deadenedit, she forbore to praise the subject of Blanche's enthusiasm, which, however, her silence did not repress. To Lady Blanche's enquiry ofwhither the door she had found fastened at the end of the gallery led, she replied, that it opened to a suite of rooms, which had not beenentered, during many years, 'For, ' added she, 'my late lady died in oneof them, and I could never find in my heart to go into them since. '

Blanche, though she wished to see these chambers, forbore, on observingthat Dorothee's eyes were filled with tears, to ask her to unlock them, and, soon after, went to dress for dinner, at which the whole party metin good spirits and good humour, except the Countess, whose vacant mind, overcome by the languor of idleness, would neither suffer her to behappy herself, or to contribute to the happiness of others. MademoiselleBearn, attempting to be witty, directed her badinage against Henri, who answered, because he could not well avoid it, rather than from anyinclination to notice her, whose liveliness sometimes amused, but whoseconceit and insensibility often disgusted him. 

The cheerfulness, with which Blanche rejoined the party, vanished, onher reaching the margin of the sea; she gazed with apprehension uponthe immense expanse of waters, which, at a distance, she had beheld onlywith delight and astonishment, and it was by a strong effort, that sheso far overcame her fears as to follow her father into the boat. 

As she silently surveyed the vast horizon, bending round the distantverge of the ocean, an emotion of sublimest rapture struggled toovercome a sense of personal danger. A light breeze played on thewater, and on the silk awning of the boat, and waved the foliage of thereceding woods, that crowned the cliffs, for many miles, and which theCount surveyed with the pride of conscious property, as well as with theeye of taste. 

At some distance, among these woods, stood a pavilion, which had oncebeen the scene of social gaiety, and which its situation still madeone of romantic beauty. Thither, the Count had ordered coffee and otherrefreshment to be carried, and thither the sailors now steeredtheir course, following the windings of the shore round many a woodypromontory and circling bay; while the pensive tones of horns and otherwind instruments, played by the attendants in a distant boat, echoedamong the rocks, and died along the waves. Blanche had now subdued herfears; a delightful tranquillity stole over her mind, and held her insilence; and she was too happy even to remember the convent, or herformer sorrows, as subjects of comparison with her present felicity. 

The Countess felt less unhappy than she had done, since the moment ofher leaving Paris; for her mind was now under some degree of restraint;she feared to indulge its wayward humours, and even wished to recoverthe Count's good opinion. On his family, and on the surrounding scene, he looked with tempered pleasure and benevolent satisfaction, while hisson exhibited the gay spirits of youth, anticipating new delights, andregretless of those, that were passed. 

After near an hour's rowing, the party landed, and ascended a littlepath, overgrown with vegetation. At a little distance from the pointof the eminence, within the shadowy recess of the woods, appearedthe pavilion, which Blanche perceived, as she caught a glimpse of itsportico between the trees, to be built of variegated marble. As shefollowed the Countess, she often turned her eyes with rapture towardsthe ocean, seen beneath the dark foliage, far below, and from thenceupon the deep woods, whose silence and impenetrable gloom awakenedemotions more solemn, but scarcely less delightful. 

The pavilion had been prepared, as far as was possible, on a very shortnotice, for the reception of its visitors; but the faded colours ofits painted walls and ceiling, and the decayed drapery of its oncemagnificent furniture, declared how long it had been neglected, andabandoned to the empire of the changing seasons. While the party partookof a collation of fruit and coffee, the horns, placed in a distant partof the woods, where an echo sweetened and prolonged their melancholytones, broke softly on the stillness of the scene. This spot seemed toattract even the admiration of the Countess, or, perhaps, it was merelythe pleasure of planning furniture and decorations, that made her dwellso long on the necessity of repairing and adorning it; while the Count, never happier than when he saw her mind engaged by natural and simpleobjects, acquiesced in all her designs, concerning the pavilion. The paintings on the walls and coved ceiling were to be renewed, thecanopies and sofas were to be of light green damask; marble statues ofwood-nymphs, bearing on their heads baskets of living flowers, were toadorn the recesses between the windows, which, descending to the ground, were to admit to every part of the room, and it was of octagonal form, the various landscape. One window opened upon a romantic glade, wherethe eye roved among the woody recesses, and the scene was boundedonly by a lengthened pomp of groves; from another, the woods recedingdisclosed the distant summits of the Pyrenees; a third fronted anavenue, beyond which the grey towers of Chateau-le-Blanc, and apicturesque part of its ruin were seen partially among the foliage;while a fourth gave, between the trees, a glimpse of the green pasturesand villages, that diversify the banks of the Aude. The Mediterranean, with the bold cliffs, that overlooked its shores, were the grand objectsof a fifth window, and the others gave, in different points of view, thewild scenery of the woods. 

After wandering, for some time, in these, the party returned to theshore and embarked; and, the beauty of the evening tempting them toextend their excursion, they proceeded further up the bay. A dead calmhad succeeded the light breeze, that wafted them hither, and the mentook to their oars. Around, the waters were spread into one vast expanseof polished mirror, reflecting the grey cliffs and feathery woods, thatover-hung its surface, the glow of the western horizon and the darkclouds, that came slowly from the east. Blanche loved to see the dippingoars imprint the water, and to watch the spreading circles they left, which gave a tremulous motion to the reflected landscape, withoutdestroying the harmony of its features. 

Above the darkness of the woods, her eye now caught a cluster of hightowers, touched with the splendour of the setting rays; and, soon after, the horns being then silent, she heard the faint swell of choral voicesfrom a distance. 

'What voices are those, upon the air?' said the Count, lookinground, and listening; but the strain had ceased. 'It seemed to be avesper-hymn, which I have often heard in my convent, ' said Blanche. 

'We are near the monastery, then, ' observed the Count; and, the boatsoon after doubling a lofty head-land, the monastery of St. Claireappeared, seated near the margin of the sea, where the cliffs, suddenlysinking, formed a low shore within a small bay, almost encircled withwoods, among which partial features of the edifice were seen;--the greatgate and gothic window of the hall, the cloisters and the side of achapel more remote; while a venerable arch, which had once led to a partof the fabric, now demolished, stood a majestic ruin detached from themain building, beyond which appeared a grand perspective of the woods. On the grey walls, the moss had fastened, and, round the pointed windowsof the chapel, the ivy and the briony hung in many a fantastic wreath. 

All without was silent and forsaken; but, while Blanche gazed withadmiration on this venerable pile, whose effect was heightened by thestrong lights and shadows thrown athwart it by a cloudy sun-set, a soundof many voices, slowly chanting, arose from within. The Count bade hismen rest on their oars. The monks were singing the hymn of vespers, andsome female voices mingled with the strain, which rose by soft degrees, till the high organ and the choral sounds swelled into full and solemnharmony. The strain, soon after, dropped into sudden silence, and wasrenewed in a low and still more solemn key, till, at length, the holychorus died away, and was heard no more. --Blanche sighed, tears trembledin her eyes, and her thoughts seemed wafted with the sounds to heaven. While a rapt stillness prevailed in the boat, a train of friars, andthen of nuns, veiled in white, issued from the cloisters, and passed, under the shade of the woods, to the main body of the edifice. 

The Countess was the first of her party to awaken from this pause ofsilence. 

'These dismal hymns and friars make one quite melancholy, ' said she;'twilight is coming on; pray let us return, or it will be dark before weget home. '

The count, looking up, now perceived, that the twilight of eveningwas anticipated by an approaching storm. In the east a tempest wascollecting; a heavy gloom came on, opposing and contrasting the glowingsplendour of the setting sun. The clamorous sea-fowl skimmed in fleetcircles upon the surface of the sea, dipping their light pinions in thewave, as they fled away in search of shelter. The boatmen pulled hardat their oars; but the thunder, that now muttered at a distance, and theheavy drops, that began to dimple the water, made the Count determineto put back to the monastery for shelter, and the course of the boatwas immediately changed. As the clouds approached the west, their luriddarkness changed to a deep ruddy glow, which, by reflection, seemed tofire the tops of the woods and the shattered towers of the monastery. 

The appearance of the heavens alarmed the Countess and MademoiselleBearn, whose expressions of apprehension distressed the Count, andperplexed his men; while Blanche continued silent, now agitated withfear, and now with admiration, as she viewed the grandeur of the clouds, and their effect on the scenery, and listened to the long, long peals ofthunder, that rolled through the air. 

The boat having reached the lawn before the monastery, the Count sent aservant to announce his arrival, and to entreat shelter of the Superior, who, soon after, appeared at the great gate, attended by severalmonks, while the servant returned with a message, expressive at once ofhospitality and pride, but of pride disguised in submission. The partyimmediately disembarked, and, having hastily crossed the lawn--for theshower was now heavy--were received at the gate by the Superior, who, asthey entered, stretched forth his hands and gave his blessing; and theypassed into the great hall, where the lady abbess waited, attended byseveral nuns, clothed, like herself, in black, and veiled in white. The veil of the abbess was, however, thrown half back, and discovered acountenance, whose chaste dignity was sweetened by the smile of welcome, with which she addressed the Countess, whom she led, with Blanche andMademoiselle Bearn, into the convent parlour, while the Count and Henriwere conducted by the Superior to the refectory. 

The Countess, fatigued and discontented, received the politeness of theabbess with careless haughtiness, and had followed her, with indolentsteps, to the parlour, over which the painted casements and wainscot oflarch-wood threw, at all times, a melancholy shade, and where the gloomof evening now loured almost to darkness. 

While the lady abbess ordered refreshment, and conversed with theCountess, Blanche withdrew to a window, the lower panes of which, beingwithout painting, allowed her to observe the progress of the storm overthe Mediterranean, whose dark waves, that had so lately slept, now cameboldly swelling, in long succession, to the shore, where they burst inwhite foam, and threw up a high spray over the rocks. A red sulphureoustint overspread the long line of clouds, that hung above the westernhorizon, beneath whose dark skirts the sun looking out, illumined thedistant shores of Languedoc, as well as the tufted summits of the nearerwoods, and shed a partial gleam on the western waves. The rest of thescene was in deep gloom, except where a sun-beam, darting between theclouds, glanced on the white wings of the sea-fowl, that circled highamong them, or touched the swelling sail of a vessel, which was seenlabouring in the storm. Blanche, for some time, anxiously watched theprogress of the bark, as it threw the waves in foam around it, and, asthe lightnings flashed, looked to the opening heavens, with many a sighfor the fate of the poor mariners. 

The sun, at length, set, and the heavy clouds, which had long impended, dropped over the splendour of his course; the vessel, however, wasyet dimly seen, and Blanche continued to observe it, till the quicksuccession of flashes, lighting up the gloom of the whole horizon, warned her to retire from the window, and she joined the Abbess, who, having exhausted all her topics of conversation with the Countess, hadnow leisure to notice her. 

But their discourse was interrupted by tremendous peals of thunder;and the bell of the monastery soon after ringing out, summoned theinhabitants to prayer. As Blanche passed the window, she gave anotherlook to the ocean, where, by the momentary flash, that illumined thevast body of the waters, she distinguished the vessel she had observedbefore, amidst a sea of foam, breaking the billows, the mast now bowingto the waves, and then rising high in air. 

She sighed fervently as she gazed, and then followed the Lady Abbessand the Countess to the chapel. Meanwhile, some of the Count's servants, having gone by land to the chateau for carriages, returned soon aftervespers had concluded, when, the storm being somewhat abated, the Countand his family returned home. Blanche was surprised to discover how muchthe windings of the shore had deceived her, concerning the distance ofthe chateau from the monastery, whose vesper bell she had heard, on thepreceding evening, from the windows of the west saloon, and whose towersshe would also have seen from thence, had not twilight veiled them. 

On their arrival at the chateau, the Countess, affecting more fatigue, than she really felt, withdrew to her apartment, and the Count, withhis daughter and Henri, went to the supper-room, where they had not beenlong, when they heard, in a pause of the gust, a firing of guns, whichthe Count understanding to be signals of distress from some vessel inthe storm, went to a window, that opened towards the Mediterranean, toobserve further; but the sea was now involved in utter darkness, andthe loud howlings of the tempest had again overcome every other sound. Blanche, remembering the bark, which she had before seen, now joined herfather, with trembling anxiety. In a few moments, the report of guns wasagain borne along the wind, and as suddenly wafted away; a tremendousburst of thunder followed, and, in the flash, that had preceded it, andwhich seemed to quiver over the whole surface of the waters, a vesselwas discovered, tossing amidst the white foam of the waves at somedistance from the shore. Impenetrable darkness again involved the scene, but soon a second flash shewed the bark, with one sail unfurled, drivingtowards the coast. Blanche hung upon her father's arm, with looks fullof the agony of united terror and pity, which were unnecessary toawaken the heart of the Count, who gazed upon the sea with a piteousexpression, and, perceiving, that no boat could live in the storm, forbore to send one; but he gave orders to his people to carry torchesout upon the cliffs, hoping they might prove a kind of beacon to thevessel, or, at least, warn the crew of the rocks they were approaching. While Henri went out to direct on what part of the cliffs the lightsshould appear, Blanche remained with her father, at the window, catching, every now and then, as the lightnings flashed, a glimpse ofthe vessel; and she soon saw, with reviving hope, the torches flamingon the blackness of night, and, as they waved over the cliffs, casting ared gleam on the gasping billows. When the firing of guns was repeated, the torches were tossed high in the air, as if answering the signal, andthe firing was then redoubled; but, though the wind bore the sound away, she fancied, as the lightnings glanced, that the vessel was much nearerthe shore. 

The Count's servants were now seen, running to and fro, on the rocks;some venturing almost to the point of the crags, and bending over, heldout their torches fastened to long poles; while others, whose stepscould be traced only by the course of the lights, descended the steepand dangerous path, that wound to the margin of the sea, and, with loudhalloos, hailed the mariners, whose shrill whistle, and then feeblevoices, were heard, at intervals, mingling with the storm. Sudden shoutsfrom the people on the rocks increased the anxiety of Blanche to analmost intolerable degree: but her suspense, concerning the fate of themariners, was soon over, when Henri, running breathless into the room, told that the vessel was anchored in the bay below, but in so shattereda condition, that it was feared she would part before the crew coulddisembark. The Count immediately gave orders for his own boats to assistin bringing them to shore, and that such of these unfortunatestrangers as could not be accommodated in the adjacent hamlet shouldbe entertained at the chateau. Among the latter, were Emily St. Aubert, Monsieur Du Pont, Ludovico and Annette, who, having embarked at Leghornand reached Marseilles, were from thence crossing the Gulf of Lyons, when this storm overtook them. They were received by the Count with hisusual benignity, who, though Emily wished to have proceeded immediatelyto the monastery of St. Claire, would not allow her to leave thechateau, that night; and, indeed, the terror and fatigue she hadsuffered would scarcely have permitted her to go farther. 

In Monsieur Du Pont the Count discovered an old acquaintance, andmuch joy and congratulation passed between them, after which Emily wasintroduced by name to the Count's family, whose hospitable benevolencedissipated the little embarrassment, which her situation had occasionedher, and the party were soon seated at the supper-table. The unaffectedkindness of Blanche and the lively joy she expressed on the escape ofthe strangers, for whom her pity had been so much interested, graduallyrevived Emily's languid spirits; and Du Pont, relieved from his terrorsfor her and for himself, felt the full contrast, between his latesituation on a dark and tremendous ocean, and his present one, in acheerful mansion, where he was surrounded with plenty, elegance andsmiles of welcome. 

Annette, meanwhile, in the servants' hall, was telling of all thedangers she had encountered, and congratulating herself so heartily uponher own and Ludovico's escape, and on her present comforts, thatshe often made all that part of the chateau ring with merrimentand laughter. Ludovico's spirits were as gay as her own, but he haddiscretion enough to restrain them, and tried to check hers, though invain, till her laughter, at length, ascended to MY LADY'S chamber, whosent to enquire what occasioned so much uproar in the chateau, and tocommand silence. 

Emily withdrew early to seek the repose she so much required, buther pillow was long a sleepless one. On this her return to her nativecountry, many interesting remembrances were awakened; all the eventsand sufferings she had experienced, since she quitted it, came inlong succession to her fancy, and were chased only by the image ofValancourt, with whom to believe herself once more in the same land, after they had been so long, and so distantly separated, gave heremotions of indescribable joy, but which afterwards yielded to anxietyand apprehension, when she considered the long period, that had elapsed, since any letter had passed between them, and how much might havehappened in this interval to affect her future peace. But the thought, that Valancourt might be now no more, or, if living, might haveforgotten her, was so very terrible to her heart, that she wouldscarcely suffer herself to pause upon the possibility. She determined toinform him, on the following day, of her arrival in France, which it wasscarcely possible he could know but by a letter from herself, and, aftersoothing her spirits with the hope of soon hearing, that he was well, and unchanged in his affections, she, at length, sunk to repose. 

CHAPTER XII

 Oft woo'd the gleam of Cynthia, silver-bright, In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of folly, With freedom by my side, and soft-ey'd melancholy. GRAY

The Lady Blanche was so much interested for Emily, that, upon hearingshe was going to reside in the neighbouring convent, she requested theCount would invite her to lengthen her stay at the chateau. 'And youknow, my dear sir, ' added Blanche, 'how delighted I shall be with sucha companion; for, at present, I have no friend to walk, or to read with, since Mademoiselle Bearn is my mamma's friend only. '

The Count smiled at the youthful simplicity, with which his daughteryielded to first impressions; and, though he chose to warn her of theirdanger, he silently applauded the benevolence, that could thus readilyexpand in confidence to a stranger. He had observed Emily, withattention, on the preceding evening, and was as much pleased withher, as it was possible he could be with any person, on so short anacquaintance. The mention, made of her by Mons. Du Pont, had also givenhim a favourable impression of Emily; but, extremely cautious asto those, whom he introduced to the intimacy of his daughter, hedetermined, on hearing that the former was no stranger at the convent ofSt. Claire, to visit the abbess, and, if her account corresponded withhis wish, to invite Emily to pass some time at the chateau. On thissubject, he was influenced by a consideration of the Lady Blanche'swelfare, still more than by either a wish to oblige her, or to befriendthe orphan Emily, for whom, however, he felt considerably interested. 

On the following morning, Emily was too much fatigued to appear; butMons. Du Pont was at the breakfast-table, when the Count entered theroom, who pressed him, as his former acquaintance, and the son of a veryold friend, to prolong his stay at the chateau; an invitation, which DuPont willingly accepted, since it would allow him to be near Emily; and, though he was not conscious of encouraging a hope, that she wouldever return his affection, he had not fortitude enough to attempt, atpresent, to overcome it. 

Emily, when she was somewhat recovered, wandered with her new friendover the grounds belonging to the chateau, as much delighted with thesurrounding views, as Blanche, in the benevolence of her heart, hadwished; from thence she perceived, beyond the woods, the towers of themonastery, and remarked, that it was to this convent she designed to go. 

'Ah!' said Blanche with surprise, 'I am but just released from aconvent, and would you go into one? If you could know what pleasureI feel in wandering here, at liberty, --and in seeing the sky and thefields, and the woods all round me, I think you would not. ' Emily, smiling at the warmth, with which the Lady Blanche spoke, observed, thatshe did not mean to confine herself to a convent for life. 

'No, you may not intend it now, ' said Blanche; 'but you do not know towhat the nuns may persuade you to consent: I know how kind they willappear, and how happy, for I have seen too much of their art. '

When they returned to the chateau, Lady Blanche conducted Emily toher favourite turret, and from thence they rambled through the ancientchambers, which Blanche had visited before. Emily was amused byobserving the structure of these apartments, and the fashion of theirold but still magnificent furniture, and by comparing them with thoseof the castle of Udolpho, which were yet more antique and grotesque. She was also interested by Dorothee the house-keeper, who attended them, whose appearance was almost as antique as the objects around her, andwho seemed no less interested by Emily, on whom she frequently gazedwith so much deep attention, as scarcely to hear what was said to her. 

While Emily looked from one of the casements, she perceived, withsurprise, some objects, that were familiar to her memory;--the fieldsand woods, with the gleaming brook, which she had passed with La Voisin, one evening, soon after the death of Monsieur St. Aubert, in her wayfrom the monastery to her cottage; and she now knew this to be thechateau, which he had then avoided, and concerning which he had droppedsome remarkable hints. 

Shocked by this discovery, yet scarcely knowing why, she mused forsome time in silence, and remembered the emotion, which her fatherhad betrayed on finding himself so near this mansion, and some othercircumstances of his conduct, that now greatly interested her. Themusic, too, which she had formerly heard, and, respecting which LaVoisin had given such an odd account, occurred to her, and, desirous ofknowing more concerning it, she asked Dorothee whether it returned atmidnight, as usual, and whether the musician had yet been discovered. 

'Yes, ma'amselle, ' replied Dorothee, 'that music is still heard, butthe musician has never been found out, nor ever will, I believe; thoughthere are some people, who can guess. '

'Indeed!' said Emily, 'then why do they not pursue the enquiry?'

'Ah, young lady! enquiry enough has been made--but who can pursue aspirit?'

Emily smiled, and, remembering how lately she had suffered herself to beled away by superstition, determined now to resist its contagion; yet, in spite of her efforts, she felt awe mingle with her curiosity, onthis subject; and Blanche, who had hitherto listened in silence, nowenquired what this music was, and how long it had been heard. 

'Ever since the death of my lady, madam, ' replied Dorothee. 

'Why, the place is not haunted, surely?' said Blanche, between jestingand seriousness. 

'I have heard that music almost ever since my dear lady died, ' continuedDorothee, 'and never before then. But that is nothing to some things Icould tell of. '

'Do, pray, tell them, then, ' said Lady Blanche, now more in earnest thanin jest. 'I am much interested, for I have heard sister Henriette, andsister Sophie, in the convent, tell of such strange appearances, whichthey themselves had witnessed!'

'You never heard, my lady, I suppose, what made us leave the chateau, and go and live in a cottage, ' said Dorothee. 'Never!' replied Blanchewith impatience. 

'Nor the reason, that my lord, the Marquis'--Dorothee checked herself, hesitated, and then endeavoured to change the topic; but the curiosityof Blanche was too much awakened to suffer the subject thus easily toescape her, and she pressed the old house-keeper to proceed with heraccount, upon whom, however, no entreaties could prevail; and it wasevident, that she was alarmed for the imprudence, into which she hadalready betrayed herself. 

'I perceive, ' said Emily, smiling, 'that all old mansions are haunted; Iam lately come from a place of wonders; but unluckily, since I left it, I have heard almost all of them explained. '

Blanche was silent; Dorothee looked grave, and sighed; and Emily feltherself still inclined to believe more of the wonderful, than shechose to acknowledge. Just then, she remembered the spectacle she hadwitnessed in a chamber of Udolpho, and, by an odd kind of coincidence, the alarming words, that had accidentally met her eye in the MS. Papers, which she had destroyed, in obedience to the command of her father; andshe shuddered at the meaning they seemed to impart, almost as much as atthe horrible appearance, disclosed by the black veil. 

The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, unable to prevail with Dorothee to explainthe subject of her late hints, had desired, on reaching the door, thatterminated the gallery, and which she found fastened on the precedingday, to see the suite of rooms beyond. 'Dear young lady, ' said thehousekeeper, 'I have told you my reason for not opening them; I havenever seen them, since my dear lady died; and it would go hard with meto see them now. Pray, madam, do not ask me again. '

'Certainly I will not, ' replied Blanche, 'if that is really yourobjection. '

'Alas! it is, ' said the old woman: 'we all loved her well, and I shallalways grieve for her. Time runs round! it is now many years, since shedied; but I remember every thing, that happened then, as if it was butyesterday. Many things, that have passed of late years, are gone quitefrom my memory, while those so long ago, I can see as if in a glass. 'She paused, but afterwards, as they walked up the gallery, added toEmily, 'this young lady sometimes brings the late Marchioness to mymind; I can remember, when she looked just as blooming, and very likeher, when she smiles. Poor lady! how gay she was, when she first came tothe chateau!'

'And was she not gay, afterwards?' said Blanche. 

Dorothee shook her head; and Emily observed her, with eyes stronglyexpressive of the interest she now felt. 'Let us sit down in thiswindow, ' said the Lady Blanche, on reaching the opposite end of thegallery: 'and pray, Dorothee, if it is not painful to you, tell ussomething more about the Marchioness. I should like to look into theglass you spoke of just now, and see a few of the circumstances, whichyou say often pass over it. '

'No, my lady, ' replied Dorothee; 'if you knew as much as I do, you wouldnot, for you would find there a dismal train of them; I often wish Icould shut them out, but they will rise to my mind. I see my dear ladyon her death-bed, --her very look, --and remember all she said--it was aterrible scene!'

'Why was it so terrible?' said Emily with emotion. 

'Ah, dear young lady! is not death always terrible?' replied Dorothee. 

To some further enquiries of Blanche Dorothee was silent; and Emily, observing the tears in her eyes, forbore to urge the subject, andendeavoured to withdraw the attention of her young friend to some objectin the gardens, where the Count, with the Countess and Monsieur Du Pont, appearing, they went down to join them. 

When he perceived Emily, he advanced to meet her, and presented her tothe Countess, in a manner so benign, that it recalled most powerfullyto her mind the idea of her late father, and she felt more gratitude tohim, than embarrassment towards the Countess, who, however, receivedher with one of those fascinating smiles, which her caprice sometimesallowed her to assume, and which was now the result of a conversationthe Count had held with her, concerning Emily. Whatever this might be, or whatever had passed in his conversation with the lady abbess, whomhe had just visited, esteem and kindness were strongly apparent in hismanner, when he addressed Emily, who experienced that sweet emotion, which arises from the consciousness of possessing the approbation ofthe good; for to the Count's worth she had been inclined to yield herconfidence almost from the first moment, in which she had seen him. 

Before she could finish her acknowledgments for the hospitality she hadreceived, and mention of her design of going immediately to the convent, she was interrupted by an invitation to lengthen her stay at thechateau, which was pressed by the Count and the Countess, with anappearance of such friendly sincerity, that, though she much wished tosee her old friends at the monastery, and to sigh, once more, over herfather's grave, she consented to remain a few days at the chateau. 

To the abbess, however, she immediately wrote, mentioning her arrivalin Languedoc and her wish to be received into the convent, as a boarder;she also sent letters to Monsieur Quesnel and to Valancourt, whom shemerely informed of her arrival in France; and, as she knew not where thelatter might be stationed, she directed her letter to his brother's seatin Gascony. 

In the evening, Lady Blanche and Mons. Du Pont walked with Emily tothe cottage of La Voisin, which she had now a melancholy pleasure inapproaching, for time had softened her grief for the loss of St. Aubert, though it could not annihilate it, and she felt a soothing sadness inindulging the recollections, which this scene recalled. La Voisin wasstill living, and seemed to enjoy, as much as formerly, the tranquilevening of a blameless life. He was sitting at the door of his cottage, watching some of his grandchildren, playing on the grass before him, and, now and then, with a laugh, or a commendation, encouraging theirsports. He immediately recollected Emily, whom he was much pleased tosee, and she was as rejoiced to hear, that he had not lost one of hisfamily, since her departure. 

'Yes, ma'amselle, ' said the old man, 'we all live merrily togetherstill, thank God! and I believe there is not a happier family to befound in Languedoc, than ours. '

Emily did not trust herself in the chamber, where St. Aubert died; and, after half an hour's conversation with La Voisin and his family, sheleft the cottage. 

During these the first days of her stay at Chateau-le-Blanc, she wasoften affected, by observing the deep, but silent melancholy, which, attimes, stole over Du Pont; and Emily, pitying the self-delusion, whichdisarmed him of the will to depart, determined to withdraw herself assoon as the respect she owed the Count and Countess De Villefort wouldpermit. The dejection of his friend soon alarmed the anxiety of theCount, to whom Du Pont, at length, confided the secret of his hopelessaffection, which, however, the former could only commiserate, though hesecretly determined to befriend his suit, if an opportunity of doing soshould ever occur. Considering the dangerous situation of Du Pont, hebut feebly opposed his intention of leaving Chateau-le-Blanc, on thefollowing day, but drew from him a promise of a longer visit, when hecould return with safety to his peace. Emily herself, though she couldnot encourage his affection, esteemed him both for the many virtues hepossessed, and for the services she had received from him; and it wasnot without tender emotions of gratitude and pity, that she now saw himdepart for his family seat in Gascony; while he took leave of her witha countenance so expressive of love and grief, as to interest the Countmore warmly in his cause than before. 

In a few days, Emily also left the chateau, but not before the Count andCountess had received her promise to repeat her visit very soon; andshe was welcomed by the abbess, with the same maternal kindness she hadformerly experienced, and by the nuns, with much expression of regard. The well-known scenes of the convent occasioned her many melancholyrecollections, but with these were mingled others, that inspiredgratitude for having escaped the various dangers, that had pursued her, since she quitted it, and for the good, which she yet possessed; and, though she once more wept over her father's grave, with tears of tenderaffection, her grief was softened from its former acuteness. 

Some time after her return to the monastery, she received a letter fromher uncle, Mons. Quesnel, in answer to information that she had arrivedin France, and to her enquiries, concerning such of her affairs ashe had undertaken to conduct during her absence, especially as to theperiod for which La Vallee had been let, whither it was her wish toreturn, if it should appear, that her income would permit her to doso. The reply of Mons. Quesnel was cold and formal, as she expected, expressing neither concern for the evils she suffered, nor pleasure, that she was now removed from them; nor did he allow the opportunityto pass, of reproving her for her rejection of Count Morano, whom heaffected still to believe a man of honour and fortune; nor of vehementlydeclaiming against Montoni, to whom he had always, till now, felthimself to be inferior. On Emily's pecuniary concerns, he was not veryexplicit; he informed her, however, that the term, for which La Valleehad been engaged, was nearly expired; but, without inviting her to hisown house, added, that her circumstances would by no means allow her toreside there, and earnestly advised her to remain, for the present, inthe convent of St. Claire. 

To her enquiries respecting poor old Theresa, her late father's servant, he gave no answer. In the postscript to his letter, Monsieur Quesnelmentioned M. Motteville, in whose hands the late St. Aubert had placedthe chief of his personal property, as being likely to arrange hisaffairs nearly to the satisfaction of his creditors, and that Emilywould recover much more of her fortune, than she had formerly reason toexpect. The letter also inclosed to Emily an order upon a merchant atNarbonne, for a small sum of money. 

The tranquillity of the monastery, and the liberty she was sufferedto enjoy, in wandering among the woods and shores of this delightfulprovince, gradually restored her spirits to their natural tone, exceptthat anxiety would sometimes intrude, concerning Valancourt, as the timeapproached, when it was possible that she might receive an answer to herletter. 

CHAPTER XIII

 As when a wave, that from a cloud impends, And, swell'd with tempests, on the ship descends, White are the decks with foam; the winds aloud, Howl o'er the masts, and sing through ev'ry shroud: Pale, trembling, tir'd, the sailors freeze with fears, And instant death on ev'ry wave appears. POPE'S HOMER

The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, who was left much alone, became impatientfor the company of her new friend, whom she wished to observe sharing inthe delight she received from the beautiful scenery around. She had nowno person, to whom she could express her admiration and communicateher pleasures, no eye, that sparkled to her smile, or countenance, thatreflected her happiness; and she became spiritless and pensive. TheCount, observing her dissatisfaction, readily yielded to her entreaties, and reminded Emily of her promised visit; but the silence of Valancourt, which was now prolonged far beyond the period, when a letter mighthave arrived from Estuviere, oppressed Emily with severe anxiety, and, rendering her averse to society, she would willingly have deferred heracceptance of this invitation, till her spirits should be relieved. The Count and his family, however, pressed to see her; and, as thecircumstances, that prompted her wish for solitude, could not beexplained, there was an appearance of caprice in her refusal, which shecould not persevere in, without offending the friends, whose esteemshe valued. At length, therefore, she returned upon a second visitto Chateau-le-Blanc. Here the friendly manner of Count De Villefortencouraged Emily to mention to him her situation, respecting the estatesof her late aunt, and to consult him on the means of recovering them. Hehad little doubt, that the law would decide in her favour, and, advisingher to apply to it, offered first to write to an advocate at Avignon, on whose opinion he thought he could rely. His kindness was gratefullyaccepted by Emily, who, soothed by the courtesy she daily experienced, would have been once more happy, could she have been assured ofValancourt's welfare and unaltered affection. She had now been above aweek at the chateau, without receiving intelligence of him, and, thoughshe knew, that, if he was absent from his brother's residence, it wasscarcely probable her letter had yet reached him, she could not forbearto admit doubts and fears, that destroyed her peace. Again she wouldconsider of all, that might have happened in the long period, since herfirst seclusion at Udolpho, and her mind was sometimes so overwhelmedwith an apprehension, that Valancourt was no more, or that he livedno longer for her, that the company even of Blanche became intolerablyoppressive, and she would sit alone in her apartment for hours together, when the engagements of the family allowed her to do so, withoutincivility. 

In one of these solitary hours, she unlocked a little box, whichcontained some letters of Valancourt, with some drawings she hadsketched, during her stay in Tuscany, the latter of which were nolonger interesting to her; but, in the letters, she now, with melancholyindulgence, meant to retrace the tenderness, that had so often soothedher, and rendered her, for a moment, insensible of the distance, whichseparated her from the writer. But their effect was now changed; theaffection they expressed appealed so forcibly to her heart, when sheconsidered that it had, perhaps, yielded to the powers of time andabsence, and even the view of the hand-writing recalled so many painfulrecollections, that she found herself unable to go through the first shehad opened, and sat musing, with her cheek resting on her arm, and tearsstealing from her eyes, when old Dorothee entered the room to informher, that dinner would be ready, an hour before the usual time. Emilystarted on perceiving her, and hastily put up the papers, but not beforeDorothee had observed both her agitation and her tears. 

'Ah, ma'amselle!' said she, 'you, who are so young, --have you reason forsorrow?'

Emily tried to smile, but was unable to speak. 

'Alas! dear young lady, when you come to my age, you will not weep attrifles; and surely you have nothing serious, to grieve you. '

'No, Dorothee, nothing of any consequence, ' replied Emily. Dorothee, nowstooping to pick up something, that had dropped from among the papers, suddenly exclaimed, 'Holy Mary! what is it I see?' and then, trembling, sat down in a chair, that stood by the table. 

'What is it you do see?' said Emily, alarmed by her manner, and lookinground the room. 

'It is herself, ' said Dorothee, 'her very self! just as she looked alittle before she died!'

Emily, still more alarmed, began now to fear, that Dorothee was seizedwith sudden phrensy, but entreated her to explain herself. 

'That picture!' said she, 'where did you find it, lady? it is my blessedmistress herself!'

She laid on the table the miniature, which Emily had long ago foundamong the papers her father had enjoined her to destroy, and overwhich she had once seen him shed such tender and affecting tears; and, recollecting all the various circumstances of his conduct, that had longperplexed her, her emotions increased to an excess, which deprived herof all power to ask the questions she trembled to have answered, and shecould only enquire, whether Dorothee was certain the picture resembledthe late marchioness. 

'O, ma'amselle!' said she, 'how came it to strike me so, the instant Isaw it, if it was not my lady's likeness? Ah!' added she, taking up theminiature, 'these are her own blue eyes--looking so sweet and so mild;and there is her very look, such as I have often seen it, when she hadsat thinking for a long while, and then, the tears would often stealdown her cheeks--but she never would complain! It was that look so meek, as it were, and resigned, that used to break my heart and make me loveher so!'

'Dorothee!' said Emily solemnly, 'I am interested in the cause of thatgrief, more so, perhaps, than you may imagine; and I entreat, that youwill no longer refuse to indulge my curiosity;--it is not a common one. '

As Emily said this, she remembered the papers, with which the picturehad been found, and had scarcely a doubt, that they had concerned theMarchioness de Villeroi; but with this supposition came a scruple, whether she ought to enquire further on a subject, which might prove tobe the same, that her father had so carefully endeavoured to conceal. Her curiosity, concerning the Marchioness, powerful as it was, it isprobable she would now have resisted, as she had formerly done, onunwarily observing the few terrible words in the papers, which had neversince been erased from her memory, had she been certain that the historyof that lady was the subject of those papers, or, that such simpleparticulars only as it was probable Dorothee could relate were includedin her father's command. What was known to her could be no secret tomany other persons; and, since it appeared very unlikely, that St. Aubert should attempt to conceal what Emily might learn by ordinarymeans, she at length concluded, that, if the papers had related to thestory of the Marchioness, it was not those circumstances of it, whichDorothee could disclose, that he had thought sufficiently important towish to have concealed. She, therefore, no longer hesitated to make theenquiries, that might lead to the gratification of her curiosity. 

'Ah, ma'amselle!' said Dorothee, 'it is a sad story, and cannot be toldnow: but what am I saying? I never will tell it. Many years have passed, since it happened; and I never loved to talk of the Marchioness to anybody, but my husband. He lived in the family, at that time, as well asmyself, and he knew many particulars from me, which nobody else did; forI was about the person of my lady in her last illness, and saw and heardas much, or more than my lord himself. Sweet saint! how patient she was!When she died, I thought I could have died with her!'

'Dorothee, ' said Emily, interrupting her, 'what you shall tell, you maydepend upon it, shall never be disclosed by me. I have, I repeat it, particular reasons for wishing to be informed on this subject, and amwilling to bind myself, in the most solemn manner, never to mention whatyou shall wish me to conceal. '

Dorothee seemed surprised at the earnestness of Emily's manner, and, after regarding her for some moments, in silence, said, 'Young lady!that look of yours pleads for you--it is so like my dear mistress's, that I can almost fancy I see her before me; if you were her daughter, you could not remind me of her more. But dinner will be ready--had younot better go down?'

'You will first promise to grant my request, ' said Emily. 

'And ought not you first to tell me, ma'amselle, how this picture fellinto your hands, and the reasons you say you have for curiosity about mylady?'

'Why, no, Dorothee, ' replied Emily, recollecting herself, 'I have alsoparticular reasons for observing silence, on these subjects, at least, till I know further; and, remember, I do not promise ever to speak uponthem; therefore, do not let me induce you to satisfy my curiosity, froman expectation, that I shall gratify yours. What I may judge proper toconceal, does not concern myself alone, or I should have less scruplein revealing it: let a confidence in my honour alone persuade you todisclose what I request. '

'Well, lady!' replied Dorothee, after a long pause, during which hereyes were fixed upon Emily, 'you seem so much interested, --and thispicture and that face of yours make me think you have some reason tobe so, --that I will trust you--and tell some things, that I never toldbefore to any body, but my husband, though there are people, who havesuspected as much. I will tell you the particulars of my lady's death, too, and some of my own suspicions; but you must first promise me by allthe saints'--

Emily, interrupting her, solemnly promised never to reveal what shouldbe confided to her, without Dorothee's consent. 

'But there is the horn, ma'amselle, sounding for dinner, ' said Dorothee;'I must be gone. '

'When shall I see you again?' enquired Emily. 

Dorothee mused, and then replied, 'Why, madam, it may make peoplecurious, if it is known I am so much in your apartment, and thatI should be sorry for; so I will come when I am least likely to beobserved. I have little leisure in the day, and I shall have a good dealto say; so, if you please, ma'am, I will come, when the family are allin bed. '

'That will suit me very well, ' replied Emily: 'Remember, then, to-night'--

'Aye, that is well remembered, ' said Dorothee, 'I fear I cannot cometo-night, madam, for there will be the dance of the vintage, and it willbe late, before the servants go to rest; for, when they once set in todance, they will keep it up, in the cool of the air, till morning; atleast, it used to be so in my time. '

'Ah! is it the dance of the vintage?' said Emily, with a deep sigh, remembering, that it was on the evening of this festival, in thepreceding year, that St. Aubert and herself had arrived in theneighbourhood of Chateau-le-Blanc. She paused a moment, overcome bythe sudden recollection, and then, recovering herself, added--'But thisdance is in the open woods; you, therefore, will not be wanted, and caneasily come to me. '

Dorothee replied, that she had been accustomed to be present at thedance of the vintage, and she did not wish to be absent now; 'but if Ican get away, madam, I will, ' said she. 

Emily then hastened to the dining-room, where the Count conductedhimself with the courtesy, which is inseparable from true dignity, andof which the Countess frequently practised little, though her manner toEmily was an exception to her usual habit. But, if she retained few ofthe ornamental virtues, she cherished other qualities, which she seemedto consider invaluable. She had dismissed the grace of modesty, butthen she knew perfectly well how to manage the stare of assurance; hermanners had little of the tempered sweetness, which is necessary torender the female character interesting, but she could occasionallythrow into them an affectation of spirits, which seemed to triumph overevery person, who approached her. In the country, however, she generallyaffected an elegant languor, that persuaded her almost to faint, when her favourite read to her a story of fictitious sorrow; buther countenance suffered no change, when living objects of distresssolicited her charity, and her heart beat with no transport to thethought of giving them instant relief;--she was a stranger to thehighest luxury, of which, perhaps, the human mind can be sensible, forher benevolence had never yet called smiles upon the face of misery. 

In the evening, the Count, with all his family, except the Countess andMademoiselle Bearn, went to the woods to witness the festivity of thepeasants. The scene was in a glade, where the trees, opening, formed acircle round the turf they highly overshadowed; between their branches, vines, loaded with ripe clusters, were hung in gay festoons; and, beneath, were tables, with fruit, wine, cheese and other ruralfare, --and seats for the Count and his family. At a little distance, were benches for the elder peasants, few of whom, however, could forbearto join the jocund dance, which began soon after sun-set, when severalof sixty tripped it with almost as much glee and airy lightness, asthose of sixteen. 

The musicians, who sat carelessly on the grass, at the foot of a tree, seemed inspired by the sound of their own instruments, which werechiefly flutes and a kind of long guitar. Behind, stood a boy, flourishing a tamborine, and dancing a solo, except that, as hesometimes gaily tossed the instrument, he tripped among the otherdancers, when his antic gestures called forth a broader laugh, andheightened the rustic spirit of the scene. 

The Count was highly delighted with the happiness he witnessed, to whichhis bounty had largely contributed, and the Lady Blanche joined thedance with a young gentleman of her father's party. Du Pont requestedEmily's hand, but her spirits were too much depressed, to permit her toengage in the present festivity, which called to her remembrance thatof the preceding year, when St. Aubert was living, and of the melancholyscenes, which had immediately followed it. 

Overcome by these recollections, she, at length, left the spot, andwalked slowly into the woods, where the softened music, floating at adistance, soothed her melancholy mind. The moon threw a mellow lightamong the foliage; the air was balmy and cool, and Emily, lost inthought, strolled on, without observing whither, till she perceived thesounds sinking afar off, and an awful stillness round her, except that, sometimes, the nightingale beguiled the silence with

 Liquid notes, that close the eye of day. 

At length, she found herself near the avenue, which, on the night of herfather's arrival, Michael had attempted to pass in search of a house, which was still nearly as wild and desolate as it had then appeared; forthe Count had been so much engaged in directing other improvements, thathe had neglected to give orders, concerning this extensive approach, and the road was yet broken, and the trees overloaded with their ownluxuriance. 

As she stood surveying it, and remembering the emotions, which she hadformerly suffered there, she suddenly recollected the figure, that hadbeen seen stealing among the trees, and which had returned no answer toMichael's repeated calls; and she experienced somewhat of the fear, thathad then assailed her, for it did not appear improbable, that these deepwoods were occasionally the haunt of banditti. She, therefore, turnedback, and was hastily pursuing her way to the dancers, when she heardsteps approaching from the avenue; and, being still beyond the call ofthe peasants on the green, for she could neither hear their voices, ortheir music, she quickened her pace; but the persons following gainedfast upon her, and, at length, distinguishing the voice of Henri, shewalked leisurely, till he came up. He expressed some surprise at meetingher so far from the company; and, on her saying, that the pleasantmoon-light had beguiled her to walk farther than she intended, anexclamation burst from the lips of his companion, and she thought sheheard Valancourt speak! It was, indeed, he! and the meeting was such asmay be imagined, between persons so affectionate, and so long separatedas they had been. 

In the joy of these moments, Emily forgot all her past sufferings, andValancourt seemed to have forgotten, that any person but Emily existed;while Henri was a silent and astonished spectator of the scene. 

Valancourt asked a thousand questions, concerning herself and Montoni, which there was now no time to answer; but she learned, that her letterhad been forwarded to him, at Paris, which he had previously quitted, and was returning to Gascony, whither the letter also returned, which, at length, informed him of Emily's arrival, and on the receipt of whichhe had immediately set out for Languedoc. On reaching themonastery, whence she had dated her letter, he found, to his extremedisappointment, that the gates were already closed for the night;and believing, that he should not see Emily, till the morrow, he wasreturning to his little inn, with the intention of writing to her, whenhe was overtaken by Henri, with whom he had been intimate at Paris, andwas led to her, whom he was secretly lamenting that he should not see, till the following day. 

Emily, with Valancourt and Henri, now returned to the green, where thelatter presented Valancourt to the Count, who, she fancied, received himwith less than his usual benignity, though it appeared, that they werenot strangers to each other. He was invited, however, to partake of thediversions of the evening; and, when he had paid his respects to theCount, and while the dancers continued their festivity, he seatedhimself by Emily, and conversed, without restraint. The lights, whichwere hung among the trees, under which they sat, allowed her a moreperfect view of the countenance she had so frequently in absenceendeavoured to recollect, and she perceived, with some regret, thatit was not the same as when last she saw it. There was all its wontedintelligence and fire; but it had lost much of the simplicity, andsomewhat of the open benevolence, that used to characterise it. Still, however, it was an interesting countenance; but Emily thought sheperceived, at intervals, anxiety contract, and melancholy fix thefeatures of Valancourt; sometimes, too, he fell into a momentary musing, and then appeared anxious to dissipate thought; while, at others, as hefixed his eyes on Emily, a kind of sudden distraction seemed tocross his mind. In her he perceived the same goodness and beautifulsimplicity, that had charmed him, on their first acquaintance. The bloomof her countenance was somewhat faded, but all its sweetness remained, and it was rendered more interesting, than ever, by the faint expressionof melancholy, that sometimes mingled with her smile. 

At his request, she related the most important circumstances, thathad occurred to her, since she left France, and emotions of pity andindignation alternately prevailed in his mind, when he heard how muchshe had suffered from the villany of Montoni. More than once, when shewas speaking of his conduct, of which the guilt was rather softened, than exaggerated, by her representation, he started from his seat, and walked away, apparently overcome as much by self accusation as byresentment. Her sufferings alone were mentioned in the few words, whichhe could address to her, and he listened not to the account, which shewas careful to give as distinctly as possible, of the present loss ofMadame Montoni's estates, and of the little reason there was to expecttheir restoration. At length, Valancourt remained lost in thought, andthen some secret cause seemed to overcome him with anguish. Again heabruptly left her. When he returned, she perceived, that he had beenweeping, and tenderly begged, that he would compose himself. 'Mysufferings are all passed now, ' said she, 'for I have escaped from thetyranny of Montoni, and I see you well--let me also see you happy. '

Valancourt was more agitated, than before. 'I am unworthy of you, Emily, ' said he, 'I am unworthy of you;'--words, by his manner ofuttering which Emily was then more shocked than by their import. Shefixed on him a mournful and enquiring eye. 'Do not look thus on me, 'said he, turning away and pressing her hand; 'I cannot bear thoselooks. '

'I would ask, ' said Emily, in a gentle, but agitated voice, 'the meaningof your words; but I perceive, that the question would distress younow. Let us talk on other subjects. To-morrow, perhaps, you may be morecomposed. Observe those moon light woods, and the towers, whichappear obscurely in the perspective. You used to be a great admirerof landscape, and I have heard you say, that the faculty of derivingconsolation, under misfortune, from the sublime prospects, which neitheroppression, or poverty with-hold from us, was the peculiar blessing ofthe innocent. ' Valancourt was deeply affected. 'Yes, ' replied he, 'Ihad once a taste for innocent and elegant delights--I had once anuncorrupted heart. ' Then, checking himself, he added, 'Do you rememberour journey together in the Pyrenees?'

'Can I forget it?' said Emily. --'Would that I could!' he replied;--'thatwas the happiest period of my life. I then loved, with enthusiasm, whatever was truly great, or good. ' It was some time before Emily couldrepress her tears, and try to command her emotions. 'If you wish toforget that journey, ' said she, 'it must certainly be my wish to forgetit also. ' She paused, and then added, 'You make me very uneasy; but thisis not the time for further enquiry;--yet, how can I bear to believe, even for a moment, that you are less worthy of my esteem than formerly?I have still sufficient confidence in your candour, to believe, that, when I shall ask for an explanation, you will give it me. '--'Yes, ' saidValancourt, 'yes, Emily: I have not yet lost my candour: if I had, Icould better have disguised my emotions, on learning what were yoursufferings--your virtues, while I--I--but I will say no more. I didnot mean to have said even so much--I have been surprised intothe self-accusation. Tell me, Emily, that you will not forget thatjourney--will not wish to forget it, and I will be calm. I would notlose the remembrance of it for the whole earth. '

'How contradictory is this!' said Emily;--'but we may be overheard. Myrecollection of it shall depend upon yours; I will endeavour to forget, or to recollect it, as you may do. Let us join the Count. '--'Tellme first, ' said Valancourt, 'that you forgive the uneasiness I haveoccasioned you, this evening, and that you will still love me. '--'Isincerely forgive you, ' replied Emily. 'You best know whether I shallcontinue to love you, for you know whether you deserve my esteem. Atpresent, I will believe that you do. It is unnecessary to say, ' addedshe, observing his dejection, 'how much pain it would give me to believeotherwise. --The young lady, who approaches, is the Count's daughter. '

Valancourt and Emily now joined the Lady Blanche; and the party, soonafter, sat down with the Count, his son, and the Chevalier Du Pont, at abanquet, spread under a gay awning, beneath the trees. At the table alsowere seated several of the most venerable of the Count's tenants, andit was a festive repast to all but Valancourt and Emily. When the Countretired to the chateau, he did not invite Valancourt to accompany him, who, therefore, took leave of Emily, and retired to his solitary inn forthe night: meanwhile, she soon withdrew to her own apartment, whereshe mused, with deep anxiety and concern, on his behaviour, and on theCount's reception of him. Her attention was thus so wholly engaged, thatshe forgot Dorothee and her appointment, till morning was far advanced, when, knowing that the good old woman would not come, she retired, for afew hours, to repose. 

On the following day, when the Count had accidentally joined Emily inone of the walks, they talked of the festival of the preceding evening, and this led him to a mention of Valancourt. 'That is a young man oftalents, ' said he; 'you were formerly acquainted with him, I perceive. 'Emily said, that she was. 'He was introduced to me, at Paris, ' said theCount, 'and I was much pleased with him, on our first acquaintance. ' Hepaused, and Emily trembled, between the desire of hearing more and thefear of shewing the Count, that she felt an interest on the subject. 'May I ask, ' said he, at length, 'how long you have known MonsieurValancourt?'--'Will you allow me to ask your reason for the question, sir?' said she; 'and I will answer it immediately. '--'Certainly, ' saidthe Count, 'that is but just. I will tell you my reason. I cannot butperceive, that Monsieur Valancourt admires you; in that, however, thereis nothing extraordinary; every person, who sees you, must do the same. I am above using common-place compliments; I speak with sincerity. WhatI fear, is, that he is a favoured admirer. '--'Why do you fear it, sir?'said Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion. --'Because, ' replied theCount, 'I think him not worthy of your favour. ' Emily, greatly agitated, entreated further explanation. 'I will give it, ' said he, 'if you willbelieve, that nothing but a strong interest in your welfare could induceme to hazard that assertion. '--'I must believe so, sir, ' replied Emily. 

'But let us rest under these trees, ' said the Count, observing thepaleness of her countenance; 'here is a seat--you are fatigued. ' Theysat down, and the Count proceeded. 'Many young ladies, circumstanced asyou are, would think my conduct, on this occasion, and on so shortan acquaintance, impertinent, instead of friendly; from what I haveobserved of your temper and understanding, I do not fear such a returnfrom you. Our acquaintance has been short, but long enough to make meesteem you, and feel a lively interest in your happiness. You deserveto be very happy, and I trust that you will be so. ' Emily sighedsoftly, and bowed her thanks. The Count paused again. 'I am unpleasantlycircumstanced, ' said he; 'but an opportunity of rendering you importantservice shall overcome inferior considerations. Will you inform me ofthe manner of your first acquaintance with the Chevalier Valancourt, ifthe subject is not too painful?'

Emily briefly related the accident of their meeting in the presence ofher father, and then so earnestly entreated the Count not to hesitate indeclaring what he knew, that he perceived the violent emotion, againstwhich she was contending, and, regarding her with a look of tendercompassion, considered how he might communicate his information withleast pain to his anxious auditor. 

'The Chevalier and my son, ' said he, 'were introduced to each other, at the table of a brother officer, at whose house I also met him, andinvited him to my own, whenever he should be disengaged. I did not thenknow, that he had formed an acquaintance with a set of men, a disgraceto their species, who live by plunder and pass their lives in continualdebauchery. I knew several of the Chevalier's family, resident at Paris, and considered them as sufficient pledges for his introduction to myown. But you are ill; I will leave the subject. '--'No, sir, ' said Emily, 'I beg you will proceed: I am only distressed. '--'ONLY!' said the Count, with emphasis; 'however, I will proceed. I soon learned, that these, hisassociates, had drawn him into a course of dissipation, from which heappeared to have neither the power, nor the inclination, to extricatehimself. He lost large sums at the gaming-table; he became infatuatedwith play; and was ruined. I spoke tenderly of this to his friends, whoassured me, that they had remonstrated with him, till they were weary. I afterwards learned, that, in consideration of his talents for play, which were generally successful, when unopposed by the tricks ofvillany, --that in consideration of these, the party had initiated himinto the secrets of their trade, and allotted him a share of theirprofits. ' 'Impossible!' said Emily suddenly; 'but--pardon me, sir, Iscarcely know what I say; allow for the distress of my mind. I must, indeed, I must believe, that you have not been truly informed. TheChevalier had, doubtless, enemies, who misrepresented him. '--'I shouldbe most happy to believe so, ' replied the Count, 'but I cannot. Nothingshort of conviction, and a regard for your happiness, could have urgedme to repeat these unpleasant reports. '

Emily was silent. She recollected Valancourt's sayings, on the precedingevening, which discovered the pangs of self-reproach, and seemed toconfirm all that the Count had related. Yet she had not fortitude enoughto dare conviction. Her heart was overwhelmed with anguish at the meresuspicion of his guilt, and she could not endure a belief of it. Aftera silence, the Count said, 'I perceive, and can allow for, your wantof conviction. It is necessary I should give some proof of what I haveasserted; but this I cannot do, without subjecting one, who is very dearto me, to danger. '--'What is the danger you apprehend, sir?' said Emily;'if I can prevent it, you may safely confide in my honour. '--'On yourhonour I am certain I can rely, ' said the Count; 'but can I trust yourfortitude? Do you think you can resist the solicitation of a favouredadmirer, when he pleads, in affliction, for the name of one, whohas robbed him of a blessing?'--'I shall not be exposed to such atemptation, sir, ' said Emily, with modest pride, 'for I cannot favourone, whom I must no longer esteem. I, however, readily give my word. 'Tears, in the mean time, contradicted her first assertion; and she felt, that time and effort only could eradicate an affection, which had beenformed on virtuous esteem, and cherished by habit and difficulty. 

'I will trust you then, ' said the Count, 'for conviction is necessaryto your peace, and cannot, I perceive, be obtained, without thisconfidence. My son has too often been an eye-witness of the Chevalier'sill conduct; he was very near being drawn in by it; he was, indeed, drawn in to the commission of many follies, but I rescued him from guiltand destruction. Judge then, Mademoiselle St. Aubert, whether a father, who had nearly lost his only son by the example of the Chevalier, hasnot, from conviction, reason to warn those, whom he esteems, againsttrusting their happiness in such hands. I have myself seen the Chevalierengaged in deep play with men, whom I almost shuddered to look upon. Ifyou still doubt, I will refer you to my son. '

'I must not doubt what you have yourself witnessed, ' replied Emily, sinking with grief, 'or what you assert. But the Chevalier has, perhaps, been drawn only into a transient folly, which he may never repeat. Ifyou had known the justness of his former principles, you would allow formy present incredulity. '

'Alas!' observed the Count, 'it is difficult to believe that, whichwill make us wretched. But I will not sooth you by flattering andfalse hopes. We all know how fascinating the vice of gaming is, and howdifficult it is, also, to conquer habits; the Chevalier might, perhaps, reform for a while, but he would soon relapse into dissipation--for Ifear, not only the bonds of habit would be powerful, but that his moralsare corrupted. And--why should I conceal from you, that play is not hisonly vice? he appears to have a taste for every vicious pleasure. '

The Count hesitated and paused; while Emily endeavoured to supportherself, as, with increasing perturbation, she expected what he mightfurther say. A long pause of silence ensued, during which he was visiblyagitated; at length, he said, 'It would be a cruel delicacy, thatcould prevail with me to be silent--and I will inform you, that theChevalier's extravagance has brought him twice into the prisons ofParis, from whence he was last extricated, as I was told upon authority, which I cannot doubt, by a well-known Parisian Countess, with whom hecontinued to reside, when I left Paris. '

He paused again; and, looking at Emily, perceived her countenancechange, and that she was falling from the seat; he caught her, but shehad fainted, and he called loudly for assistance. They were, however, beyond the hearing of his servants at the chateau, and he fearedto leave her while he went thither for assistance, yet knew not howotherwise to obtain it; till a fountain at no great distance caught hiseye, and he endeavoured to support Emily against the tree, under whichshe had been sitting, while he went thither for water. But again he wasperplexed, for he had nothing near him, in which water could be brought;but while, with increased anxiety, he watched her, he thought heperceived in her countenance symptoms of returning life. 

It was long, however, before she revived, and then she found herselfsupported--not by the Count, but by Valancourt, who was observing herwith looks of earnest apprehension, and who now spoke to her in a tone, tremulous with his anxiety. At the sound of his well-known voice, sheraised her eyes, but presently closed them, and a faintness again cameover her. 

The Count, with a look somewhat stern, waved him to withdraw; but heonly sighed heavily, and called on the name of Emily, as he again heldthe water, that had been brought, to her lips. On the Count's repeatinghis action, and accompanying it with words, Valancourt answered himwith a look of deep resentment, and refused to leave the place, till sheshould revive, or to resign her for a moment to the care of any person. In the next instant, his conscience seemed to inform him of what hadbeen the subject of the Count's conversation with Emily, and indignationflashed in his eyes; but it was quickly repressed, and succeeded by anexpression of serious anguish, that induced the Count to regard him withmore pity than resentment, and the view of which so much affected Emily, when she again revived, that she yielded to the weakness of tears. But she soon restrained them, and, exerting her resolution to appearrecovered, she rose, thanked the Count and Henri, with whom Valancourthad entered the garden, for their care, and moved towards the chateau, without noticing Valancourt, who, heart-struck by her manner, exclaimedin a low voice--'Good God! how have I deserved this?--what has beensaid, to occasion this change?'

Emily, without replying, but with increased emotion, quickened hersteps. 'What has thus disordered you, Emily?' said he, as he stillwalked by her side: 'give me a few moments' conversation, I entreatyou;--I am very miserable!'

Though this was spoken in a low voice, it was overheard by the Count, who immediately replied, that Mademoiselle St. Aubert was then too muchindisposed, to attend to any conversation, but that he would ventureto promise she would see Monsieur Valancourt on the morrow, if she wasbetter. 

Valancourt's cheek was crimsoned: he looked haughtily at the Count, and then at Emily, with successive expressions of surprise, grief andsupplication, which she could neither misunderstand, or resist, and shesaid languidly--'I shall be better tomorrow, and if you wish to acceptthe Count's permission, I will see you then. '

'See me!' exclaimed Valancourt, as he threw a glance of mingled prideand resentment upon the Count; and then, seeming to recollecthimself, he added--'But I will come, madam; I will accept the Count'sPERMISSION. '

When they reached the door of the chateau, he lingered a moment, forhis resentment was now fled; and then, with a look so expressive oftenderness and grief, that Emily's heart was not proof against it, hebade her good morning, and, bowing slightly to the Count, disappeared. 

Emily withdrew to her own apartment, under such oppression of heart asshe had seldom known, when she endeavoured to recollect all that theCount had told, to examine the probability of the circumstanceshe himself believed, and to consider of her future conduct towardsValancourt. But, when she attempted to think, her mind refused controul, and she could only feel that she was miserable. One moment, she sunkunder the conviction, that Valancourt was no longer the same, whom shehad so tenderly loved, the idea of whom had hitherto supported herunder affliction, and cheered her with the hope of happier days, --buta fallen, a worthless character, whom she must teach herself todespise--if she could not forget. Then, unable to endure this terriblesupposition, she rejected it, and disdained to believe him capable ofconduct, such as the Count had described, to whom she believed he hadbeen misrepresented by some artful enemy; and there were moments, whenshe even ventured to doubt the integrity of the Count himself, and tosuspect, that he was influenced by some selfish motive, to break herconnection with Valancourt. But this was the error of an instant, only;the Count's character, which she had heard spoken of by Du Pont andmany other persons, and had herself observed, enabled her to judge, andforbade the supposition; had her confidence, indeed, been less, thereappeared to be no temptation to betray him into conduct so treacherous, and so cruel. Nor did reflection suffer her to preserve the hope, thatValancourt had been mis-represented to the Count, who had said, that hespoke chiefly from his own observation, and from his son's experience. She must part from Valancourt, therefore, for ever--for what of eitherhappiness or tranquillity could she expect with a man, whose tastes weredegenerated into low inclinations, and to whom vice was become habitual?whom she must no longer esteem, though the remembrance of what he oncewas, and the long habit of loving him, would render it very difficultfor her to despise him. 'O Valancourt!' she would exclaim, 'having beenseparated so long--do we meet, only to be miserable--only to part forever?'

Amidst all the tumult of her mind, she remembered pertinaciously theseeming candour and simplicity of his conduct, on the preceding night;and, had she dared to trust her own heart, it would have led her to hopemuch from this. Still she could not resolve to dismiss him for ever, without obtaining further proof of his ill conduct; yet she saw noprobability of procuring it, if, indeed, proof more positive waspossible. Something, however, it was necessary to decide upon, and shealmost determined to be guided in her opinion solely by the manner, withwhich Valancourt should receive her hints concerning his late conduct. 

Thus passed the hours till dinner-time, when Emily, struggling againstthe pressure of her grief, dried her tears, and joined the familyat table, where the Count preserved towards her the most delicateattention; but the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn, having looked, for amoment, with surprise, on her dejected countenance, began, as usual, to talk of trifles, while the eyes of Lady Blanche asked much of herfriend, who could only reply by a mournful smile. 

Emily withdrew as soon after dinner as possible, and was followed by theLady Blanche, whose anxious enquiries, however, she found herself quiteunequal to answer, and whom she entreated to spare her on the subjectof her distress. To converse on any topic, was now, indeed, so extremelypainful to her, that she soon gave up the attempt, and Blanche lefther, with pity of the sorrow, which she perceived she had no power toassuage. 

Emily secretly determined to go to her convent in a day or two; forcompany, especially that of the Countess and Mademoiselle Bearn, wasintolerable to her, in the present state of her spirits; and, in theretirement of the convent, as well as the kindness of the abbess, shehoped to recover the command of her mind, and to teach it resignation tothe event, which, she too plainly perceived, was approaching. 

To have lost Valancourt by death, or to have seen him married toa rival, would, she thought, have given her less anguish, than aconviction of his unworthiness, which must terminate in misery tohimself, and which robbed her even of the solitary image her heart solong had cherished. These painful reflections were interrupted, for amoment, by a note from Valancourt, written in evident distractionof mind, entreating, that she would permit him to see her on theapproaching evening, instead of the following morning; a request, whichoccasioned her so much agitation, that she was unable to answer it. Shewished to see him, and to terminate her present state of suspense, yetshrunk from the interview, and, incapable of deciding for herself, she, at length, sent to beg a few moments' conversation with the Count in hislibrary, where she delivered to him the note, and requested his advice. After reading it, he said, that, if she believed herself well enoughto support the interview, his opinion was, that, for the relief of bothparties, it ought to take place, that evening. 

'His affection for you is, undoubtedly, a very sincere one, ' added theCount; 'and he appears so much distressed, and you, my amiable friend, are so ill at ease--that the sooner the affair is decided, the better. '

Emily replied, therefore, to Valancourt, that she would see him, andthen exerted herself in endeavours to attain fortitude and composure, to bear her through the approaching scene--a scene so afflictingly thereverse of any, to which she had looked forward!

VOLUME 4

CHAPTER I

 Is all the council that we two have shared, the hours that we have spent, When we have chid the hasty-footed time For parting us--Oh! and is all forgot?

 And will you rend our ancient love asunder? MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM

In the evening, when Emily was at length informed, that Count DeVillefort requested to see her, she guessed that Valancourt was below, and, endeavouring to assume composure and to recollect all her spirits, she rose and left the apartment; but on reaching the door of thelibrary, where she imagined him to be, her emotion returned with suchenergy, that, fearing to trust herself in the room, she returned intothe hall, where she continued for a considerable time, unable to commandher agitated spirits. 

When she could recall them, she found in the library Valancourt, seatedwith the Count, who both rose on her entrance; but she did not dareto look at Valancourt, and the Count, having led her to a chair, immediately withdrew. 

Emily remained with her eyes fixed on the floor, under such oppressionof heart, that she could not speak, and with difficulty breathed; whileValancourt threw himself into a chair beside her, and, sighing heavily, continued silent, when, had she raised her eyes, she would haveperceived the violent emotions, with which he was agitated. 

At length, in a tremulous voice, he said, 'I have solicited to see youthis evening, that I might, at least, be spared the further torture ofsuspense, which your altered manner had occasioned me, and which thehints I have just received from the Count have in part explained. Iperceive I have enemies, Emily, who envied me my late happiness, andwho have been busy in searching out the means to destroy it: I perceive, too, that time and absence have weakened the affection you once felt forme, and that you can now easily be taught to forget me. '

His last words faltered, and Emily, less able to speak than before, continued silent. 

'O what a meeting is this!' exclaimed Valancourt, starting from hisseat, and pacing the room with hurried steps, 'what a meeting is this, after our long--long separation!' Again he sat down, and, after thestruggle of a moment, he added in a firm but despairing tone, 'This istoo much--I cannot bear it! Emily, will you not speak to me?'

He covered his face with his hand, as if to conceal his emotion, andtook Emily's, which she did not withdraw. Her tears could no longerbe restrained; and, when he raised his eyes and perceived that she wasweeping, all his tenderness returned, and a gleam of hope appeared tocross his mind, for he exclaimed, 'O! you do pity me, then, you do loveme! Yes, you are still my own Emily--let me believe those tears, thattell me so!'

Emily now made an effort to recover her firmness, and, hastily dryingthem, 'Yes, ' said she, 'I do pity you--I weep for you--but, ought I tothink of you with affection? You may remember, that yester-evening Isaid, I had still sufficient confidence in your candour to believe, that, when I should request an explanation of your words, you would giveit. This explanation is now unnecessary, I understand them too well; butprove, at least, that your candour is deserving of the confidence Igive it, when I ask you, whether you are conscious of being the sameestimable Valancourt--whom I once loved. '

'Once loved!' cried he, --'the same--the same!' He paused inextreme emotion, and then added, in a voice at once solemn, anddejected, --'No--I am not the same!--I am lost--I am no longer worthy ofyou!'

He again concealed his face. Emily was too much affected by this honestconfession to reply immediately, and, while she struggled to overcomethe pleadings of her heart, and to act with the decisive firmness, whichwas necessary for her future peace, she perceived all the danger oftrusting long to her resolution, in the presence of Valancourt, and wasanxious to conclude an interview, that tortured them both; yet, whenshe considered, that this was probably their last meeting, her fortitudesunk at once, and she experienced only emotions of tenderness and ofdespondency. 

Valancourt, meanwhile, lost in emotions of remorse and grief, which hehad neither the power, or the will to express, sat insensible almostof the presence of Emily, his features still concealed, and his breastagitated by convulsive sighs. 

'Spare me the necessity, ' said Emily, recollecting her fortitude, 'spareme the necessity of mentioning those circumstances of your conduct, which oblige me to break our connection forever. --We must part, I nowsee you for the last time. '

'Impossible!' cried Valancourt, roused from his deep silence, 'Youcannot mean what you say!--you cannot mean to throw me from youforever!'

'We must part, ' repeated Emily, with emphasis, --'and that forever! Yourown conduct has made this necessary. '

'This is the Count's determination, ' said he haughtily, 'not yours, and I shall enquire by what authority he interferes between us. ' He nowrose, and walked about the room in great emotion. 

'Let me save you from this error, ' said Emily, not less agitated--'it ismy determination, and, if you reflect a moment on your late conduct, youwill perceive, that my future peace requires it. '

'Your future peace requires, that we should part--part forever!' saidValancourt, 'How little did I ever expect to hear you say so!'

'And how little did I expect, that it would be necessary for me to sayso!' rejoined Emily, while her voice softened into tenderness, and hertears flowed again. --'That you--you, Valancourt, would ever fall from myesteem!'

He was silent a moment, as if overwhelmed by the consciousness of nolonger deserving this esteem, as well as the certainty of having lostit, and then, with impassioned grief, lamented the criminality of hislate conduct and the misery to which it had reduced him, till, overcomeby a recollection of the past and a conviction of the future, he burstinto tears, and uttered only deep and broken sighs. 

The remorse he had expressed, and the distress he suffered could notbe witnessed by Emily with indifference, and, had she not called toher recollection all the circumstances, of which Count De Villeforthad informed her, and all he had said of the danger of confiding inrepentance, formed under the influence of passion, she might perhapshave trusted to the assurances of her heart, and have forgotten hismisconduct in the tenderness, which that repentance excited. 

Valancourt, returning to the chair beside her, at length, said, in acalm voice, ''Tis true, I am fallen--fallen from my own esteem! butcould you, Emily, so soon, so suddenly resign, if you had not beforeceased to love me, or, if your conduct was not governed by the designs, I will say, the selfish designs of another person! Would you nototherwise be willing to hope for my reformation--and could you bear, byestranging me from you, to abandon me to misery--to myself!'--Emily weptaloud. --'No, Emily--no--you would not do this, if you still loved me. You would find your own happiness in saving mine. '

'There are too many probabilities against that hope, ' said Emily, 'tojustify me in trusting the comfort of my whole life to it. May I notalso ask, whether you could wish me to do this, if you really loved me?'

'Really loved you!' exclaimed Valancourt--'is it possible you can doubtmy love! Yet it is reasonable, that you should do so, since you see, that I am less ready to suffer the horror of parting with you, thanthat of involving you in my ruin. Yes, Emily--I am ruined--irreparablyruined--I am involved in debts, which I can never discharge!'Valancourt's look, which was wild, as he spoke this, soon settled intoan expression of gloomy despair; and Emily, while she was compelled toadmire his sincerity, saw, with unutterable anguish, new reasons forfear in the suddenness of his feelings and the extent of the misery, inwhich they might involve him. After some minutes, she seemed tocontend against her grief and to struggle for fortitude to concludethe interview. 'I will not prolong these moments, ' said she, 'by aconversation, which can answer no good purpose. Valancourt, farewell!'

'You are not going?' said he, wildly interrupting her--'You will notleave me thus--you will not abandon me even before my mind has suggestedany possibility of compromise between the last indulgence of my despairand the endurance of my loss!' Emily was terrified by the sternnessof his look, and said, in a soothing voice, 'You have yourselfacknowledged, that it is necessary we should part;--if youwish, that I should believe you love me, you will repeat theacknowledgment. '--'Never--never, ' cried he--'I was distracted when Imade it. O! Emily--this is too much;--though you are not deceived as tomy faults, you must be deluded into this exasperation against them. TheCount is the barrier between us; but he shall not long remain so. '

'You are, indeed, distracted, ' said Emily, 'the Count is not your enemy;on the contrary, he is my friend, and that might, in some degree, induceyou to consider him as yours. '--'Your friend!' said Valancourt, hastily, 'how long has he been your friend, that he can so easily make you forgetyour lover? Was it he, who recommended to your favour the Monsieur DuPont, who, you say, accompanied you from Italy, and who, I say, hasstolen your affections? But I have no right to question you;--you areyour own mistress. Du Pont, perhaps, may not long triumph over my fallenfortunes!' Emily, more frightened than before by the frantic looks ofValancourt, said, in a tone scarcely audible, 'For heaven's sake bereasonable--be composed. Monsieur Du Pont is not your rival, nor is theCount his advocate. You have no rival; nor, except yourself, an enemy. My heart is wrung with anguish, which must increase while yourfrantic behaviour shews me, more than ever, that you are no longer theValancourt I have been accustomed to love. '

He made no reply, but sat with his arms rested on the table and hisface concealed by his hands; while Emily stood, silent and trembling, wretched for herself and dreading to leave him in this state of mind. 

'O excess of misery!' he suddenly exclaimed, 'that I can never lamentmy sufferings, without accusing myself, nor remember you, withoutrecollecting the folly and the vice, by which I have lost you! Why was Iforced to Paris, and why did I yield to allurements, which were to makeme despicable for ever! O! why cannot I look back, without interruption, to those days of innocence and peace, the days of our early love!'--Therecollection seemed to melt his heart, and the frenzy of despair yieldedto tears. After a long pause, turning towards her and taking her hand, he said, in a softened voice, 'Emily, can you bear that we shouldpart--can you resolve to give up an heart, that loves you like mine--anheart, which, though it has erred--widely erred, is not irretrievablefrom error, as, you well know, it never can be retrievable from love?'Emily made no reply, but with her tears. 'Can you, ' continued he, 'canyou forget all our former days of happiness and confidence--when I hadnot a thought, that I might wish to conceal from you--when I had notaste--no pleasures, in which you did not participate?'

'O do not lead me to the remembrance of those days, ' said Emily, 'unlessyou can teach me to forget the present; I do not mean to reproach you;if I did, I should be spared these tears; but why will you render yourpresent sufferings more conspicuous, by contrasting them with yourformer virtues?'

'Those virtues, ' said Valancourt, 'might, perhaps, again be mine, ifyour affection, which nurtured them, was unchanged;--but I fear, indeed, I see, that you can no longer love me; else the happy hours, which wehave passed together, would plead for me, and you could not lookback upon them unmoved. Yet, why should I torture myself with theremembrance--why do I linger here? Am I not ruined--would it not bemadness to involve you in my misfortunes, even if your heart was stillmy own? I will not distress you further. Yet, before I go, ' added he, in a solemn voice, 'let me repeat, that, whatever may be mydestiny--whatever I may be doomed to suffer, I must always loveyou--most fondly love you! I am going, Emily, I am going to leaveyou--to leave you, forever!' As he spoke the last words, his voicetrembled, and he threw himself again into the chair, from which he hadrisen. Emily was utterly unable to leave the room, or to say farewell. All impression of his criminal conduct and almost of his follies wasobliterated from her mind, and she was sensible only of pity and grief. 

'My fortitude is gone, ' said Valancourt at length; 'I can no longereven struggle to recall it. I cannot now leave you--I cannot bid youan eternal farewell; say, at least, that you will see me once again. 'Emily's heart was somewhat relieved by the request, and she endeavouredto believe, that she ought not to refuse it. Yet she was embarrassedby recollecting, that she was a visitor in the house of the Count, whocould not be pleased by the return of Valancourt. Other considerations, however, soon overcame this, and she granted his request, on thecondition, that he would neither think of the Count, as his enemy, norDu Pont as his rival. He then left her, with a heart, so much lightenedby this short respite, that he almost lost every former sense ofmisfortune. 

Emily withdrew to her own room, that she might compose her spirits andremove the traces of her tears, which would encourage the censoriousremarks of the Countess and her favourite, as well as excite thecuriosity of the rest of the family. She found it, however, impossibleto tranquillize her mind, from which she could not expel the remembranceof the late scene with Valancourt, or the consciousness, that she was tosee him again, on the morrow. This meeting now appeared more terrible toher than the last, for the ingenuous confession he had made of hisill conduct and his embarrassed circumstances, with the strength andtenderness of affection, which this confession discovered, had deeplyimpressed her, and, in spite of all she had heard and believed to hisdisadvantage, her esteem began to return. It frequently appeared to herimpossible, that he could have been guilty of the depravities, reportedof him, which, if not inconsistent with his warmth and impetuosity, were entirely so with his candour and sensibility. Whatever was thecriminality, which had given rise to the reports, she could not nowbelieve them to be wholly true, nor that his heart was finally closedagainst the charms of virtue. The deep consciousness, which he felt aswell as expressed of his errors, seemed to justify the opinion; and, as she understood not the instability of youthful dispositions, whenopposed by habit, and that professions frequently deceive those, whomake, as well as those, who hear them, she might have yielded to theflattering persuasions of her own heart and the pleadings of Valancourt, had she not been guided by the superior prudence of the Count. Herepresented to her, in a clear light, the danger of her presentsituation, that of listening to promises of amendment, made under theinfluence of strong passion, and the slight hope, which could attachto a connection, whose chance of happiness rested upon the retrievalof ruined circumstances and the reform of corrupted habits. On theseaccounts, he lamented, that Emily had consented to a second interview, for he saw how much it would shake her resolution and increase thedifficulty of her conquest. 

Her mind was now so entirely occupied by nearer interests, that sheforgot the old housekeeper and the promised history, which so lately hadexcited her curiosity, but which Dorothee was probably not very anxiousto disclose, for night came; the hours passed; and she did not appearin Emily's chamber. With the latter it was a sleepless and dismalnight; the more she suffered her memory to dwell on the late scenes withValancourt, the more her resolution declined, and she was obligedto recollect all the arguments, which the Count had made use of tostrengthen it, and all the precepts, which she had received from herdeceased father, on the subject of self-command, to enable her to act, with prudence and dignity, on this the most severe occasion of herlife. There were moments, when all her fortitude forsook her, and when, remembering the confidence of former times, she thought it impossible, that she could renounce Valancourt. His reformation then appearedcertain; the arguments of Count De Villefort were forgotten; she readilybelieved all she wished, and was willing to encounter any evil, ratherthan that of an immediate separation. 

Thus passed the night in ineffectual struggles between affectionand reason, and she rose, in the morning, with a mind, weakened andirresolute, and a frame, trembling with illness. 

CHAPTER II

 Come, weep with me;--past hope, past cure, past help! ROMEO AND JULIET

Valancourt, meanwhile, suffered the tortures of remorse and despair. The sight of Emily had renewed all the ardour, with which he first lovedher, and which had suffered a temporary abatement from absence and thepassing scenes of busy life. When, on the receipt of her letter, he setout for Languedoc, he then knew, that his own folly had involved him inruin, and it was no part of his design to conceal this from her. Buthe lamented only the delay which his ill-conduct must give to theirmarriage, and did not foresee, that the information could induce her tobreak their connection forever. While the prospect of this separationoverwhelmed his mind, before stung with self-reproach, he awaited theirsecond interview, in a state little short of distraction, yet was stillinclined to hope, that his pleadings might prevail upon her not to exactit. In the morning, he sent to know at what hour she would see him;and his note arrived, when she was with the Count, who had sought anopportunity of again conversing with her of Valancourt; for he perceivedthe extreme distress of her mind, and feared, more than ever, that herfortitude would desert her. Emily having dismissed the messenger, theCount returned to the subject of their late conversation, urging hisfear of Valancourt's entreaties, and again pointing out to her thelengthened misery, that must ensue, if she should refuse to encountersome present uneasiness. His repeated arguments could, indeed, alonehave protected her from the affection she still felt for Valancourt, andshe resolved to be governed by them. 

The hour of interview, at length, arrived. Emily went to it, at least, with composure of manner, but Valancourt was so much agitated, thathe could not speak, for several minutes, and his first words werealternately those of lamentation, entreaty, and self-reproach. Afterward, he said, 'Emily, I have loved you--I do love you, better thanmy life; but I am ruined by my own conduct. Yet I would seek to entangleyou in a connection, that must be miserable for you, rather than subjectmyself to the punishment, which is my due, the loss of you. I am awretch, but I will be a villain no longer. --I will not endeavour toshake your resolution by the pleadings of a selfish passion. I resignyou, Emily, and will endeavour to find consolation in considering, that, though I am miserable, you, at least, may be happy. The merit of thesacrifice is, indeed, not my own, for I should never have attainedstrength of mind to surrender you, if your prudence had not demandedit. '

He paused a moment, while Emily attempted to conceal the tears, whichcame to her eyes. She would have said, 'You speak now, as you were wontto do, ' but she checked herself. --'Forgive me, Emily, ' said he, 'all thesufferings I have occasioned you, and, sometimes, when you think of thewretched Valancourt, remember, that his only consolation would be tobelieve, that you are no longer unhappy by his folly. ' The tears nowfell fast upon her cheek, and he was relapsing into the phrensy ofdespair, when Emily endeavoured to recall her fortitude and to terminatean interview, which only seemed to increase the distress of both. Perceiving her tears and that she was rising to go, Valancourtstruggled, once more, to overcome his own feelings and to sooth hers. 'The remembrance of this sorrow, ' said he, 'shall in future be myprotection. O! never again will example, or temptation have power toseduce me to evil, exalted as I shall be by the recollection of yourgrief for me. '

Emily was somewhat comforted by this assurance. 'We are now parting forever, ' said she; 'but, if my happiness is dear to you, you will alwaysremember, that nothing can contribute to it more, than to believe, thatyou have recovered your own esteem. ' Valancourt took her hand;--his eyeswere covered with tears, and the farewell he would have spoken was lostin sighs. After a few moments, Emily said, with difficulty and emotion, 'Farewell, Valancourt, may you be happy!' She repeated her 'farewell, 'and attempted to withdraw her hand, but he still held it and bathedit with his tears. 'Why prolong these moments?' said Emily, in a voicescarcely audible, 'they are too painful to us both. ' 'This is too--toomuch, ' exclaimed Valancourt, resigning her hand and throwing himselfinto a chair, where he covered his face with his hands and was overcome, for some moments, by convulsive sighs. After a long pause, during whichEmily wept in silence, and Valancourt seemed struggling with his grief, she again rose to take leave of him. Then, endeavouring to recover hiscomposure, 'I am again afflicting you, ' said he, 'but let the anguish Isuffer plead for me. ' He then added, in a solemn voice, which frequentlytrembled with the agitation of his heart, 'Farewell, Emily, you willalways be the only object of my tenderness. Sometimes you will think ofthe unhappy Valancourt, and it will be with pity, though it may not bewith esteem. O! what is the whole world to me, without you--without youresteem!' He checked himself--'I am falling again into the error I havejust lamented. I must not intrude longer upon your patience, or I shallrelapse into despair. '

He once more bade Emily adieu, pressed her hand to his lips, looked ather, for the last time, and hurried out of the room. 

Emily remained in the chair, where he had left her, oppressed witha pain at her heart, which scarcely permitted her to breathe, andlistening to his departing steps, sinking fainter and fainter, ashe crossed the hall. She was, at length, roused by the voice of theCountess in the garden, and, her attention being then awakened, thefirst object, which struck her sight, was the vacant chair, whereValancourt had sat. The tears, which had been, for some time, repressedby the kind of astonishment, that followed his departure, now came toher relief, and she was, at length, sufficiently composed to return toher own room. 

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 head, 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, butnobody 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. 

CHAPTER IV

 Now it is the time of night, That, the graves all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his spite, In the church-way path to glide. SHAKESPEARE

On the next night, about the same hour as before, Dorothee came toEmily's chamber, with the keys of that suite of rooms, which had beenparticularly appropriated to the late Marchioness. These extended alongthe north side of the chateau, forming part of the old building; and, asEmily's room was in the south, they had to pass over a great extentof the castle, and by the chambers of several of the family, whoseobservations Dorothee was anxious to avoid, since it might exciteenquiry, and raise reports, such as would displease the Count. She, therefore, requested, that Emily would wait half an hour, before theyventured forth, that they might be certain all the servants were goneto bed. It was nearly one, before the chateau was perfectly still, orDorothee thought it prudent to leave the chamber. In this interval, herspirits seemed to be greatly affected by the remembrance of past events, and by the prospect of entering again upon places, where these hadoccurred, and in which she had not been for so many years. Emily too wasaffected, but her feelings had more of solemnity, and less of fear. From the silence, into which reflection and expectation had thrown them, they, at length, roused themselves, and left the chamber. Dorothee, atfirst, carried the lamp, but her hand trembled so much with infirmityand alarm, that Emily took it from her, and offered her arm, to supporther feeble steps. 

They had to descend the great stair-case, and, after passing over awide extent of the chateau, to ascend another, which led to the suiteof rooms they were in quest of. They stepped cautiously along the opencorridor, that ran round the great hall, and into which the chambersof the Count, Countess, and the Lady Blanche, opened, and, fromthence, descending the chief stair-case, they crossed the hall itself. Proceeding through the servants hall, where the dying embers of a woodfire still glimmered on the hearth, and the supper table was surroundedby chairs, that obstructed their passage, they came to the foot of theback stair-case. Old Dorothee here paused, and looked around; 'Let uslisten, ' said she, 'if any thing is stirring; Ma'amselle, do you hearany voice?' 'None, ' said Emily, 'there certainly is no person up in thechateau, besides ourselves. '--'No, ma'amselle, ' said Dorothee, 'but Ihave never been here at this hour before, and, after what I know, my fears are not wonderful. '--'What do you know?' said Emily. --'O, ma'amselle, we have no time for talking now; let us go on. That door onthe left is the one we must open. '

They proceeded, and, having reached the top of the stair-case, Dorotheeapplied the key to the lock. 'Ah, ' said she, as she endeavoured to turnit, 'so many years have passed since this was opened, that I fear itwill not move. ' Emily was more successful, and they presently entered aspacious and ancient chamber. 

'Alas!' exclaimed Dorothee, as she entered, 'the last time I passedthrough this door--I followed my poor lady's corpse!'

Emily, struck with the circumstance, and affected by the dusky andsolemn air of the apartment, remained silent, and they passed on througha long suite of rooms, till they came to one more spacious than therest, and rich in the remains of faded magnificence. 

'Let us rest here awhile, madam, ' said Dorothee faintly, 'we are goinginto the chamber, where my lady died! that door opens into it. Ah, ma'amselle! why did you persuade me to come?'

Emily drew one of the massy arm-chairs, with which the apartment wasfurnished, and begged Dorothee would sit down, and try to compose herspirits. 

'How the sight of this place brings all that passed formerly to mymind!' said Dorothee; 'it seems as if it was but yesterday since allthat sad affair happened!'

'Hark! what noise is that?' said Emily. 

Dorothee, half starting from her chair, looked round the apartment, andthey listened--but, every thing remaining still, the old woman spokeagain upon the subject of her sorrow. 'This saloon, ma'amselle, was inmy lady's time the finest apartment in the chateau, and it was fittedup according to her own taste. All this grand furniture, but you cannow hardly see what it is for the dust, and our light is none of thebest--ah! how I have seen this room lighted up in my lady's time!--allthis grand furniture came from Paris, and was made after the fashion ofsome in the Louvre there, except those large glasses, and they came fromsome outlandish place, and that rich tapestry. How the colours are fadedalready!--since I saw it last!'

'I understood, that was twenty years ago, ' observed Emily. 

'Thereabout, madam, ' said Dorothee, 'and well remembered, but all thetime between then and now seems as nothing. That tapestry used to begreatly admired at, it tells the stories out of some famous book, orother, but I have forgot the name. '

Emily now rose to examine the figures it exhibited, and discovered, byverses in the Provencal tongue, wrought underneath each scene, that itexhibited stories from some of the most celebrated ancient romances. 

Dorothee's spirits being now more composed, she rose, and unlocked thedoor that led into the late Marchioness's apartment, and Emily passedinto a lofty chamber, hung round with dark arras, and so spacious, thatthe lamp she held up did not shew its extent; while Dorothee, when sheentered, had dropped into a chair, where, sighing deeply, she scarcelytrusted herself with the view of a scene so affecting to her. It wassome time before Emily perceived, through the dusk, the bed on which theMarchioness was said to have died; when, advancing to the upper end ofthe room, she discovered the high canopied tester of dark green damask, with the curtains descending to the floor in the fashion of a tent, half drawn, and remaining apparently, as they had been left twenty yearsbefore; and over the whole bedding was thrown a counterpane, or pall, ofblack velvet, that hung down to the floor. Emily shuddered, as she heldthe lamp over it, and looked within the dark curtains, where she almostexpected to have seen a human face, and, suddenly remembering thehorror she had suffered upon discovering the dying Madame Montoni in theturret-chamber of Udolpho, her spirits fainted, and she was turning fromthe bed, when Dorothee, who had now reached it, exclaimed, 'Holy Virgin!methinks I see my lady stretched upon that pall--as when last I sawher!'

Emily, shocked by this exclamation, looked involuntarily again withinthe curtains, but the blackness of the pall only appeared; whileDorothee was compelled to support herself upon the side of the bed, andpresently tears brought her some relief. 

'Ah!' said she, after she had wept awhile, 'it was here I sat on thatterrible night, and held my lady's hand, and heard her last words, andsaw all her sufferings--HERE she died in my arms!'

'Do not indulge these painful recollections, ' said Emily, 'let us go. Shew me the picture you mentioned, if it will not too much affect you. '

'It hangs in the oriel, ' said Dorothee rising, and going towards a smalldoor near the bed's head, which she opened, and Emily followed with thelight, into the closet of the late Marchioness. 

'Alas! there she is, ma'amselle, ' said Dorothee, pointing to a portraitof a lady, 'there is her very self! just as she looked when she camefirst to the chateau. You see, madam, she was all blooming like you, then--and so soon to be cut off!'

While Dorothee spoke, Emily was attentively examining the picture, whichbore a strong resemblance to the miniature, though the expression of thecountenance in each was somewhat different; but still she thought sheperceived something of that pensive melancholy in the portrait, which sostrongly characterised the miniature. 

'Pray, ma'amselle, stand beside the picture, that I may look at youtogether, ' said Dorothee, who, when the request was complied with, exclaimed again at the resemblance. Emily also, as she gazed upon it, thought that she had somewhere seen a person very like it, though shecould not now recollect who this was. 

In this closet were many memorials of the departed Marchioness; a robeand several articles of her dress were scattered upon the chairs, as ifthey had just been thrown off. On the floor were a pair of black satinslippers, and, on the dressing-table, a pair of gloves and a long blackveil, which, as Emily took it up to examine, she perceived was droppingto pieces with age. 

'Ah!' said Dorothee, observing the veil, 'my lady's hand laid it there;it has never been moved since!'

Emily, shuddering, immediately laid it down again. 'I well rememberseeing her take it off, ' continued Dorothee, 'it was on the night beforeher death, when she had returned from a little walk I had persuaded herto take in the gardens, and she seemed refreshed by it. I told her howmuch better she looked, and I remember what a languid smile she gave me;but, alas! she little thought, or I either, that she was to die, thatnight. '

Dorothee wept again, and then, taking up the veil, threw it suddenlyover Emily, who shuddered to find it wrapped round her, descending evento her feet, and, as she endeavoured to throw it off, Dorothee intreatedthat she would keep it on for one moment. 'I thought, ' added she, 'howlike you would look to my dear mistress in that veil;--may your life, ma'amselle, be a happier one than hers!'

Emily, having disengaged herself from the veil, laid it again on thedressing-table, and surveyed the closet, where every object, on whichher eye fixed, seemed to speak of the Marchioness. In a large orielwindow of painted glass, stood a table, with a silver crucifix, and aprayer-book open; and Emily remembered with emotion what Dorothee hadmentioned concerning her custom of playing on her lute in this window, before she observed the lute itself, lying on a corner of the table, asif it had been carelessly placed there by the hand, that had so oftenawakened it. 

'This is a sad forlorn place!' said Dorothee, 'for, when my dear ladydied, I had no heart to put it to rights, or the chamber either; and mylord never came into the rooms after, so they remain just as they didwhen my lady was removed for interment. '

While Dorothee spoke, Emily was still looking on the lute, which was aSpanish one, and remarkably large; and then, with a hesitating hand, she took it up, and passed her fingers over the chords. They were outof tune, but uttered a deep and full sound. Dorothee started at theirwell-known tones, and, seeing the lute in Emily's hand, said, 'This isthe lute my lady Marchioness loved so! I remember when last she playedupon it--it was on the night that she died. I came as usual to undressher, and, as I entered the bed-chamber, I heard the sound of music fromthe oriel, and perceiving it was my lady's, who was sitting there, Istepped softly to the door, which stood a little open, to listen; forthe music--though it was mournful--was so sweet! There I saw her, withthe lute in her hand, looking upwards, and the tears fell upon hercheeks, while she sung a vesper hymn, so soft, and so solemn! and hervoice trembled, as it were, and then she would stop for a moment, andwipe away her tears, and go on again, lower than before. O! I had oftenlistened to my lady, but never heard any thing so sweet as this; it mademe cry, almost, to hear it. She had been at prayers, I fancy, for therewas the book open on the table beside her--aye, and there it lies openstill! Pray, let us leave the oriel, ma'amselle, ' added Dorothee, 'thisis a heart-breaking place!'

Having returned into the chamber, she desired to look once more uponthe bed, when, as they came opposite to the open door, leading intothe saloon, Emily, in the partial gleam, which the lamp threw into it, thought she saw something glide along into the obscurer part of theroom. Her spirits had been much affected by the surrounding scene, or itis probable this circumstance, whether real or imaginary, would not haveaffected her in the degree it did; but she endeavoured to conceal heremotion from Dorothee, who, however, observing her countenance change, enquired if she was ill. 

'Let us go, ' said Emily, faintly, 'the air of these rooms isunwholesome;' but, when she attempted to do so, considering that shemust pass through the apartment where the phantom of her terror hadappeared, this terror increased, and, too faint to support herself, shesad down on the side of the bed. 

Dorothee, believing that she was only affected by a consideration of themelancholy catastrophe, which had happened on this spot, endeavouredto cheer her; and then, as they sat together on the bed, she began torelate other particulars concerning it, and this without reflecting, that it might increase Emily's emotion, but because they wereparticularly interesting to herself. 'A little before my lady's death, 'said she, 'when the pains were gone off, she called me to her, andstretching out her hand to me, I sat down just there--where the curtainfalls upon the bed. How well I remember her look at the time--deathwas in it!--I can almost fancy I see her now. --There she lay, ma'amselle--her face was upon the pillow there! This black counterpanewas not upon the bed then; it was laid on, after her death, and she waslaid out upon it. '

Emily turned to look within the dusky curtains, as if she could haveseen the countenance of which Dorothee spoke. The edge of the whitepillow only appeared above the blackness of the pall, but, as her eyeswandered over the pall itself, she fancied she saw it move. Withoutspeaking, she caught Dorothee's arm, who, surprised by the action, andby the look of terror that accompanied it, turned her eyes from Emily tothe bed, where, in the next moment she, too, saw the pall slowly lifted, and fall again. 

Emily attempted to go, but Dorothee stood fixed and gazing upon the bed;and, at length, said--'It is only the wind, that waves it, ma'amselle;we have left all the doors open: see how the air waves the lamp, too. --It is only the wind. '

She had scarcely uttered these words, when the pall was more violentlyagitated than before; but Emily, somewhat ashamed of her terrors, stepped back to the bed, willing to be convinced that the wind only hadoccasioned her alarm; when, as she gazed within the curtains, thepall moved again, and, in the next moment, the apparition of a humancountenance rose above it. 

Screaming with terror, they both fled, and got out of the chamber asfast as their trembling limbs would bear them, leaving open the doorsof all the rooms, through which they passed. When they reached thestair-case, Dorothee threw open a chamber door, where some of the femaleservants slept, and sunk breathless on the bed; while Emily, deprived ofall presence of mind, made only a feeble attempt to conceal the occasionof her terror from the astonished servants; and, though Dorothee, whenshe could speak, endeavoured to laugh at her own fright, and was joinedby Emily, no remonstrances could prevail with the servants, who hadquickly taken the alarm, to pass even the remainder of the night in aroom so near to these terrific chambers. 

Dorothee having accompanied Emily to her own apartment, they then beganto talk over, with some degree of coolness, the strange circumstance, that had just occurred; and Emily would almost have doubted her ownperceptions, had not those of Dorothee attested their truth. Havingnow mentioned what she had observed in the outer chamber, she asked thehousekeeper, whether she was certain no door had been left unfastened, by which a person might secretly have entered the apartments? Dorotheereplied, that she had constantly kept the keys of the several doorsin her own possession; that, when she had gone her rounds through thecastle, as she frequently did, to examine if all was safe, she had triedthese doors among the rest, and had always found them fastened. Itwas, therefore, impossible, she added, that any person could havegot admittance into the apartments; and, if they could--it was veryimprobable they should have chose to sleep in a place so cold andforlorn. 

Emily observed, that their visit to these chambers had, perhaps, beenwatched, and that some person, for a frolic, had followed them intothe rooms, with a design to frighten them, and, while they were in theoriel, had taken the opportunity of concealing himself in the bed. 

Dorothee allowed, that this was possible, till she recollected, that, onentering the apartments, she had turned the key of the outer door, andthis, which had been done to prevent their visit being noticed by anyof the family, who might happen to be up, must effectually haveexcluded every person, except themselves, from the chambers; and she nowpersisted in affirming, that the ghastly countenance she had seen wasnothing human, but some dreadful apparition. 

Emily was very solemnly affected. Of whatever nature might be theappearance she had witnessed, whether human or supernatural, the fateof the deceased Marchioness was a truth not to be doubted; andthis unaccountable circumstance, occurring in the very scene of hersufferings, affected Emily's imagination with a superstitious awe, towhich, after having detected the fallacies at Udolpho, she might nothave yielded, had she been ignorant of the unhappy story, related by thehousekeeper. Her she now solemnly conjured to conceal the occurrence ofthis night, and to make light of the terror she had already betrayed, that the Count might not be distressed by reports, which would certainlyspread alarm and confusion among his family. 'Time, ' she added, 'mayexplain this mysterious affair; meanwhile let us watch the event insilence. '

Dorothee readily acquiesced; but she now recollected that she had leftall the doors of the north suite of rooms open, and, not having courageto return alone to lock even the outer one, Emily, after some effort, so far conquered her own fears, that she offered to accompany her to thefoot of the back stair-case, and to wait there while Dorothee ascended, whose resolution being re-assured by this circumstance, she consented togo, and they left Emily's apartment together. 

No sound disturbed the stillness, as they passed along the halls andgalleries; but, on reaching the foot of the back stair-case, Dorothee'sresolution failed again; having, however, paused a moment to listen, and no sound being heard above, she ascended, leaving Emily below, and, scarcely suffering her eye to glance within the first chamber, she fastened the door, which shut up the whole suite of apartments, andreturned to Emily. 

As they stepped along the passage, leading into the great hall, a soundof lamentation was heard, which seemed to come from the hall itself, andthey stopped in new alarm to listen, when Emily presently distinguishedthe voice of Annette, whom she found crossing the hall, with anotherfemale servant, and so terrified by the report, which the other maidshad spread, that, believing she could be safe only where her lady was, she was going for refuge to her apartment. Emily's endeavours tolaugh, or to argue her out of these terrors, were equally vain, and, incompassion to her distress, she consented that she should remain in herroom during the night. 

CHAPTER V

 Hail, mildly-pleasing Solitude! Companion of the wise and good--

 This is the balmy breath of morn, Just as the dew-bent rose is born. 

 But chief when evening scenes decay And the faint landscape swims away, Thine is the doubtful, soft decline, And that best hour of musing thine. THOMSON

Emily's injunctions to Annette to be silent on the subject of her terrorwere ineffectual, and the occurrence of the preceding night spread suchalarm among the servants, who now all affirmed, that they had frequentlyheard unaccountable noises in the chateau, that a report soon reachedthe Count of the north side of the castle being haunted. He treatedthis, at first, with ridicule, but, perceiving, that it was productiveof serious evil, in the confusion it occasioned among his household, heforbade any person to repeat it, on pain of punishment. 

The arrival of a party of his friends soon withdrew his thoughtsentirely from this subject, and his servants had now little leisure tobrood over it, except, indeed, in the evenings after supper, when theyall assembled in their hall, and related stories of ghosts, till theyfeared to look round the room; started, if the echo of a closing doormurmured along the passage, and refused to go singly to any part of thecastle. 

On these occasions Annette made a distinguished figure. When she toldnot only of all the wonders she had witnessed, but of all that shehad imagined, in the castle of Udolpho, with the story of the strangedisappearance of Signora Laurentini, she made no trifling impression onthe mind of her attentive auditors. Her suspicions, concerning Montoni, she would also have freely disclosed, had not Ludovico, who was now inthe service of the Count, prudently checked her loquacity, whenever itpointed to that subject. 

Among the visitors at the chateau was the Baron de Saint Foix, an oldfriend of the Count, and his son, the Chevalier St. Foix, a sensibleand amiable young man, who, having in the preceding year seen the LadyBlanche, at Paris, had become her declared admirer. The friendship, which the Count had long entertained for his father, and the equalityof their circumstances made him secretly approve of the connection; but, thinking his daughter at this time too young to fix her choice forlife, and wishing to prove the sincerity and strength of the Chevalier'sattachment, he then rejected his suit, though without forbidding hisfuture hope. This young man now came, with the Baron, his father, to claim the reward of a steady affection, a claim, which the Countadmitted and which Blanche did not reject. 

While these visitors were at the chateau, it became a scene of gaietyand splendour. The pavilion in the woods was fitted up and frequented, in the fine evenings, as a supper-room, when the hour usually concludedwith a concert, at which the Count and Countess, who were scientificperformers, and the Chevaliers Henri and St. Foix, with the Lady Blancheand Emily, whose voices and fine taste compensated for the want of moreskilful execution, usually assisted. Several of the Count's servantsperformed on horns and other instruments, some of which, placed ata little distance among the woods, spoke, in sweet response, to theharmony, that proceeded from the pavilion. 

At any other period, these parties would have been delightful toEmily; but her spirits were now oppressed with a melancholy, whichshe perceived that no kind of what is called amusement had power todissipate, and which the tender and, frequently, pathetic, melody ofthese concerts sometimes increased to a very painful degree. 

She was particularly fond of walking in the woods, that hung on apromontory, overlooking the sea. Their luxuriant shade was soothing toher pensive mind, and, in the partial views, which they afforded ofthe Mediterranean, with its winding shores and passing sails, tranquilbeauty was united with grandeur. The paths were rude and frequentlyovergrown with vegetation, but their tasteful owner would suffer littleto be done to them, and scarcely a single branch to be lopped from thevenerable trees. On an eminence, in one of the most sequestered partsof these woods, was a rustic seat, formed of the trunk of a decayed oak, which had once been a noble tree, and of which many lofty branches stillflourishing united with beech and pines to over-canopy the spot. Beneaththeir deep umbrage, the eye passed over the tops of other woods, to theMediterranean, and, to the left, through an opening, was seen a ruinedwatch-tower, standing on a point of rock, near the sea, and rising fromamong the tufted foliage. 

Hither Emily often came alone in the silence of evening, and, soothedby the scenery and by the faint murmur, that rose from the waves, wouldsit, till darkness obliged her to return to the chateau. Frequently, also, she visited the watch-tower, which commanded the entireprospect, and, when she leaned against its broken walls, and thought ofValancourt, she not once imagined, what was so true, that this tower hadbeen almost as frequently his resort, as her own, since his estrangementfrom the neighbouring chateau. 

One evening, she lingered here to a late hour. She had sat on the stepsof the building, watching, in tranquil melancholy, the gradual effectof evening over the extensive prospect, till the gray waters of theMediterranean and the massy woods were almost the only features of thescene, that remained visible; when, as she gazed alternately on these, and on the mild blue of the heavens, where the first pale star ofevening appeared, she personified the hour in the following lines:--

 SONG OF THE EVENING HOUR

 Last of the Hours, that track the fading Day, I move along the realms of twilight air, And hear, remote, the choral song decay Of sister-nymphs, who dance around his car. 

 Then, as I follow through the azure void, His partial splendour from my straining eye Sinks in the depth of space; my only guide His faint ray dawning on the farthest sky;

 Save that sweet, lingering strain of gayer Hours, Whose close my voice prolongs in dying notes, While mortals on the green earth own its pow'rs, As downward on the evening gale it floats. 

 When fades along the West the Sun's last beam, As, weary, to the nether world he goes, And mountain-summits catch the purple gleam, And slumbering ocean faint and fainter glows, Silent upon the globe's broad shade I steal, And o'er its dry turf shed the cooling dews, And ev'ry fever'd herb and flow'ret heal, And all their fragrance on the air diffuse. 

 Where'er I move, a tranquil pleasure reigns; O'er all the scene the dusky tints I send, That forests wild and mountains, stretching plains And peopled towns, in soft confusion blend. 

 Wide o'er the world I waft the fresh'ning wind, Low breathing through the woods and twilight vale, In whispers soft, that woo the pensive mind Of him, who loves my lonely steps to hail. 

 His tender oaten reed I watch to hear, Stealing its sweetness o'er some plaining rill, Or soothing ocean's wave, when storms are near, Or swelling in the breeze from distant hill!

 I wake the fairy elves, who shun the light; When, from their blossom'd beds, they slily peep, And spy my pale star, leading on the night, -- Forth to their games and revelry they leap;

 Send all the prison'd sweets abroad in air, That with them slumber'd in the flow'ret's cell; Then to the shores and moon-light brooks repair, Till the high larks their matin-carol swell. 

 The wood-nymphs hail my airs and temper'd shade, With ditties soft and lightly sportive dance, On river margin of some bow'ry glade, And strew their fresh buds as my steps advance:

 But, swift I pass, and distant regions trace, For moon-beams silver all the eastern cloud, And Day's last crimson vestige fades apace; Down the steep west I fly from Midnight's shroud. 

The moon was now rising out of the sea. She watched its gradualprogress, the extending line of radiance it threw upon the waters, thesparkling oars, the sail faintly silvered, and the wood-tops and thebattlements of the watch-tower, at whose foot she was sitting, justtinted with the rays. Emily's spirits were in harmony with this scene. As she sat meditating, sounds stole by her on the air, which sheimmediately knew to be the music and the voice she had formerly heard atmidnight, and the emotion of awe, which she felt, was not unmixed withterror, when she considered her remote and lonely situation. The soundsdrew nearer. She would have risen to leave the place, but they seemedto come from the way she must have taken towards the chateau, and sheawaited the event in trembling expectation. The sounds continued toapproach, for some time, and then ceased. Emily sat listening, gazingand unable to move, when she saw a figure emerge from the shade of thewoods and pass along the bank, at some little distance before her. Itwent swiftly, and her spirits were so overcome with awe, that, thoughshe saw, she did not much observe it. 

Having left the spot, with a resolution never again to visit it alone, at so late an hour, she began to approach the chateau, when she heardvoices calling her from the part of the wood, which was nearest to it. They were the shouts of the Count's servants, who were sent to searchfor her; and when she entered the supper-room, where he sat with Henriand Blanche, he gently reproached her with a look, which she blushed tohave deserved. 

This little occurrence deeply impressed her mind, and, when she withdrewto her own room, it recalled so forcibly the circumstances she hadwitnessed, a few nights before, that she had scarcely courage to remainalone. She watched to a late hour, when, no sound having renewedher fears, she, at length, sunk to repose. But this was of shortcontinuance, for she was disturbed by a loud and unusual noise, thatseemed to come from the gallery, into which her chamber opened. Groanswere distinctly heard, and, immediately after, a dead weight fellagainst the door, with a violence, that threatened to burst it open. Shecalled loudly to know who was there, but received no answer, though, at intervals, she still thought she heard something like a low moaning. Fear deprived her of the power to move. Soon after, she heard footstepsin a remote part of the gallery, and, as they approached, she calledmore loudly than before, till the steps paused at her door. She thendistinguished the voices of several of the servants, who seemed toomuch engaged by some circumstance without, to attend to her calls; but, Annette soon after entering the room for water, Emily understood, thatone of the maids had fainted, whom she immediately desired them to bringinto her room, where she assisted to restore her. When this girl hadrecovered her speech, she affirmed, that, as she was passing up the backstair-case, in the way to her chamber, she had seen an apparition on thesecond landing-place; she held the lamp low, she said, that she mightpick her way, several of the stairs being infirm and even decayed, andit was upon raising her eyes, that she saw this appearance. It stood fora moment in the corner of the landing-place, which she was approaching, and then, gliding up the stairs, vanished at the door of the apartment, that had been lately opened. She heard afterwards a hollow sound. 

'Then the devil has got a key to that apartment, ' said Dorothee, 'for itcould be nobody but he; I locked the door myself!'

The girl, springing down the stairs and passing up the great stair-case, had run, with a faint scream, till she reached the gallery, where shefell, groaning, at Emily's door. 

Gently chiding her for the alarm she had occasioned, Emily tried to makeher ashamed of her fears; but the girl persisted in saying, that shehad seen an apparition, till she went to her own room, whither shewas accompanied by all the servants present, except Dorothee, who, at Emily's request, remained with her during the night. Emily wasperplexed, and Dorothee was terrified, and mentioned many occurrencesof former times, which had long since confirmed her superstitions; amongthese, according to her belief, she had once witnessed an appearance, like that just described, and on the very same spot, and it was theremembrance of it, that had made her pause, when she was going to ascendthe stairs with Emily, and which had increased her reluctance to openthe north apartments. Whatever might be Emily's opinions, she didnot disclose them, but listened attentively to all that Dorotheecommunicated, which occasioned her much thought and perplexity. 

From this night the terror of the servants increased to such an excess, that several of them determined to leave the chateau, and requestedtheir discharge of the Count, who, if he had any faith in the subject oftheir alarm, thought proper to dissemble it, and, anxious to avoid theinconvenience that threatened him, employed ridicule and then argumentto convince them they had nothing to apprehend from supernatural agency. But fear had rendered their minds inaccessible to reason; and it wasnow, that Ludovico proved at once his courage and his gratitude for thekindness he had received from the Count, by offering to watch, during anight, in the suite of rooms, reputed to be haunted. He feared, he said, no spirits, and, if any thing of human form appeared--he would provethat he dreaded that as little. 

The Count paused upon the offer, while the servants, who heard it, looked upon one another in doubt and amazement, and Annette, terrifiedfor the safety of Ludovico, employed tears and entreaties to dissuadehim from his purpose. 

'You are a bold fellow, ' said the Count, smiling, 'Think well of whatyou are going to encounter, before you finally determine upon it. However, if you persevere in your resolution, I will accept your offer, and your intrepidity shall not go unrewarded. '

'I desire no reward, your excellenza, ' replied Ludovico, 'but yourapprobation. Your excellenza has been sufficiently good to me already;but I wish to have arms, that I may be equal to my enemy, if he shouldappear. '

'Your sword cannot defend you against a ghost, ' replied the Count, throwing a glance of irony upon the other servants, 'neither can bars, or bolts; for a spirit, you know, can glide through a keyhole as easilyas through a door. '

'Give me a sword, my lord Count, ' said Ludovico, 'and I will lay all thespirits, that shall attack me, in the red sea. '

'Well, ' said the Count, 'you shall have a sword, and good cheer, too;and your brave comrades here will, perhaps, have courage enough toremain another night in the chateau, since your boldness will certainly, for this night, at least, confine all the malice of the spectre toyourself. '

Curiosity now struggled with fear in the minds of several of his fellowservants, and, at length, they resolved to await the event of Ludovico'srashness. 

Emily was surprised and concerned, when she heard of his intention, andwas frequently inclined to mention what she had witnessed in the northapartments to the Count, for she could not entirely divest herself offears for Ludovico's safety, though her reason represented these to beabsurd. The necessity, however, of concealing the secret, with whichDorothee had entrusted her, and which must have been mentioned, with thelate occurrence, in excuse for her having so privately visited the northapartments, kept her entirely silent on the subject of her apprehension;and she tried only to sooth Annette, who held, that Ludovico wascertainly to be destroyed; and who was much less affected by Emily'sconsolatory efforts, than by the manner of old Dorothee, who often, asshe exclaimed Ludovico, sighed, and threw up her eyes to heaven. 

CHAPTER VI

 Ye gods of quiet, and of sleep profound! Whose soft dominion o'er this castle sways, And all the widely-silent places round, Forgive me, if my trembling pen displays What never yet was sung in mortal lays. THOMSON

The Count gave orders for the north apartments to be opened and preparedfor the reception of Ludovico; but Dorothee, remembering what shehad lately witnessed there, feared to obey, and, not one of the otherservants daring to venture thither, the rooms remained shut up till thetime when Ludovico was to retire thither for the night, an hour, forwhich the whole household waited with impatience. 

After supper, Ludovico, by the order of the Count, attended him in hiscloset, where they remained alone for near half an hour, and, on leavingwhich, his Lord delivered to him a sword. 

'It has seen service in mortal quarrels, ' said the Count, jocosely, 'youwill use it honourably, no doubt, in a spiritual one. Tomorrow, let mehear that there is not one ghost remaining in the chateau. '

Ludovico received it with a respectful bow. 'You shall be obeyed, myLord, ' said he; 'I will engage, that no spectre shall disturb the peaceof the chateau after this night. '

They now returned to the supper-room, where the Count's guests awaitedto accompany him and Ludovico to the door of the north apartments, andDorothee, being summoned for the keys, delivered them to Ludovico, whothen led the way, followed by most of the inhabitants of the chateau. Having reached the back stair-case, several of the servants shrunk back, and refused to go further, but the rest followed him to the top of thestair-case, where a broad landing-place allowed them to flock round him, while he applied the key to the door, during which they watched him withas much eager curiosity as if he had been performing some magical rite. 

Ludovico, unaccustomed to the lock, could not turn it, and Dorothee, whohad lingered far behind, was called forward, under whose hand the dooropened slowly, and, her eye glancing within the dusky chamber, sheuttered a sudden shriek, and retreated. At this signal of alarm, thegreater part of the crowd hurried down the stairs, and the Count, Henriand Ludovico were left alone to pursue the enquiry, who instantly rushedinto the apartment, Ludovico with a drawn sword, which he had just timeto draw from the scabbard, the Count with the lamp in his hand, andHenri carrying a basket, containing provisions for the courageousadventurer. 

Having looked hastily round the first room, where nothing appeared tojustify alarm, they passed on to the second; and, here too all beingquiet, they proceeded to a third with a more tempered step. The Counthad now leisure to smile at the discomposure, into which he had beensurprised, and to ask Ludovico in which room he designed to pass thenight. 

'There are several chambers beyond these, your excellenza, ' saidLudovico, pointing to a door, 'and in one of them is a bed, they say. I will pass the night there, and when I am weary of watching, I can liedown. '

'Good;' said the Count; 'let us go on. You see these rooms shew nothing, but damp walls and decaying furniture. I have been so much engagedsince I came to the chateau, that I have not looked into them till now. Remember, Ludovico, to tell the housekeeper, to-morrow, to throw openthese windows. The damask hangings are dropping to pieces, I will havethem taken down, and this antique furniture removed. '

'Dear sir!' said Henri, 'here is an arm-chair so massy with gilding, that it resembles one of the state chairs at the Louvre, more then anything else. '

'Yes, ' said the Count, stopping a moment to survey it, 'there is ahistory belonging to that chair, but I have not time to tell it. --Let uspass on. This suite runs to a greater extent than I had imagined; it ismany years since I was in them. But where is the bed-room you speak of, Ludovico?--these are only anti-chambers to the great drawing-room. Iremember them in their splendour!'

'The bed, my Lord, ' replied Ludovico, 'they told me, was in a room thatopens beyond the saloon, and terminates the suite. '

'O, here is the saloon, ' said the Count, as they entered the spaciousapartment, in which Emily and Dorothee had rested. He here stood fora moment, surveying the reliques of faded grandeur, which itexhibited--the sumptuous tapestry--the long and low sophas of velvet, with frames heavily carved and gilded--the floor inlaid with smallsquares of fine marble, and covered in the centre with a piece ofvery rich tapestry-work--the casements of painted glass, and the largeVenetian mirrors, of a size and quality, such as at that period Francecould not make, which reflected, on every side, the spacious apartment. These had formerly also reflected a gay and brilliant scene, for thishad been the state-room of the chateau, and here the Marchioness hadheld the assemblies, that made part of the festivities of her nuptials. If the wand of a magician could have recalled the vanished groups, manyof them vanished even from the earth! that once had passed over thesepolished mirrors, what a varied and contrasted picture would they haveexhibited with the present! Now, instead of a blaze of lights, anda splendid and busy crowd, they reflected only the rays of the oneglimmering lamp, which the Count held up, and which scarcely served toshew the three forlorn figures, that stood surveying the room, and thespacious and dusky walls around them. 

'Ah!' said the Count to Henri, awaking from his deep reverie, 'how thescene is changed since last I saw it! I was a young man, then, and theMarchioness was alive and in her bloom; many other persons were here, too, who are now no more! There stood the orchestra; here we tripped inmany a sprightly maze--the walls echoing to the dance! Now, they resoundonly one feeble voice--and even that will, ere long, be heard no more!My son, remember, that I was once as young as yourself, and that youmust pass away like those, who have preceded you--like those, who, asthey sung and danced in this once gay apartment, forgot, that years aremade up of moments, and that every step they took carried them nearerto their graves. But such reflections are useless, I had almostsaid criminal, unless they teach us to prepare for eternity, since, otherwise, they cloud our present happiness, without guiding us to afuture one. But enough of this; let us go on. '

Ludovico now opened the door of the bed-room, and the Count, as heentered, was struck with the funereal appearance, which the dark arrasgave to it. He approached the bed, with an emotion of solemnity, and, perceiving it to be covered with the pall of black velvet, paused; 'Whatcan this mean?' said he, as he gazed upon it. 

'I have heard, my Lord, ' said Ludovico, as he stood at the feet, lookingwithin the canopied curtains, 'that the Lady Marchioness de Villeroidied in this chamber, and remained here till she was removed to beburied; and this, perhaps, Signor, may account for the pall. '

The Count made no reply, but stood for a few moments engaged in thought, and evidently much affected. Then, turning to Ludovico, he asked himwith a serious air, whether he thought his courage would support himthrough the night? 'If you doubt this, ' added the Count, 'do not beashamed to own it; I will release you from your engagement, withoutexposing you to the triumphs of your fellow-servants. '

Ludovico paused; pride, and something very like fear, seemed strugglingin his breast; pride, however, was victorious;--he blushed, and hishesitation ceased. 

'No, my Lord, ' said he, 'I will go through with what I have begun; andI am grateful for your consideration. On that hearth I will make a fire, and, with the good cheer in this basket, I doubt not I shall do well. '

'Be it so, ' said the Count; 'but how will you beguile the tediousness ofthe night, if you do not sleep?'

'When I am weary, my Lord, ' replied Ludovico, 'I shall not fear tosleep; in the meanwhile, I have a book, that will entertain me. '

'Well, ' said the Count, 'I hope nothing will disturb you; but if youshould be seriously alarmed in the night, come to my apartment. I havetoo much confidence in your good sense and courage, to believe you willbe alarmed on slight grounds; or suffer the gloom of this chamber, orits remote situation, to overcome you with ideal terrors. To-morrow, Ishall have to thank you for an important service; these rooms shall thenbe thrown open, and my people will be convinced of their error. Goodnight, Ludovico; let me see you early in the morning, and remember whatI lately said to you. '

'I will, my Lord; good night to your excellenza; let me attend you withthe light. '

He lighted the Count and Henri through the chambers to the outer door;on the landing-place stood a lamp, which one of the affrighted servantshad left, and Henri, as he took it up, again bade Ludovico good night, who, having respectfully returned the wish, closed the door upon them, and fastened it. Then, as he retired to the bed-chamber, he examined therooms, through which he passed, with more minuteness than he had donebefore, for he apprehended, that some person might have concealedhimself in them, for the purpose of frightening him. No one, however, but himself, was in these chambers, and, leaving open the doors, through which he passed, he came again to the great drawing-room, whosespaciousness and silent gloom somewhat awed him. For a moment he stood, looking back through the long suite of rooms he had quitted, and, as heturned, perceiving a light and his own figure, reflected in one of thelarge mirrors, he started. Other objects too were seen obscurely on itsdark surface, but he paused not to examine them, and returned hastilyinto the bed-room, as he surveyed which, he observed the door of theoriel, and opened it. All within was still. On looking round, his eyewas arrested by the portrait of the deceased Marchioness, upon which hegazed, for a considerable time, with great attention and some surprise;and then, having examined the closet, he returned into the bed-room, where he kindled a wood fire, the bright blaze of which revived hisspirits, which had begun to yield to the gloom and silence of the place, for gusts of wind alone broke at intervals this silence. He now drew asmall table and a chair near the fire, took a bottle of wine, and somecold provision out of his basket, and regaled himself. When he hadfinished his repast, he laid his sword upon the table, and, not feelingdisposed to sleep, drew from his pocket the book he had spoken of. --Itwas a volume of old Provencal tales. Having stirred the fire upon thehearth, he began to read, and his attention was soon wholly occupied bythe scenes, which the page disclosed. 

The Count, meanwhile, had returned to the supper-room, whither those ofthe party, who had attended him to the north apartment, had retreated, upon hearing Dorothee's scream, and who were now earnest in theirenquiries concerning those chambers. The Count rallied his guests ontheir precipitate retreat, and on the superstitious inclination whichhad occasioned it, and this led to the question, Whether the spirit, after it has quitted the body, is ever permitted to revisit the earth;and if it is, whether it was possible for spirits to become visible tothe sense. The Baron was of opinion, that the first was probable, andthe last was possible, and he endeavoured to justify this opinion byrespectable authorities, both ancient and modern, which he quoted. The Count, however, was decidedly against him, and a long conversationensued, in which the usual arguments on these subjects were on bothsides brought forward with skill, and discussed with candour, butwithout converting either party to the opinion of his opponent. Theeffect of their conversation on their auditors was various. Though theCount had much the superiority of the Baron in point of argument, hehad considerably fewer adherents; for that love, so natural to thehuman mind, of whatever is able to distend its faculties with wonder andastonishment, attached the majority of the company to the side of theBaron; and, though many of the Count's propositions were unanswerable, his opponents were inclined to believe this the consequence of theirown want of knowledge, on so abstracted a subject, rather than thatarguments did not exist, which were forcible enough to conquer his. 

Blanche was pale with attention, till the ridicule in her father'sglance called a blush upon her countenance, and she then endeavouredto forget the superstitious tales she had been told in her convent. Meanwhile, Emily had been listening with deep attention to thediscussion of what was to her a very interesting question, and, remembering the appearance she had witnessed in the apartment of thelate Marchioness, she was frequently chilled with awe. Several times shewas on the point of mentioning what she had seen, but the fear of givingpain to the Count, and the dread of his ridicule, restrained her; and, awaiting in anxious expectation the event of Ludovico's intrepidity, shedetermined that her future silence should depend upon it. 

When the party had separated for the night, and the Count retired tohis dressing-room, the remembrance of the desolate scenes he had latelywitnessed in his own mansion deeply affected him, but at length hewas aroused from his reverie and his silence. 'What music is that Ihear?'--said he suddenly to his valet, 'Who plays at this late hour?'

The man made no reply, and the Count continued to listen, and thenadded, 'That is no common musician; he touches the instrument with adelicate hand; who is it, Pierre?'

'My lord!' said the man, hesitatingly. 

'Who plays that instrument?' repeated the Count. 

'Does not your lordship know, then?' said the valet. 

'What mean you?' said the Count, somewhat sternly. 

'Nothing, my Lord, I meant nothing, ' rejoined the mansubmissively--'Only--that music--goes about the house at midnight often, and I thought your lordship might have heard it before. '

'Music goes about the house at midnight! Poor fellow!--does nobody danceto the music, too?'

'It is not in the chateau, I believe, my Lord; the sounds come from thewoods, they say, though they seem so near;--but then a spirit can do anything!'

'Ah, poor fellow!' said the Count, 'I perceive you are as silly as therest of them; to-morrow, you will be convinced of your ridiculous error. But hark!--what voice is that?'

'O my Lord! that is the voice we often hear with the music. '

'Often!' said the Count, 'How often, pray? It is a very fine one. '

'Why, my Lord, I myself have not heard it more than two or three times, but there are those who have lived here longer, that have heard it oftenenough. '

'What a swell was that!' exclaimed the Count, as he still listened, 'Andnow, what a dying cadence! This is surely something more than mortal!'

'That is what they say, my Lord, ' said the valet; 'they say it isnothing mortal, that utters it; and if I might say my thoughts'--

'Peace!' said the Count, and he listened till the strain died away. 

'This is strange!' said he, as he turned from the window, 'Close thecasements, Pierre. '

Pierre obeyed, and the Count soon after dismissed him, but did not sosoon lose the remembrance of the music, which long vibrated in his fancyin tones of melting sweetness, while surprise and perplexity engaged histhoughts. 

Ludovico, meanwhile, in his remote chamber, heard, now and then, thefaint echo of a closing door, as the family retired to rest, and thenthe hall clock, at a great distance, strike twelve. 'It is midnight, 'said he, and he looked suspiciously round the spacious chamber. The fireon the hearth was now nearly expiring, for his attention having beenengaged by the book before him, he had forgotten every thing besides;but he soon added fresh wood, not because he was cold, though the nightwas stormy, but because he was cheerless; and, having again trimmedhis lamp, he poured out a glass of wine, drew his chair nearer to thecrackling blaze, tried to be deaf to the wind, that howled mournfullyat the casements, endeavoured to abstract his mind from the melancholy, that was stealing upon him, and again took up his book. It had been lentto him by Dorothee, who had formerly picked it up in an obscure cornerof the Marquis's library, and who, having opened it and perceivedsome of the marvels it related, had carefully preserved it for her ownentertainment, its condition giving her some excuse for detaining itfrom its proper station. The damp corner into which it had fallen, hadcaused the cover to be disfigured and mouldy, and the leaves to be sodiscoloured with spots, that it was not without difficulty the letterscould be traced. The fictions of the Provencal writers, whether drawnfrom the Arabian legends, brought by the Saracens into Spain, orrecounting the chivalric exploits performed by the crusaders, whom theTroubadors accompanied to the east, were generally splendid and alwaysmarvellous, both in scenery and incident; and it is not wonderful, thatDorothee and Ludovico should be fascinated by inventions, which hadcaptivated the careless imagination in every rank of society, in aformer age. Some of the tales, however, in the book now before Ludovico, were of simple structure, and exhibited nothing of the magnificentmachinery and heroic manners, which usually characterized the fables ofthe twelfth century, and of this description was the one he now happenedto open, which, in its original style, was of great length, but whichmay be thus shortly related. The reader will perceive, that it isstrongly tinctured with the superstition of the times. 

THE PROVENCAL TALE

'There lived, in the province of Bretagne, a noble Baron, famous forhis magnificence and courtly hospitalities. His castle was graced withladies of exquisite beauty, and thronged with illustrious knights; forthe honour he paid to feats of chivalry invited the brave of distantcountries to enter his lists, and his court was more splendid than thoseof many princes. Eight minstrels were retained in his service, who usedto sing to their harps romantic fictions, taken from the Arabians, oradventures of chivalry, that befel knights during the crusades, or themartial deeds of the Baron, their lord;--while he, surrounded by hisknights and ladies, banqueted in the great hall of his castle, where thecostly tapestry, that adorned the walls with pictured exploits ofhis ancestors, the casements of painted glass, enriched with armorialbearings, the gorgeous banners, that waved along the roof, the sumptuouscanopies, the profusion of gold and silver, that glittered on thesideboards, the numerous dishes, that covered the tables, the number andgay liveries of the attendants, with the chivalric and splendid attireof the guests, united to form a scene of magnificence, such as we maynot hope to see in these DEGENERATE DAYS. 

'Of the Baron, the following adventure is related. One night, havingretired late from the banquet to his chamber, and dismissed hisattendants, he was surprised by the appearance of a stranger of a nobleair, but of a sorrowful and dejected countenance. Believing, that thisperson had been secreted in the apartment, since it appeared impossiblehe could have lately passed the anti-room, unobserved by the pages inwaiting, who would have prevented this intrusion on their lord, theBaron, calling loudly for his people, drew his sword, which he had notyet taken from his side, and stood upon his defence. The stranger slowlyadvancing, told him, that there was nothing to fear; that he came withno hostile design, but to communicate to him a terrible secret, which itwas necessary for him to know. 

'The Baron, appeased by the courteous manners of the stranger, aftersurveying him, for some time, in silence, returned his sword into thescabbard, and desired him to explain the means, by which he had obtainedaccess to the chamber, and the purpose of this extraordinary visit. 

'Without answering either of these enquiries, the stranger said, that hecould not then explain himself, but that, if the Baron would follow himto the edge of the forest, at a short distance from the castle walls, he would there convince him, that he had something of importance todisclose. 

'This proposal again alarmed the Baron, who could scarcely believe, thatthe stranger meant to draw him to so solitary a spot, at this hour ofthe night, without harbouring a design against his life, and he refusedto go, observing, at the same time, that, if the stranger's purposewas an honourable one, he would not persist in refusing to reveal theoccasion of his visit, in the apartment where they were. 

'While he spoke this, he viewed the stranger still more attentively thanbefore, but observed no change in his countenance, or any symptom, thatmight intimate a consciousness of evil design. He was habited likea knight, was of a tall and majestic stature, and of dignified andcourteous manners. Still, however, he refused to communicate the subjectof his errand in any place, but that he had mentioned, and, at the sametime, gave hints concerning the secret he would disclose, that awakeneda degree of solemn curiosity in the Baron, which, at length, induced himto consent to follow the stranger, on certain conditions. 

'"Sir knight, " said he, "I will attend you to the forest, and will takewith me only four of my people, who shall witness our conference. "

'To this, however, the Knight objected. 

'"What I would disclose, " said he, with solemnity, "is to you alone. There are only three living persons, to whom the circumstance is known;it is of more consequence to you and your house, than I shall nowexplain. In future years, you will look back to this night withsatisfaction or repentance, accordingly as you now determine. As youwould hereafter prosper--follow me; I pledge you the honour of aknight, that no evil shall befall you;--if you are contented to darefuturity--remain in your chamber, and I will depart as I came. "

'"Sir knight, " replied the Baron, "how is it possible, that my futurepeace can depend upon my present determination?"

'"That is not now to be told, " said the stranger, "I have explainedmyself to the utmost. It is late; if you follow me it must bequickly;--you will do well to consider the alternative. "

'The Baron mused, and, as he looked upon the knight, he perceived hiscountenance assume a singular solemnity. '

[Here Ludovico thought he heard a noise, and he threw a glance round thechamber, and then held up the lamp to assist his observation; but, notperceiving any thing to confirm his alarm, he took up the book again andpursued the story. ]

'The Baron paced his apartment, for some time, in silence, impressed bythe last words of the stranger, whose extraordinary request he feared togrant, and feared, also, to refuse. At length, he said, "Sir knight, youare utterly unknown to me; tell me yourself, --is it reasonable, that Ishould trust myself alone with a stranger, at this hour, in a solitaryforest? Tell me, at least, who you are, and who assisted to secrete youin this chamber. "

'The knight frowned at these latter words, and was a moment silent;then, with a countenance somewhat stern, he said, '"I am an English knight; I am called Sir Bevys of Lancaster, --and mydeeds are not unknown at the Holy City, whence I was returning to mynative land, when I was benighted in the neighbouring forest. "

'"Your name is not unknown to fame, " said the Baron, "I have heard ofit. " (The Knight looked haughtily. ) "But why, since my castle is knownto entertain all true knights, did not your herald announce you? Whydid you not appear at the banquet, where your presence would have beenwelcomed, instead of hiding yourself in my castle, and stealing to mychamber, at midnight?"

'The stranger frowned, and turned away in silence; but the Baronrepeated the questions. 

'"I come not, " said the Knight, "to answer enquiries, but to revealfacts. If you would know more, follow me, and again I pledge thehonour of a Knight, that you shall return in safety. --Be quick in yourdetermination--I must be gone. "

'After some further hesitation, the Baron determined to follow thestranger, and to see the result of his extraordinary request; he, therefore, again drew forth his sword, and, taking up a lamp, bade theKnight lead on. The latter obeyed, and, opening the door of the chamber, they passed into the anti-room, where the Baron, surprised to findall his pages asleep, stopped, and, with hasty violence, was going toreprimand them for their carelessness, when the Knight waved his hand, and looked so expressively upon the Baron, that the latter restrainedhis resentment, and passed on. 

'The Knight, having descended a stair-case, opened a secret door, which the Baron had believed was known only to himself, and, proceedingthrough several narrow and winding passages, came, at length, to a smallgate, that opened beyond the walls of the castle. Meanwhile, the Baronfollowed in silence and amazement, on perceiving that these secretpassages were so well known to a stranger, and felt inclined to returnfrom an adventure, that appeared to partake of treachery, as well asdanger. Then, considering that he was armed, and observing the courteousand noble air of his conductor, his courage returned, he blushed, thatit had failed him for a moment, and he resolved to trace the mystery toits source. 

'He now found himself on the heathy platform, before the great gates ofhis castle, where, on looking up, he perceived lights glimmering inthe different casements of the guests, who were retiring to sleep; and, while he shivered in the blast, and looked on the dark and desolatescene around him, he thought of the comforts of his warm chamber, rendered cheerful by the blaze of wood, and felt, for a moment, the fullcontrast of his present situation. '

[Here Ludovico paused a moment, and, looking at his own fire, gave it abrightening stir. ]

'The wind was strong, and the Baron watched his lamp with anxiety, expecting every moment to see it extinguished; but, though the flamewavered, it did not expire, and he still followed the stranger, whooften sighed as he went, but did not speak. 

'When they reached the borders of the forest, the Knight turned, andraised his head, as if he meant to address the Baron, but then, closinghis lips in silence, he walked on. 

'As they entered, beneath the dark and spreading boughs, the Baron, affected by the solemnity of the scene, hesitated whether to proceed, and demanded how much further they were to go. The Knight replied onlyby a gesture, and the Baron, with hesitating steps and a suspicious eye, followed through an obscure and intricate path, till, having proceeded aconsiderable way, he again demanded whither they were going, and refusedto proceed unless he was informed. 

'As he said this, he looked at his own sword, and at the Knightalternately, who shook his head, and whose dejected countenance disarmedthe Baron, for a moment, of suspicion. 

'"A little further is the place, whither I would lead you, " said thestranger; "no evil shall befall you--I have sworn it on the honour of aknight. "

'The Baron, re-assured, again followed in silence, and they soon arrivedat a deep recess of the forest, where the dark and lofty chesnutsentirely excluded the sky, and which was so overgrown with underwood, that they proceeded with difficulty. The Knight sighed deeply as hepassed, and sometimes paused; and having, at length, reached a spot, where the trees crowded into a knot, he turned, and, with a terrificlook, pointing to the ground, the Baron saw there the body of a man, stretched at its length, and weltering in blood; a ghastly wound wason the forehead, and death appeared already to have contracted thefeatures. 

'The Baron, on perceiving the spectacle, started in horror, looked atthe Knight for explanation, and was then going to raise the body andexamine if there were yet any remains of life; but the stranger, wavinghis hand, fixed upon him a look so earnest and mournful, as not onlymuch surprised him, but made him desist. 

'But, what were the Baron's emotions, when, on holding the lamp nearthe features of the corpse, he discovered the exact resemblance of thestranger his conductor, to whom he now looked up in astonishment andenquiry? As he gazed, he perceived the countenance of the Knight change, and begin to fade, till his whole form gradually vanished from hisastonished sense! While the Baron stood, fixed to the spot, a voice washeard to utter these words:--'

[Ludovico started, and laid down the book, for he thought he heard avoice in the chamber, and he looked toward the bed, where, however, hesaw only the dark curtains and the pall. He listened, scarcely daringto draw his breath, but heard only the distant roaring of the sea in thestorm, and the blast, that rushed by the casements; when, concluding, that he had been deceived by its sighings, he took up his book to finishthe story. ]

'While the Baron stood, fixed to the spot, a voice was heard to utterthese words:--*

(* This repetition seems to be intentional. Ludovico is picking up thethread. )

'The body of Sir Bevys of Lancaster, a noble knight of England, liesbefore you. He was, this night, waylaid and murdered, as he journeyedfrom the Holy City towards his native land. Respect the honour ofknighthood and the law of humanity; inter the body in christian ground, and cause his murderers to be punished. As ye observe, or neglect this, shall peace and happiness, or war and misery, light upon you and yourhouse for ever!'

'The Baron, when he recovered from the awe and astonishment, into whichthis adventure had thrown him, returned to his castle, whither he causedthe body of Sir Bevys to be removed; and, on the following day, it wasinterred, with the honours of knighthood, in the chapel of the castle, attended by all the noble knights and ladies, who graced the court ofBaron de Brunne. '

Ludovico, having finished this story, laid aside the book, for he feltdrowsy, and, after putting more wood on the fire and taking anotherglass of wine, he reposed himself in the arm-chair on the hearth. Inhis dream he still beheld the chamber where he really was, and, once ortwice, started from imperfect slumbers, imagining he saw a man's face, looking over the high back of his armchair. This idea had so stronglyimpressed him, that, when he raised his eyes, he almost expected tomeet other eyes, fixed upon his own, and he quitted his seat and lookedbehind the chair, before he felt perfectly convinced, that no person wasthere. 

Thus closed the hour. 

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 fell 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 encourage 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 curiosity, 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. 

CHAPTER VIII

 Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd, Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked, or charitable, I will speak to thee. HAMLET

Count de Villefort, at length, received a letter from the advocate atAvignon, encouraging Emily to assert her claim to the estates of thelate Madame Montoni; and, about the same time, a messenger arrived fromMonsieur Quesnel with intelligence, that made an appeal to the law onthis subject unnecessary, since it appeared, that the only person, whocould have opposed her claim, was now no more. A friend of MonsieurQuesnel, who resided at Venice, had sent him an account of the deathof Montoni who had been brought to trial with Orsino, as his supposedaccomplice in the murder of the Venetian nobleman. Orsino was foundguilty, condemned and executed upon the wheel, but, nothing beingdiscovered to criminate Montoni, and his colleagues, on this charge, they were all released, except Montoni, who, being considered by thesenate as a very dangerous person, was, for other reasons, ordered againinto confinement, where, it was said, he had died in a doubtful andmysterious manner, and not without suspicion of having been poisoned. The authority, from which M. Quesnel had received this information, would not allow him to doubt its truth, and he told Emily, that she hadnow only to lay claim to the estates of her late aunt, to secure them, and added, that he would himself assist in the necessary forms of thisbusiness. The term, for which La Vallee had been let being now alsonearly expired, he acquainted her with the circumstance, and advised herto take the road thither, through Tholouse, where he promised to meether, and where it would be proper for her to take possession of theestates of the late Madame Montoni; adding, that he would spare herany difficulties, that might occur on that occasion from the want ofknowledge on the subject, and that he believed it would be necessary forher to be at Tholouse, in about three weeks from the present time. 

An increase of fortune seemed to have awakened this sudden kindness inM. Quesnel towards his niece, and it appeared, that he entertained morerespect for the rich heiress, than he had ever felt compassion for thepoor and unfriended orphan. 

The pleasure, with which she received this intelligence, was cloudedwhen she considered, that he, for whose sake she had once regrettedthe want of fortune, was no longer worthy of sharing it with her; but, remembering the friendly admonition of the Count, she checked thismelancholy reflection, and endeavoured to feel only gratitude forthe unexpected good, that now attended her; while it formed noinconsiderable part of her satisfaction to know, that La Vallee, hernative home, which was endeared to her by it's having been the residenceof her parents, would soon be restored to her possession. There shemeant to fix her future residence, for, though it could not be comparedwith the chateau at Tholouse, either for extent, or magnificence, itspleasant scenes and the tender remembrances, that haunted them, hadclaims upon her heart, which she was not inclined to sacrifice toostentation. She wrote immediately to thank M. Quesnel for the activeinterest he took in her concerns, and to say, that she would meet him atTholouse at the appointed time. 

When Count de Villefort, with Blanche, came to the convent to giveEmily the advice of the advocate, he was informed of the contents ofM. Quesnel's letter, and gave her his sincere congratulations, onthe occasion; but she observed, that, when the first expressionof satisfaction had faded from his countenance, an unusual gravitysucceeded, and she scarcely hesitated to enquire its cause. 

'It has no new occasion, ' replied the Count; 'I am harassed andperplexed by the confusion, into which my family is thrown by theirfoolish superstition. Idle reports are floating round me, which I canneither admit to be true, or prove to be false; and I am, also, veryanxious about the poor fellow, Ludovico, concerning whom I have not beenable to obtain information. Every part of the chateau and every part ofthe neighbourhood, too, has, I believe, been searched, and I know notwhat further can be done, since I have already offered large rewardsfor the discovery of him. The keys of the north apartment I have notsuffered to be out of my possession, since he disappeared, and I mean towatch in those chambers, myself, this very night. '

Emily, seriously alarmed for the Count, united her entreaties with thoseof the Lady Blanche, to dissuade him from his purpose. 

'What should I fear?' said he. 'I have no faith in supernatural combats, and for human opposition I shall be prepared; nay, I will even promisenot to watch alone. '

'But who, dear sir, will have courage enough to watch with you?' saidEmily. 

'My son, ' replied the Count. 'If I am not carried off in the night, 'added he, smiling, 'you shall hear the result of my adventure, tomorrow. '

The Count and Lady Blanche, shortly afterwards, took leave of Emily, andreturned to the chateau, where he informed Henri of his intention, who, not without some secret reluctance, consented to be the partner of hiswatch; and, when the design was mentioned after supper, the Countess wasterrified, and the Baron, and M. Du Pont joined with her in entreating, that he would not tempt his fate, as Ludovico had done. 'We know not, 'added the Baron, 'the nature, or the power of an evil spirit; andthat such a spirit haunts those chambers can now, I think, scarcely bedoubted. Beware, my lord, how you provoke its vengeance, since it hasalready given us one terrible example of its malice. I allow it may beprobable, that the spirits of the dead are permitted to return to theearth only on occasions of high import; but the present import may beyour destruction. '

The Count could not forbear smiling; 'Do you think then, Baron, ' saidhe, 'that my destruction is of sufficient importance to draw backto earth the soul of the departed? Alas! my good friend, there is nooccasion for such means to accomplish the destruction of any individual. Wherever the mystery rests, I trust I shall, this night, be able todetect it. You know I am not superstitious. '

'I know that you are incredulous, ' interrupted the Baron. 

'Well, call it what you will, I mean to say, that, though you know I amfree from superstition--if any thing supernatural has appeared, I doubtnot it will appear to me, and if any strange event hangs over my house, or if any extraordinary transaction has formerly been connected with it, I shall probably be made acquainted with it. At all events I will invitediscovery; and, that I may be equal to a mortal attack, which in goodtruth, my friend, is what I most expect, I shall take care to be wellarmed. '

The Count took leave of his family, for the night, with an assumedgaiety, which but ill concealed the anxiety, that depressed his spirits, and retired to the north apartments, accompanied by his son and followedby the Baron, M. Du Pont and some of the domestics, who all bade himgood night at the outer door. In these chambers every thing appearedas when he had last been here; even in the bed-room no alteration wasvisible, where he lighted his own fire, for none of the domestics couldbe prevailed upon to venture thither. After carefully examining thechamber and the oriel, the Count and Henri drew their chairs upon thehearth, set a bottle of wine and a lamp before them, laid their swordsupon the table, and, stirring the wood into a blaze, began to converseon indifferent topics. But Henri was often silent and abstracted, andsometimes threw a glance of mingled awe and curiosity round the gloomyapartment; while the Count gradually ceased to converse, and sat eitherlost in thought, or reading a volume of Tacitus, which he had brought tobeguile the tediousness of the night. 

CHAPTER IV

 Give thy thoughts no tongue. SHAKESPEARE

The Baron St. Foix, whom anxiety for his friend had kept awake, roseearly to enquire the event of the night, when, as he passed the Count'scloset, hearing steps within, he knocked at the door, and it was openedby his friend himself. Rejoicing to see him in safety, and curious tolearn the occurrences of the night, he had not immediately leisure toobserve the unusual gravity, that overspread the features of the Count, whose reserved answers first occasioned him to notice it. The Count, then smiling, endeavoured to treat the subject of his curiosity withlevity, but the Baron was serious, and pursued his enquiries so closely, that the Count, at length, resuming his gravity, said, 'Well, my friend, press the subject no further, I entreat you; and let me requestalso, that you will hereafter be silent upon any thing you may thinkextraordinary in my future conduct. I do not scruple to tell you, that Iam unhappy, and that the watch of the last night has not assisted me todiscover Ludovico; upon every occurrence of the night you must excuse myreserve. '

'But where is Henri?' said the Baron, with surprise and disappointmentat this denial. 

'He is well in his own apartment, ' replied the Count. 'You will notquestion him on this topic, my friend, since you know my wish. '

'Certainly not, ' said the Baron, somewhat chagrined, 'since it wouldbe displeasing to you; but methinks, my friend, you might rely on mydiscretion, and drop this unusual reserve. However, you must allow me tosuspect, that you have seen reason to become a convert to my system, andare no longer the incredulous knight you lately appeared to be. '

'Let us talk no more upon this subject, ' said the Count; 'you may beassured, that no ordinary circumstance has imposed this silence upon metowards a friend, whom I have called so for near thirty years; andmy present reserve cannot make you question either my esteem, or thesincerity of my friendship. '

'I will not doubt either, ' said the Baron, 'though you must allow me toexpress my surprise, at this silence. '

'To me I will allow it, ' replied the Count, 'but I earnestly entreatthat you will forbear to notice it to my family, as well as every thingremarkable you may observe in my conduct towards them. '

The Baron readily promised this, and, after conversing for some time ongeneral topics, they descended to the breakfast-room, where the Countmet his family with a cheerful countenance, and evaded their enquiriesby employing light ridicule, and assuming an air of uncommon gaiety, while he assured them, that they need not apprehend any evil from thenorth chambers, since Henri and himself had been permitted to returnfrom them in safety. 

Henri, however, was less successful in disguising his feelings. From hiscountenance an expression of terror was not entirely faded; he wasoften silent and thoughtful, and when he attempted to laugh at the eagerenquiries of Mademoiselle Bearn, it was evidently only an attempt. 

In the evening, the Count called, as he had promised, at the convent, and Emily was surprised to perceive a mixture of playful ridicule andof reserve in his mention of the north apartment. Of what had occurredthere, however, he said nothing, and, when she ventured to remind himof his promise to tell her the result of his enquiries, and to ask ifhe had received any proof, that those chambers were haunted, his lookbecame solemn, for a moment, then, seeming to recollect himself, hesmiled, and said, 'My dear Emily, do not suffer my lady abbess to infectyour good understanding with these fancies; she will teach you to expecta ghost in every dark room. But believe me, ' added he, with a profoundsigh, 'the apparition of the dead comes not on light, or sportiveerrands, to terrify, or to surprise the timid. ' He paused, and fell intoa momentary thoughtfulness, and then added, 'We will say no more on thissubject. '

Soon after, he took leave, and, when Emily joined some of the nuns, shewas surprised to find them acquainted with a circumstance, which shehad carefully avoided to mention, and expressing their admiration ofhis intrepidity in having dared to pass a night in the apartment, whenceLudovico had disappeared; for she had not considered with what rapiditya tale of wonder circulates. The nuns had acquired their informationfrom peasants, who brought fruit to the monastery, and whose wholeattention had been fixed, since the disappearance of Ludovico, on whatwas passing in the castle. 

Emily listened in silence to the various opinions of the nuns, concerning the conduct of the Count, most of whom condemned it as rashand presumptuous, affirming, that it was provoking the vengeance of anevil spirit, thus to intrude upon its haunts. 

Sister Frances contended, that the Count had acted with the bravery of avirtuous mind. He knew himself guiltless of aught, that should provoke agood spirit, and did not fear the spells of an evil one, since he couldclaim the protection of an higher Power, of Him, who can command thewicked, and will protect the innocent. 

'The guilty cannot claim that protection!' said sister Agnes, 'let theCount look to his conduct, that he do not forfeit his claim! Yet who ishe, that shall dare to call himself innocent!--all earthly innocence isbut comparative. Yet still how wide asunder are the extremes of guilt, and to what an horrible depth may we fall! Oh!'--

The nun, as she concluded, uttered a shuddering sigh, that startledEmily, who, looking up, perceived the eyes of Agnes fixed on hers, after which the sister rose, took her hand, gazed earnestly upon hercountenance, for some moments, in silence, and then said, 'You are young--you are innocent! I mean you are yet innocent of anygreat crime!--But you have passions in your heart, --scorpions; theysleep now--beware how you awaken them!--they will sting you, even untodeath!'

Emily, affected by these words and by the solemnity, with which theywere delivered, could not suppress her tears. 

'Ah! is it so?' exclaimed Agnes, her countenance softening from itssternness--'so young, and so unfortunate! We are sisters, then indeed. Yet, there is no bond of kindness among the guilty, ' she added, whileher eyes resumed their wild expression, 'no gentleness, --no peace, nohope! I knew them all once--my eyes could weep--but now they burn, fornow, my soul is fixed, and fearless!--I lament no more!'

'Rather let us repent, and pray, ' said another nun. 'We are taught tohope, that prayer and penitence will work our salvation. There is hopefor all who repent!'

'Who repent and turn to the true faith, ' observed sister Frances. 

'For all but me!' replied Agnes solemnly, who paused, and then abruptlyadded, 'My head burns, I believe I am not well. O! could I strike frommy memory all former scenes--the figures, that rise up, like furies, totorment me!--I see them, when I sleep, and, when I am awake, they arestill before my eyes! I see them now--now!'

She stood in a fixed attitude of horror, her straining eyes movingslowly round the room, as if they followed something. One of the nunsgently took her hand, to lead her from the parlour. Agnes became calm, drew her other hand across her eyes, looked again, and, sighing deeply, said, 'They are gone--they are gone! I am feverish, I know not what Isay. I am thus, sometimes, but it will go off again, I shall soon bebetter. Was not that the vesper-bell?'

'No, ' replied Frances, 'the evening service is passed. Let Margaret leadyou to your cell. '

'You are right, ' replied sister Agnes, 'I shall be better there. Goodnight, my sisters, remember me in your orisons. '

When they had withdrawn, Frances, observing Emily's emotion, said, 'Donot be alarmed, our sister is often thus deranged, though I have notlately seen her so frantic; her usual mood is melancholy. This fit hasbeen coming on, for several days; seclusion and the customary treatmentwill restore her. '

'But how rationally she conversed, at first!' observed Emily, 'her ideasfollowed each other in perfect order. '

'Yes, ' replied the nun, 'this is nothing new; nay, I have sometimesknown her argue not only with method, but with acuteness, and then, in amoment, start off into madness. '

'Her conscience seems afflicted, ' said Emily, 'did you ever hear whatcircumstance reduced her to this deplorable condition?'

'I have, ' replied the nun, who said no more till Emily repeated thequestion, when she added in a low voice, and looking significantlytowards the other boarders, 'I cannot tell you now, but, if you think itworth your while, come to my cell, to-night, when our sisterhood are atrest, and you shall hear more; but remember we rise to midnight prayers, and come either before, or after midnight. '

Emily promised to remember, and, the abbess soon after appearing, theyspoke no more of the unhappy nun. 

The Count meanwhile, on his return home, had found M. Du Pont in oneof those fits of despondency, which his attachment to Emily frequentlyoccasioned him, an attachment, that had subsisted too long to be easilysubdued, and which had already outlived the opposition of his friends. M. Du Pont had first seen Emily in Gascony, during the lifetime of hisparent, who, on discovering his son's partiality for Mademoiselle St. Aubert, his inferior in point of fortune, forbade him to declare it toher family, or to think of her more. During the life of his father, hehad observed the first command, but had found it impracticable to obeythe second, and had, sometimes, soothed his passion by visiting herfavourite haunts, among which was the fishing-house, where, once ortwice, he addressed her in verse, concealing his name, in obedience tothe promise he had given his father. There too he played the patheticair, to which she had listened with such surprise and admiration; andthere he found the miniature, that had since cherished a passion fatalto his repose. During his expedition into Italy, his father died; buthe received his liberty at a moment, when he was the least enabled toprofit by it, since the object, that rendered it most valuable, wasno longer within the reach of his vows. By what accident he discoveredEmily, and assisted to release her from a terrible imprisonment, hasalready appeared, and also the unavailing hope, with which he thenencouraged his love, and the fruitless efforts, that he had since madeto overcome it. 

The Count still endeavoured, with friendly zeal, to sooth him with abelief, that patience, perseverance and prudence would finally obtainfor him happiness and Emily: 'Time, ' said he, 'will wear away themelancholy impression, which disappointment has left on her mind, andshe will be sensible of your merit. Your services have already awakenedher gratitude, and your sufferings her pity; and trust me, my friend, ina heart so sensible as hers, gratitude and pity lead to love. Whenher imagination is rescued from its present delusion, she will readilyaccept the homage of a mind like yours. '

Du Pont sighed, while he listened to these words; and, endeavouring tohope what his friend believed, he willingly yielded to an invitation toprolong his visit at the chateau, which we now leave for the monasteryof St. Claire. 

When the nuns had retired to rest, Emily stole to her appointment withsister Frances, whom she found in her cell, engaged in prayer, before alittle table, where appeared the image she was addressing, and, above, the dim lamp that gave light to the place. Turning her eyes, as the dooropened, she beckoned to Emily to come in, who, having done so, seatedherself in silence beside the nun's little mattress of straw, tillher orisons should conclude. The latter soon rose from her knees, and, taking down the lamp and placing it on the table, Emily perceivedthere a human scull and bones, lying beside an hour-glass; but the nun, without observing her emotion, sat down on the mattress by her, saying, 'Your curiosity, sister, has made you punctual, but you have nothingremarkable to hear in the history of poor Agnes, of whom I avoidedto speak in the presence of my lay-sisters, only because I would notpublish her crime to them. '

'I shall consider your confidence in me as a favour, ' said Emily, 'andwill not misuse it. '

'Sister Agnes, ' resumed the nun, 'is of a noble family, as the dignityof her air must already have informed you, but I will not dishonourtheir name so much as to reveal it. Love was the occasion of her crimeand of her madness. She was beloved by a gentleman of inferior fortune, and her father, as I have heard, bestowing her on a nobleman, whomshe disliked, an ill-governed passion proved her destruction. --Everyobligation of virtue and of duty was forgotten, and she prophaned hermarriage vows; but her guilt was soon detected, and she would havefallen a sacrifice to the vengeance of her husband, had not her fathercontrived to convey her from his power. By what means he did this, I never could learn; but he secreted her in this convent, where heafterwards prevailed with her to take the veil, while a report wascirculated in the world, that she was dead, and the father, to save hisdaughter, assisted the rumour, and employed such means as induced herhusband to believe she had become a victim to his jealousy. You looksurprised, ' added the nun, observing Emily's countenance; 'I allow thestory is uncommon, but not, I believe, without a parallel. '

'Pray proceed, ' said Emily, 'I am interested. '

'The story is already told, ' resumed the nun, 'I have only to mention, that the long struggle, which Agnes suffered, between love, remorseand a sense of the duties she had taken upon herself in becoming of ourorder, at length unsettled her reason. At first, she was frantic andmelancholy by quick alternatives; then, she sunk into a deep and settledmelancholy, which still, however, has, at times, been interrupted byfits of wildness, and, of late, these have again been frequent. '

Emily was affected by the history of the sister, some parts of whosestory brought to her remembrance that of the Marchioness de Villeroi, who had also been compelled by her father to forsake the object of heraffections, for a nobleman of his choice; but, from what Dorothee hadrelated, there appeared no reason to suppose, that she had escaped thevengeance of a jealous husband, or to doubt for a moment the innocenceof her conduct. But Emily, while she sighed over the misery of thenun, could not forbear shedding a few tears to the misfortunes of theMarchioness; and, when she returned to the mention of sister Agnes, sheasked Frances if she remembered her in her youth, and whether she wasthen beautiful. 

'I was not here at the time, when she took the vows, ' replied Frances, 'which is so long ago, that few of the present sisterhood, I believe, were witnesses of the ceremony; nay, ever our lady mother did not thenpreside over the convent: but I can remember, when sister Agnes was avery beautiful woman. She retains that air of high rank, which alwaysdistinguished her, but her beauty, you must perceive, is fled; I canscarcely discover even a vestige of the loveliness, that once animatedher features. '

'It is strange, ' said Emily, 'but there are moments, when hercountenance has appeared familiar to my memory! You will think mefanciful, and I think myself so, for I certainly never saw sister Agnes, before I came to this convent, and I must, therefore, have seensome person, whom she strongly resembles, though of this I have norecollection. '

'You have been interested by the deep melancholy of her countenance, 'said Frances, 'and its impression has probably deluded your imagination;for I might as reasonably think I perceive a likeness between you andAgnes, as you, that you have seen her any where but in this convent, since this has been her place of refuge, for nearly as many years asmake your age. '

'Indeed!' said Emily. 

'Yes, ' rejoined Frances, 'and why does that circumstance excite yoursurprise?'

Emily did not appear to notice this question, but remained thoughtful, for a few moments, and then said, 'It was about that same period thatthe Marchioness de Villeroi expired. '

'That is an odd remark, ' said Frances. 

Emily, recalled from her reverie, smiled, and gave the conversationanother turn, but it soon came back to the subject of the unhappy nun, and Emily remained in the cell of sister Frances, till the mid-nightbell aroused her; when, apologizing for having interrupted the sister'srepose, till this late hour, they quitted the cell together. Emilyreturned to her chamber, and the nun, bearing a glimmering taper, wentto her devotion in the chapel. 

Several days followed, during which Emily saw neither the Count, or anyof his family; and, when, at length, he appeared, she remarked, withconcern, that his air was unusually disturbed. 

'My spirits are harassed, ' said he, in answer to her anxious enquiries, 'and I mean to change my residence, for a little while, an experiment, which, I hope, will restore my mind to its usual tranquillity. Mydaughter and myself will accompany the Baron St. Foix to his chateau. Itlies in a valley of the Pyrenees, that opens towards Gascony, and I havebeen thinking, Emily, that, when you set out for La Vallee, we may gopart of the way together; it would be a satisfaction to me to guard youtowards your home. '

She thanked the Count for his friendly consideration, and lamented, thatthe necessity for her going first to Tholouse would render this planimpracticable. 'But, when you are at the Baron's residence, ' she added, 'you will be only a short journey from La Vallee, and I think, sir, youwill not leave the country without visiting me; it is unnecessary to saywith what pleasure I should receive you and the Lady Blanche. '

'I do not doubt it, ' replied the Count, 'and I will not deny myself andBlanche the pleasure of visiting you, if your affairs should allow youto be at La Vallee, about the time when we can meet you there. '

When Emily said that she should hope to see the Countess also, she wasnot sorry to learn that this lady was going, accompanied by MademoiselleBearn, to pay a visit, for a few weeks, to a family in lower Languedoc. 

The Count, after some further conversation on his intended journey andon the arrangement of Emily's, took leave; and many days did not succeedthis visit, before a second letter from M. Quesnel informed her, that hewas then at Tholouse, that La Vallee was at liberty, and that he wishedher to set off for the former place, where he awaited her arrival, withall possible dispatch, since his own affairs pressed him to returnto Gascony. Emily did not hesitate to obey him, and, having taken anaffecting leave of the Count's family, in which M. Du Pont was stillincluded, and of her friends at the convent, she set out for Tholouse, attended by the unhappy Annette, and guarded by a steady servant of theCount. 

CHAPTER X

 Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain, Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain: Awake but one, and lo! what myriads rise! Each stamps its image as the other flies! PLEASURES OF MEMORY

Emily pursued her journey, without any accident, along the plains ofLanguedoc towards the north-west; and, on this her return to Tholouse, which she had last left with Madame Montoni, she thought much on themelancholy fate of her aunt, who, but for her own imprudence, might nowhave been living in happiness there! Montoni, too, often rose to herfancy, such as she had seen him in his days of triumph, bold, spiritedand commanding; such also as she had since beheld him in his days ofvengeance; and now, only a few short months had passed--and he hadno longer the power, or the will to afflict;--he had become a clod ofearth, and his life was vanished like a shadow! Emily could have wept athis fate, had she not remembered his crimes; for that of her unfortunateaunt she did weep, and all sense of her errors was overcome by therecollection of her misfortunes. 

Other thoughts and other emotions succeeded, as Emily drew near thewell-known scenes of her early love, and considered, that Valancourt waslost to her and to himself, for ever. At length, she came to the brow ofthe hill, whence, on her departure for Italy, she had given a farewelllook to this beloved landscape, amongst whose woods and fields she hadso often walked with Valancourt, and where he was then to inhabit, when she would be far, far away! She saw, once more, that chain of thePyrenees, which overlooked La Vallee, rising, like faint clouds, on thehorizon. 'There, too, is Gascony, extended at their feet!' said she, 'O my father, --my mother! And there, too, is the Garonne!' she added, drying the tears, that obscured her sight, --'and Tholouse, and my aunt'smansion--and the groves in her garden!--O my friends! are ye all lostto me--must I never, never see ye more!' Tears rushed again to her eyes, and she continued to weep, till an abrupt turn in the road had nearlyoccasioned the carriage to overset, when, looking up, she perceivedanother part of the well-known scene around Tholouse, and all thereflections and anticipations, which she had suffered, at the moment, when she bade it last adieu, came with recollected force to her heart. She remembered how anxiously she had looked forward to the futurity, which was to decide her happiness concerning Valancourt, and whatdepressing fears had assailed her; the very words she had uttered, asshe withdrew her last look from the prospect, came to her memory. 'CouldI but be certain, ' she had then said, 'that I should ever return, andthat Valancourt would still live for me--I should go in peace!'

Now, that futurity, so anxiously anticipated, was arrived, she wasreturned--but what a dreary blank appeared!--Valancourt no longerlived for her! She had no longer even the melancholy satisfaction ofcontemplating his image in her heart, for he was no longer the sameValancourt she had cherished there--the solace of many a mournfulhour, the animating friend, that had enabled her to bear up against theoppression of Montoni--the distant hope, that had beamed over her gloomyprospect! On perceiving this beloved idea to be an illusion of her owncreation, Valancourt seemed to be annihilated, and her soul sickened atthe blank, that remained. His marriage with a rival, even his death, shethought she could have endured with more fortitude, than this discovery;for then, amidst all her grief, she could have looked in secret upon theimage of goodness, which her fancy had drawn of him, and comfort wouldhave mingled with her suffering!

Drying her tears, she looked, once more, upon the landscape, which hadexcited them, and perceived, that she was passing the very bank, whereshe had taken leave of Valancourt, on the morning of her departure fromTholouse, and she now saw him, through her returning tears, such ashe had appeared, when she looked from the carriage to give him a lastadieu--saw him leaning mournfully against the high trees, and rememberedthe fixed look of mingled tenderness and anguish, with which he had thenregarded her. This recollection was too much for her heart, and she sunkback in the carriage, nor once looked up, till it stopped at the gatesof what was now her own mansion. 

These being opened, and by the servant, to whose care the chateau hadbeen entrusted, the carriage drove into the court, where, alighting, she hastily passed through the great hall, now silent and solitary, toa large oak parlour, the common sitting room of the late Madame Montoni, where, instead of being received by M. Quesnel, she found a letter fromhim, informing her that business of consequence had obliged him to leaveTholouse two days before. Emily was, upon the whole, not sorry to bespared his presence, since his abrupt departure appeared to indicate thesame indifference, with which he had formerly regarded her. This letterinformed her, also, of the progress he had made in the settlement ofher affairs, and concluded with directions, concerning the forms ofsome business, which remained for her to transact. But M. Quesnel'sunkindness did not long occupy her thoughts, which returned theremembrance of the persons she had been accustomed to see in thismansion, and chiefly of the ill-guided and unfortunate Madame Montoni. In the room, where she now sat, she had breakfasted with her on themorning of their departure for Italy; and the view of it brought mostforcibly to her recollection all she had herself suffered, at that time, and the many gay expectations, which her aunt had formed, respectingthe journey before her. While Emily's mind was thus engaged, her eyeswandered unconsciously to a large window, that looked upon the garden, and here new memorials of the past spoke to her heart, for she sawextended before her the very avenue, in which she had parted withValancourt, on the eve of her journey; and all the anxiety, the tenderinterest he had shewn, concerning her future happiness, his earnestremonstrances against her committing herself to the power of Montoni, and the truth of his affection, came afresh to her memory. At thismoment, it appeared almost impossible, that Valancourt could have becomeunworthy of her regard, and she doubted all that she had lately heard tohis disadvantage, and even his own words, which had confirmed Count DeVillefort's report of him. Overcome by the recollections, which the viewof this avenue occasioned, she turned abruptly from the window, andsunk into a chair beside it, where she sat, given up to grief, till theentrance of Annette, with coffee, aroused her. 

'Dear madam, how melancholy this place looks now, ' said Annette, 'towhat it used to do! It is dismal coming home, when there is nobody towelcome one!'

This was not the moment, in which Emily could bear the remark; her tearsfell again, and, as soon as she had taken the coffee, she retired toher apartment, where she endeavoured to repose her fatigued spirits. Butbusy memory would still supply her with the visions of former times: shesaw Valancourt interesting and benevolent, as he had been wont to appearin the days of their early love, and, amidst the scenes, where she hadbelieved that they should sometimes pass their years together!--but, atlength, sleep closed these afflicting scenes from her view. 

On the following morning, serious occupation recovered her from suchmelancholy reflections; for, being desirous of quitting Tholouse, and ofhastening on to La Vallee, she made some enquiries into the condition ofthe estate, and immediately dispatched a part of the necessary businessconcerning it, according to the directions of Mons. Quesnel. Itrequired a strong effort to abstract her thoughts from other interestssufficiently to attend to this, but she was rewarded for her exertionsby again experiencing, that employment is the surest antidote to sorrow. 

This day was devoted entirely to business; and, among other concerns, she employed means to learn the situation of all her poor tenants, thatshe might relieve their wants, or confirm their comforts. 

In the evening, her spirits were so much strengthened, that she thoughtshe could bear to visit the gardens, where she had so often walked withValancourt; and, knowing, that, if she delayed to do so, their sceneswould only affect her the more, whenever they should be viewed, she tookadvantage of the present state of her mind, and entered them. 

Passing hastily the gate leading from the court into the gardens, shehurried up the great avenue, scarcely permitting her memory to dwell fora moment on the circumstance of her having here parted with Valancourt, and soon quitted this for other walks less interesting to her heart. These brought her, at length, to the flight of steps, that led from thelower garden to the terrace, on seeing which, she became agitated, and hesitated whether to ascend, but, her resolution returning, sheproceeded. 

'Ah!' said Emily, as she ascended, 'these are the same high trees, thatused to wave over the terrace, and these the same flowery thickets--theliburnum, the wild rose, and the cerinthe--which were wont to growbeneath them! Ah! and there, too, on that bank, are the very plants, which Valancourt so carefully reared!--O, when last I saw them!'--shechecked the thought, but could not restrain her tears, and, afterwalking slowly on for a few moments, her agitation, upon the view ofthis well-known scene, increased so much, that she was obliged to stop, and lean upon the wall of the terrace. It was a mild, and beautifulevening. The sun was setting over the extensive landscape, to which hisbeams, sloping from beneath a dark cloud, that overhung the west, gave rich and partial colouring, and touched the tufted summits of thegroves, that rose from the garden below, with a yellow gleam. Emily andValancourt had often admired together this scene, at the same hour; andit was exactly on this spot, that, on the night preceding her departurefor Italy, she had listened to his remonstrances against the journey, and to the pleadings of passionate affection. Some observations, whichshe made on the landscape, brought this to her remembrance, and with itall the minute particulars of that conversation;--the alarming doubts hehad expressed concerning Montoni, doubts, which had since been fatallyconfirmed; the reasons and entreaties he had employed to prevail withher to consent to an immediate marriage; the tenderness of his love, the paroxysms of this grief, and the conviction that he had repeatedlyexpressed, that they should never meet again in happiness! All thesecircumstances rose afresh to her mind, and awakened the various emotionsshe had then suffered. Her tenderness for Valancourt became as powerfulas in the moments, when she thought, that she was parting with him andhappiness together, and when the strength of her mind had enabled her totriumph over present suffering, rather than to deserve the reproachof her conscience by engaging in a clandestine marriage. --'Alas!' saidEmily, as these recollections came to her mind, 'and what have I gainedby the fortitude I then practised?--am I happy now?--He said, we shouldmeet no more in happiness; but, O! he little thought his own misconductwould separate us, and lead to the very evil he then dreaded!'

Her reflections increased her anguish, while she was compelled toacknowledge, that the fortitude she had formerly exerted, if it hadnot conducted her to happiness, had saved her from irretrievablemisfortune--from Valancourt himself! But in these moments she could notcongratulate herself on the prudence, that had saved her; she could onlylament, with bitterest anguish, the circumstances, which had conspiredto betray Valancourt into a course of life so different from that, which the virtues, the tastes, and the pursuits of his early years hadpromised; but she still loved him too well to believe, that hisheart was even now depraved, though his conduct had been criminal. Anobservation, which had fallen from M. St. Aubert more than once, nowoccurred to her. 'This young man, ' said he, speaking of Valancourt, 'hasnever been at Paris;' a remark, that had surprised her at the timeit was uttered, but which she now understood, and she exclaimedsorrowfully, 'O Valancourt! if such a friend as my father had been withyou at Paris--your noble, ingenuous nature would not have fallen!'

The sun was now set, and, recalling her thoughts from their melancholysubject, she continued her walk; for the pensive shade of twilight waspleasing to her, and the nightingales from the surrounding groves beganto answer each other in the long-drawn, plaintive note, which alwaystouched her heart; while all the fragrance of the flowery thickets, thatbounded the terrace, was awakened by the cool evening air, which floatedso lightly among their leaves, that they scarcely trembled as it passed. 

Emily came, at length, to the steps of the pavilion, that terminatedthe terrace, and where her last interview with Valancourt, before herdeparture from Tholouse, had so unexpectedly taken place. The door wasnow shut, and she trembled, while she hesitated whether to open it; buther wish to see again a place, which had been the chief scene of herformer happiness, at length overcoming her reluctance to encounter thepainful regret it would renew, she entered. The room was obscured by amelancholy shade; but through the open lattices, darkened by thehanging foliage of the vines, appeared the dusky landscape, the Garonnereflecting the evening light, and the west still glowing. A chair wasplaced near one of the balconies, as if some person had been sittingthere, but the other furniture of the pavilion remained exactly asusual, and Emily thought it looked as if it had not once been movedsince she set out for Italy. The silent and deserted air of the placeadded solemnity to her emotions, for she heard only the low whisperof the breeze, as it shook the leaves of the vines, and the very faintmurmur of the Garonne. 

She seated herself in a chair, near the lattice, and yielded to thesadness of her heart, while she recollected the circumstances of herparting interview with Valancourt, on this spot. It was here too, thatshe had passed some of the happiest hours of her life with him, whenher aunt favoured the connection, for here she had often sat and worked, while he conversed, or read; and she now well remembered with whatdiscriminating judgment, with what tempered energy, he used to repeatsome of the sublimest passages of their favourite authors; how often hewould pause to admire with her their excellence, and with what tenderdelight he would listen to her remarks, and correct her taste. 

'And is it possible, ' said Emily, as these recollections returned--'isit possible, that a mind, so susceptible of whatever is grand andbeautiful, could stoop to low pursuits, and be subdued by frivoloustemptations?'

She remembered how often she had seen the sudden tear start in his eye, and had heard his voice tremble with emotion, while he related any greator benevolent action, or repeated a sentiment of the same character. 'And such a mind, ' said she, 'such a heart, were to be sacrificed to thehabits of a great city!'

These recollections becoming too painful to be endured, she abruptlyleft the pavilion, and, anxious to escape from the memorials of herdeparted happiness, returned towards the chateau. As she passed alongthe terrace, she perceived a person, walking, with a slow step, and adejected air, under the trees, at some distance. The twilight, whichwas now deep, would not allow her to distinguish who it was, and sheimagined it to be one of the servants, till, the sound of her stepsseeming to reach him, he turned half round, and she thought she sawValancourt!

Whoever it was, he instantly struck among the thickets on the left, anddisappeared, while Emily, her eyes fixed on the place, whence hehad vanished, and her frame trembling so excessively, that she couldscarcely support herself, remained, for some moments, unable to quit thespot, and scarcely conscious of existence. With her recollection, herstrength returned, and she hurried toward the house, where she did notventure to enquire who had been in the gardens, lest she should betrayher emotion; and she sat down alone, endeavouring to recollect thefigure, air and features of the person she had just seen. Her view ofhim, however, had been so transient, and the gloom had rendered itso imperfect, that she could remember nothing with exactness; yet thegeneral appearance of his figure, and his abrupt departure, made herstill believe, that this person was Valancourt. Sometimes, indeed, shethought, that her fancy, which had been occupied by the idea of him, had suggested his image to her uncertain sight: but this conjecture wasfleeting. If it was himself whom she had seen, she wondered much, thathe should be at Tholouse, and more, how he had gained admittance intothe garden; but as often as her impatience prompted her to enquirewhether any stranger had been admitted, she was restrained by anunwillingness to betray her doubts; and the evening was passed inanxious conjecture, and in efforts to dismiss the subject from herthoughts. But, these endeavours were ineffectual, and a thousandinconsistent emotions assailed her, whenever she fancied that Valancourtmight be near her; now, she dreaded it to be true, and now she feared itto be false; and, while she constantly tried to persuade herself, thatshe wished the person, whom she had seen, might not be Valancourt, herheart as constantly contradicted her reason. 

The following day was occupied by the visits of several neighbouringfamilies, formerly intimate with Madame Montoni, who came to condolewith Emily on her death, to congratulate her upon the acquisition ofthese estates, and to enquire about Montoni, and concerning the strangereports they had heard of her own situation; all which was done with theutmost decorum, and the visitors departed with as much composure as theyhad arrived. 

Emily was wearied by these formalities, and disgusted by the subservientmanners of many persons, who had thought her scarcely worthy of commonattention, while she was believed to be a dependant on Madame Montoni. 

'Surely, ' said she, 'there is some magic in wealth, which can thus makepersons pay their court to it, when it does not even benefit themselves. How strange it is, that a fool or a knave, with riches, should betreated with more respect by the world, than a good man, or a wise manin poverty!'

It was evening, before she was left alone, and she then wished to haverefreshed her spirits in the free air of her garden; but she feared togo thither, lest she should meet again the person, whom she had seen onthe preceding night, and he should prove to be Valancourt. The suspenseand anxiety she suffered, on this subject, she found all her effortsunable to controul, and her secret wish to see Valancourt once more, though unseen by him, powerfully prompted her to go, but prudence anda delicate pride restrained her, and she determined to avoid thepossibility of throwing herself in his way, by forbearing to visit thegardens, for several days. 

When, after near a week, she again ventured thither, she made Annetteher companion, and confined her walk to the lower grounds, but oftenstarted as the leaves rustled in the breeze, imagining, that some personwas among the thickets; and, at the turn of every alley, she lookedforward with apprehensive expectation. She pursued her walk thoughtfullyand silently, for her agitation would not suffer her to converse withAnnette, to whom, however, thought and silence were so intolerable, thatshe did not scruple at length to talk to her mistress. 

'Dear madam, ' said she, 'why do you start so? one would think you knewwhat has happened. '

'What has happened?' said Emily, in a faltering voice, and trying tocommand her emotion. 

'The night before last, you know, madam'--

'I know nothing, Annette, ' replied her lady in a more hurried voice. 

'The night before last, madam, there was a robber in the garden. '

'A robber!' said Emily, in an eager, yet doubting tone. 

'I suppose he was a robber, madam. What else could he be?'

'Where did you see him, Annette?' rejoined Emily, looking round her, andturning back towards the chateau. 

'It was not I that saw him, madam, it was Jean the gardener. It wastwelve o'clock at night, and, as he was coming across the court to gothe back way into the house, what should he see--but somebody walking inthe avenue, that fronts the garden gate! So, with that, Jean guessed howit was, and he went into the house for his gun. '

'His gun!' exclaimed Emily. 

'Yes, madam, his gun; and then he came out into the court to watch him. Presently, he sees him come slowly down the avenue, and lean over thegarden gate, and look up at the house for a long time; and I warrant heexamined it well, and settled what window he should break in at. '

'But the gun, ' said Emily--'the gun!'

'Yes, madam, all in good time. Presently, Jean says, the robber openedthe gate, and was coming into the court, and then he thought proper toask him his business: so he called out again, and bade him say who hewas, and what he wanted. But the man would do neither; but turned uponhis heel, and passed into the garden again. Jean knew then well enoughhow it was, and so he fired after him. '

'Fired!' exclaimed Emily. 

'Yes, madam, fired off his gun; but, Holy Virgin! what makes you lookso pale, madam? The man was not killed, --I dare say; but if he was, hiscomrades carried him off: for, when Jean went in the morning, to lookfor the body, it was gone, and nothing to be seen but a track of bloodon the ground. Jean followed it, that he might find out where the mangot into the garden, but it was lost in the grass, and'--

Annette was interrupted: for Emily's spirits died away, and she wouldhave fallen to the ground, if the girl had not caught her, and supportedher to a bench, close to them. 

When, after a long absence, her senses returned, Emily desired to beled to her apartment; and, though she trembled with anxiety to enquirefurther on the subject of her alarm, she found herself too ill atpresent, to dare the intelligence which it was possible she mightreceive of Valancourt. Having dismissed Annette, that she might weepand think at liberty, she endeavoured to recollect the exact air of theperson, whom she had seen on the terrace, and still her fancy gave herthe figure of Valancourt. She had, indeed, scarcely a doubt, that it washe whom she had seen, and at whom the gardener had fired: for the mannerof the latter person, as described by Annette, was not that of a robber;nor did it appear probable, that a robber would have come alone, tobreak into a house so spacious as this. 

When Emily thought herself sufficiently recovered, to listen to whatJean might have to relate, she sent for him; but he could inform her ofno circumstance, that might lead to a knowledge of the person, whohad been shot, or of the consequence of the wound; and, after severelyreprimanding him, for having fired with bullets, and ordering diligentenquiry to be made in the neighbourhood for the discovery of the woundedperson, she dismissed him, and herself remained in the same state ofterrible suspense. All the tenderness she had ever felt for Valancourt, was recalled by the sense of his danger; and the more she considered thesubject, the more her conviction strengthened, that it was he, whohad visited the gardens, for the purpose of soothing the misery ofdisappointed affection, amidst the scenes of his former happiness. 

'Dear madam, ' said Annette, when she returned, 'I never saw you soaffected before! I dare say the man is not killed. '

Emily shuddered, and lamented bitterly the rashness of the gardener inhaving fired. 

'I knew you would be angry enough about that, madam, or I should havetold you before; and he knew so too; for, says he, "Annette, say nothingabout this to my lady. She lies on the other side of the house, so didnot hear the gun, perhaps; but she would be angry with me, if she knew, seeing there is blood. But then, " says he, "how is one to keep thegarden clear, if one is afraid to fire at a robber, when one sees him?"'

'No more of this, ' said Emily, 'pray leave me. '

Annette obeyed, and Emily returned to the agonizing considerations, thathad assailed her before, but which she, at length, endeavoured to soothby a new remark. If the stranger was Valancourt, it was certain he hadcome alone, and it appeared, therefore, that he had been able to quitthe gardens, without assistance; a circumstance which did not seemprobable, had his wound been dangerous. With this consideration, sheendeavoured to support herself, during the enquiries, that were makingby her servants in the neighbourhood; but day after day came, and stillclosed in uncertainty, concerning this affair: and Emily, suffering insilence, at length, drooped, and sunk under the pressure of her anxiety. She was attacked by a slow fever, and when she yielded to the persuasionof Annette to send for medical advice, the physicians prescribed littlebeside air, gentle exercise and amusement: but how was this last to beobtained? She, however, endeavoured to abstract her thoughts from thesubject of her anxiety, by employing them in promoting that happiness inothers, which she had lost herself; and, when the evening was fine, sheusually took an airing, including in her ride the cottages of some ofher tenants, on whose condition she made such observations, as oftenenabled her, unasked, to fulfil their wishes. 

Her indisposition and the business she engaged in, relative to thisestate, had already protracted her stay at Tholouse, beyond the periodshe had formerly fixed for her departure to La Vallee; and now shewas unwilling to leave the only place, where it seemed possible, thatcertainty could be obtained on the subject of her distress. But the timewas come, when her presence was necessary at La Vallee, a letter fromthe Lady Blanche now informing her, that the Count and herself, beingthen at the chateau of the Baron St. Foix, purposed to visit her at LaVallee, on their way home, as soon as they should be informed of herarrival there. Blanche added, that they made this visit, with the hopeof inducing her to return with them to Chateau-le-Blanc. 

Emily, having replied to the letter of her friend, and said that sheshould be at La Vallee in a few days, made hasty preparations for thejourney; and, in thus leaving Tholouse, endeavoured to support herselfwith a belief, that, if any fatal accident had happened to Valancourt, she must in this interval have heard of it. 

On the evening before her departure, she went to take leave of theterrace and the pavilion. The day had been sultry, but a light shower, that fell just before sun-set, had cooled the air, and given that softverdure to the woods and pastures, which is so refreshing to the eye;while the rain drops, still trembling on the shrubs, glittered in thelast yellow gleam, that lighted up the scene, and the air was filledwith fragrance, exhaled by the late shower, from herbs and flowers andfrom the earth itself. But the lovely prospect, which Emily beheld fromthe terrace, was no longer viewed by her with delight; she sighed deeplyas her eye wandered over it, and her spirits were in a state of suchdejection, that she could not think of her approaching return to LaVallee, without tears, and seemed to mourn again the death of herfather, as if it had been an event of yesterday. Having reached thepavilion, she seated herself at the open lattice, and, while hereyes settled on the distant mountains, that overlooked Gascony, stillgleaming on the horizon, though the sun had now left the plains below, 'Alas!' said she, 'I return to your long-lost scenes, but shall meetno more the parents, that were wont to render them delightful!--nomore shall see the smile of welcome, or hear the well-known voice offondness:--all will now be cold and silent in what was once my happyhome. '

Tears stole down her cheek, as the remembrance of what that home hadbeen, returned to her; but, after indulging her sorrow for some time, she checked it, accusing herself of ingratitude in forgetting thefriends, that she possessed, while she lamented those that weredeparted; and she, at length, left the pavilion and the terrace, withouthaving observed a shadow of Valancourt or of any other person. 

CHAPTER XI

 Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade! Ah fields belov'd in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales, that from ye blow, A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to sooth. GRAY

On the following morning, Emily left Tholouse at an early hour, andreached La Vallee about sun-set. With the melancholy she experienced onthe review of a place which had been the residence of her parents, andthe scene of her earliest delight, was mingled, after the first shockhad subsided, a tender and undescribable pleasure. For time had so farblunted the acuteness of her grief, that she now courted every scene, that awakened the memory of her friends; in every room, where she hadbeen accustomed to see them, they almost seemed to live again; andshe felt that La Vallee was still her happiest home. One of the firstapartments she visited, was that, which had been her father'slibrary, and here she seated herself in his arm-chair, and, while shecontemplated, with tempered resignation, the picture of past times, which her memory gave, the tears she shed could scarcely be called thoseof grief. 

Soon after her arrival, she was surprised by a visit from the venerableM. Barreaux, who came impatiently to welcome the daughter of his laterespected neighbour, to her long-deserted home. Emily was comforted bythe presence of an old friend, and they passed an interesting hour inconversing of former times, and in relating some of the circumstances, that had occurred to each, since they parted. 

The evening was so far advanced, when M. Barreaux left Emily, that shecould not visit the garden that night; but, on the following morning, she traced its long-regretted scenes with fond impatience; and, as shewalked beneath the groves, which her father had planted, and whereshe had so often sauntered in affectionate conversation with him, hiscountenance, his smile, even the accents of his voice, returnedwith exactness to her fancy, and her heart melted to the tenderrecollections. 

This, too, was his favourite season of the year, at which they had oftentogether admired the rich and variegated tints of these woods and themagical effect of autumnal lights upon the mountains; and now, the viewof these circumstances made memory eloquent. As she wandered pensivelyon, she fancied the following address

 TO AUTUMN

 Sweet Autumn! how thy melancholy grace Steals on my heart, as through these shades I wind! Sooth'd by thy breathing sigh, I fondly trace Each lonely image of the pensive mind! Lov'd scenes, lov'd friends--long lost! around me rise, And wake the melting thought, the tender tear! That tear, that thought, which more than mirth I prize-- Sweet as the gradual tint, that paints thy year! Thy farewel smile, with fond regret, I view, Thy beaming lights, soft gliding o'er the woods; Thy distant landscape, touch'd with yellow hue While falls the lengthen'd gleam; thy winding floods, Now veil'd in shade, save where the skiff's white sails Swell to the breeze, and catch thy streaming ray. But now, e'en now!--the partial vision fails, And the wave smiles, as sweeps the cloud away! Emblem of life!--Thus checquer'd is its plan, Thus joy succeeds to grief--thus smiles the varied man!

One of Emily's earliest enquiries, after her arrival at La Vallee, wasconcerning Theresa, her father's old servant, whom it may be rememberedthat M. Quesnel had turned from the house when it was let, withoutany provision. Understanding that she lived in a cottage at no greatdistance, Emily walked thither, and, on approaching, was pleased to see, that her habitation was pleasantly situated on a green slope, shelteredby a tuft of oaks, and had an appearance of comfort and extremeneatness. She found the old woman within, picking vine-stalks, who, onperceiving her young mistress, was nearly overcome with joy. 

'Ah! my dear young lady!' said she, 'I thought I should never seeyou again in this world, when I heard you was gone to that outlandishcountry. I have been hardly used, since you went; I little thought theywould have turned me out of my old master's family in my old age!'

Emily lamented the circumstance, and then assured her, that she wouldmake her latter days comfortable, and expressed satisfaction, on seeingher in so pleasant an habitation. 

Theresa thanked her with tears, adding, 'Yes, mademoiselle, it is avery comfortable home, thanks to the kind friend, who took me out ofmy distress, when you was too far off to help me, and placed me here! Ilittle thought!--but no more of that--'

'And who was this kind friend?' said Emily: 'whoever it was, I shallconsider him as mine also. '

'Ah, mademoiselle! that friend forbad me to blazon the good deed--I mustnot say, who it was. But how you are altered since I saw you last! Youlook so pale now, and so thin, too; but then, there is my old master'ssmile! Yes, that will never leave you, any more than the goodness, thatused to make him smile. Alas-a-day! the poor lost a friend indeed, whenhe died!'

Emily was affected by this mention of her father, which Theresaobserving, changed the subject. 'I heard, mademoiselle, ' said she, 'that Madame Cheron married a foreign gentleman, after all, and took youabroad; how does she do?'

Emily now mentioned her death. 'Alas!' said Theresa, 'if she had notbeen my master's sister, I should never have loved her; she was alwaysso cross. But how does that dear young gentleman do, M. Valancourt? hewas an handsome youth, and a good one; is he well, mademoiselle?'

Emily was much agitated. 

'A blessing on him!' continued Theresa. 'Ah, my dear young lady, youneed not look so shy; I know all about it. Do you think I do not know, that he loves you? Why, when you was away, mademoiselle, he used tocome to the chateau and walk about it, so disconsolate! He would go intoevery room in the lower part of the house, and, sometimes, he wouldsit himself down in a chair, with his arms across, and his eyes onthe floor, and there he would sit, and think, and think, for the hourtogether. He used to be very fond of the south parlour, because Itold him it used to be yours; and there he would stay, looking at thepictures, which I said you drew, and playing upon your lute, that hungup by the window, and reading in your books, till sunset, and then hemust go back to his brother's chateau. And then--'

'It is enough, Theresa, ' said Emily. --'How long have you lived in thiscottage--and how can I serve you? Will you remain here, or return andlive with me?'

'Nay, mademoiselle, ' said Theresa, 'do not be so shy to your poorold servant. I am sure it is no disgrace to like such a good younggentleman. '

A deep sigh escaped from Emily. 

'Ah! how he did love to talk of you! I loved him for that. Nay, for thatmatter, he liked to hear me talk, for he did not say much himself. But Isoon found out what he came to the chateau about. Then, he would gointo the garden, and down to the terrace, and sit under that great treethere, for the day together, with one of your books in his hand; but hedid not read much, I fancy; for one day I happened to go that way, and Iheard somebody talking. Who can be here? says I: I am sure I let nobodyinto the garden, but the Chevalier. So I walked softly, to see who itcould be; and behold! it was the Chevalier himself, talking to himselfabout you. And he repeated your name, and sighed so! and said he hadlost you for ever, for that you would never return for him. I thought hewas out in his reckoning there, but I said nothing, and stole away. '

'No more of this trifling, ' said Emily, awakening from her reverie: 'itdispleases me. '

'But, when M. Quesnel let the chateau, I thought it would have broke theChevalier's heart. '

'Theresa, ' said Emily seriously, 'you must name the Chevalier no more!'

'Not name him, mademoiselle!' cried Theresa: 'what times are comeup now? Why, I love the Chevalier next to my old master and you, mademoiselle. '

'Perhaps your love was not well bestowed, then, ' replied Emily, tryingto conceal her tears; 'but, however that might be, we shall meet nomore. '

'Meet no more!--not well bestowed!' exclaimed Theresa. 'What do I hear?No, mademoiselle, my love was well bestowed, for it was the ChevalierValancourt, who gave me this cottage, and has supported me in my oldage, ever since M. Quesnel turned me from my master's house. '

'The Chevalier Valancourt!' said Emily, trembling extremely. 

'Yes, mademoiselle, he himself, though he made me promise not to tell;but how could one help, when one heard him ill spoken of? Ah! dear younglady, you may well weep, if you have behaved unkindly to him, for a moretender heart than his never young gentleman had. He found me out in mydistress, when you was too far off to help me; and M. Quesnel refusedto do so, and bade me go to service again--Alas! I was too old forthat!--The Chevalier found me, and bought me this cottage, and gave memoney to furnish it, and bade me seek out another poor woman to livewith me; and he ordered his brother's steward to pay me, every quarter, that which has supported me in comfort. Think then, mademoiselle, whether I have not reason to speak well of the Chevalier. And there areothers, who could have afforded it better than he: and I am afraid hehas hurt himself by his generosity, for quarter day is gone by longsince, and no money for me! But do not weep so, mademoiselle: you arenot sorry surely to hear of the poor Chevalier's goodness?'

'Sorry!' said Emily, and wept the more. 'But how long is it since youhave seen him?'

'Not this many a day, mademoiselle. '

'When did you hear of him?' enquired Emily, with increased emotion. 

'Alas! never since he went away so suddenly into Languedoc; and he wasbut just come from Paris then, or I should have seen him, I am sure. Quarter day is gone by long since, and, as I said, no money for me; andI begin to fear some harm has happened to him: and if I was not so farfrom Estuviere and so lame, I should have gone to enquire before thistime; and I have nobody to send so far. '

Emily's anxiety, as to the fate of Valancourt, was now scarcelyendurable, and, since propriety would not suffer her to send to thechateau of his brother, she requested that Theresa would immediatelyhire some person to go to his steward from herself, and, when he askedfor the quarterage due to her, to make enquiries concerning Valancourt. But she first made Theresa promise never to mention her name in thisaffair, or ever with that of the Chevalier Valancourt; and herformer faithfulness to M. St. Aubert induced Emily to confide in herassurances. Theresa now joyfully undertook to procure a person for thiserrand, and then Emily, after giving her a sum of money to supply herwith present comforts, returned, with spirits heavily oppressed, to herhome, lamenting, more than ever, that an heart, possessed of so muchbenevolence as Valancourt's, should have been contaminated by the vicesof the world, but affected by the delicate affection, which his kindnessto her old servant expressed for herself. 

CHAPTER XII

 Light thickens, and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood: Good things of day begin to droop, and drowze; While night's black agents to their preys do rouze. MACBETH

Meanwhile Count De Villefort and Lady Blanche had passed a pleasantfortnight at the chateau de St. Foix, with the Baron and Baroness, during which they made frequent excursions among the mountains, and weredelighted with the romantic wildness of Pyrenean scenery. It was withregret, that the Count bade adieu to his old friends, although with thehope of being soon united with them in one family; for it was settledthat M. St. Foix, who now attended them into Gascony, should receive thehand of the Lady Blanche, upon their arrival at Chateau-le-Blanc. Asthe road, from the Baron's residence to La Vallee, was over some ofthe wildest tract of the Pyrenees, and where a carriage-wheel had neverpassed, the Count hired mules for himself and his family, as well as acouple of stout guides, who were well armed, informed of all the passesof the mountains, and who boasted, too, that they were acquainted withevery brake and dingle in the way, could tell the names of all thehighest points of this chain of Alps, knew every forest, that spreadalong their narrow vallies, the shallowest part of every torrent theymust cross, and the exact distance of every goat-herd's and hunter'scabin they should have occasion to pass, --which last article of learningrequired no very capacious memory, for even such simple inhabitants werebut thinly scattered over these wilds. 

The Count left the chateau de St. Foix, early in the morning, with anintention of passing the night at a little inn upon the mountains, abouthalf way to La Vallee, of which his guides had informed him; and, thoughthis was frequented chiefly by Spanish muleteers, on their route intoFrance, and, of course, would afford only sorry accommodation, the Counthad no alternative, for it was the only place like an inn, on the road. 

After a day of admiration and fatigue, the travellers found themselves, about sun-set, in a woody valley, overlooked, on every side, by abruptheights. They had proceeded for many leagues, without seeing a humanhabitation, and had only heard, now and then, at a distance, themelancholy tinkling of a sheep-bell; but now they caught the notes ofmerry music, and presently saw, within a little green recess among therocks, a group of mountaineers, tripping through a dance. The Count, who could not look upon the happiness, any more than on the miseryof others, with indifference, halted to enjoy this scene of simplepleasure. The group before him consisted of French and Spanish peasants, the inhabitants of a neighbouring hamlet, some of whom were performing asprightly dance, the women with castanets in their hands, to the soundsof a lute and a tamborine, till, from the brisk melody of France, themusic softened into a slow movement, to which two female peasants danceda Spanish Pavan. 

The Count, comparing this with the scenes of such gaiety as he hadwitnessed at Paris, where false taste painted the features, and, whileit vainly tried to supply the glow of nature, concealed the charmsof animation--where affectation so often distorted the air, and viceperverted the manners--sighed to think, that natural graces and innocentpleasures flourished in the wilds of solitude, while they drooped amidstthe concourse of polished society. But the lengthening shadows remindedthe travellers, that they had no time to lose; and, leaving this joyousgroup, they pursued their way towards the little inn, which was toshelter them from the night. 

The rays of the setting sun now threw a yellow gleam upon the forests ofpine and chesnut, that swept down the lower region of the mountains, andgave resplendent tints to the snowy points above. But soon, even thislight faded fast, and the scenery assumed a more tremendous appearance, invested with the obscurity of twilight. Where the torrent had beenseen, it was now only heard; where the wild cliffs had displayedevery variety of form and attitude, a dark mass of mountains now aloneappeared; and the vale, which far, far below had opened its dreadfulchasm, the eye could no longer fathom. A melancholy gleam still lingeredon the summits of the highest Alps, overlooking the deep repose ofevening, and seeming to make the stillness of the hour more awful. 

Blanche viewed the scene in silence, and listened with enthusiasm to themurmur of the pines, that extended in dark lines along the mountains, and to the faint voice of the izard, among the rocks, that came atintervals on the air. But her enthusiasm sunk into apprehension, when, as the shadows deepened, she looked upon the doubtful precipice, thatbordered the road, as well as on the various fantastic forms of danger, that glimmered through the obscurity beyond it; and she asked herfather, how far they were from the inn, and whether he did not considerthe road to be dangerous at this late hour. The Count repeated the firstquestion to the guides, who returned a doubtful answer, adding, that, when it was darker, it would be safest to rest, till the moon rose. 'It is scarcely safe to proceed now, ' said the Count; but the guides, assuring him that there was no danger, went on. Blanche, revived bythis assurance, again indulged a pensive pleasure, as she watched theprogress of twilight gradually spreading its tints over the woods andmountains, and stealing from the eye every minuter feature of the scene, till the grand outlines of nature alone remained. Then fell the silentdews, and every wild flower, and aromatic plant, that bloomed among thecliffs, breathed forth its sweetness; then, too, when the mountain-beehad crept into its blossomed bed, and the hum of every little insect, that had floated gaily in the sun-beam, was hushed, the sound of manystreams, not heard till now, murmured at a distance. --The bats alone, of all the animals inhabiting this region, seemed awake; and, whilethey flitted across the silent path, which Blanche was pursuing, sheremembered the following lines, which Emily had given her:

 TO THE BAT

 From haunt of man, from day's obtrusive glare, Thou shroud'st thee in the ruin's ivy'd tow'r. Or in some shadowy glen's romantic bow'r, Where wizard forms their mystic charms prepare, Where Horror lurks, and ever-boding Care! But, at the sweet and silent ev'ning hour, When clos'd in sleep is ev'ry languid flow'r, Thou lov'st to sport upon the twilight air, Mocking the eye, that would thy course pursue, In many a wanton-round, elastic, gay, Thou flit'st athwart the pensive wand'rer's way, As his lone footsteps print the mountain-dew. From Indian isles thou com'st, with Summer's car, Twilight thy love--thy guide her beaming star!

To a warm imagination, the dubious forms, that float, half veiled indarkness, afford a higher delight, than the most distinct scenery, thatthe sun can shew. While the fancy thus wanders over landscapes partly ofits own creation, a sweet complacency steals upon the mind, and

 Refines it all to subtlest feeling, Bids the tear of rapture roll. 

The distant note of a torrent, the weak trembling of the breeze amongthe woods, or the far-off sound of a human voice, now lost and heardagain, are circumstances, which wonderfully heighten the enthusiastictone of the mind. The young St. Foix, who saw the presentations of afervid fancy, and felt whatever enthusiasm could suggest, sometimesinterrupted the silence, which the rest of the party seemed by mutualconsent to preserve, remarking and pointing out to Blanche the moststriking effect of the hour upon the scenery; while Blanche, whoseapprehensions were beguiled by the conversation of her lover, yieldedto the taste so congenial to his, and they conversed in a low restrainedvoice, the effect of the pensive tranquillity, which twilight and thescene inspired, rather than of any fear, that they should be heard. But, while the heart was thus soothed to tenderness, St. Foix graduallymingled, with his admiration of the country, a mention of his affection;and he continued to speak, and Blanche to listen, till the mountains, the woods, and the magical illusions of twilight, were remembered nomore. 

The shadows of evening soon shifted to the gloom of night, which wassomewhat anticipated by the vapours, that, gathering fast round themountains, rolled in dark wreaths along their sides; and the guidesproposed to rest, till the moon should rise, adding, that they thought astorm was coming on. As they looked round for a spot, that might affordsome kind of shelter, an object was perceived obscurely through thedusk, on a point of rock, a little way down the mountain, which theyimagined to be a hunter's or a shepherd's cabin, and the party, withcautious steps, proceeded towards it. Their labour, however, was notrewarded, or their apprehensions soothed; for, on reaching the object oftheir search, they discovered a monumental cross, which marked the spotto have been polluted by murder. 

The darkness would not permit them to read the inscription; but theguides knew this to be a cross, raised to the memory of a Count deBeliard, who had been murdered here by a horde of banditti, that hadinfested this part of the Pyrenees, a few years before; and the uncommonsize of the monument seemed to justify the supposition, that it waserected for a person of some distinction. Blanche shuddered, as shelistened to some horrid particulars of the Count's fate, which one ofthe guides related in a low, restrained tone, as if the sound of his ownvoice frightened him; but, while they lingered at the cross, attendingto his narrative, a flash of lightning glanced upon the rocks, thundermuttered at a distance, and the travellers, now alarmed, quitted thisscene of solitary horror, in search of shelter. 

Having regained their former track, the guides, as they passed on, endeavoured to interest the Count by various stories of robbery, andeven of murder, which had been perpetrated in the very places theymust unavoidably pass, with accounts of their own dauntless courageand wonderful escapes. The chief guide, or rather he, who was the mostcompletely armed, drawing forth one of the four pistols, that weretucked into his belt, swore, that it had shot three robbers within theyear. He then brandished a clasp-knife of enormous length, and wasgoing to recount the wonderful execution it had done, when St. Foix, perceiving, that Blanche was terrified, interrupted him. The Count, meanwhile, secretly laughing at the terrible histories and extravagantboastings of the man, resolved to humour him, and, telling Blanche ina whisper, his design, began to recount some exploits of his own, whichinfinitely exceeded any related by the guide. 

To these surprising circumstances he so artfully gave the colouring oftruth, that the courage of the guides was visibly affected by them, who continued silent, long after the Count had ceased to speak. Theloquacity of the chief hero thus laid asleep, the vigilance of his eyesand ears seemed more thoroughly awakened, for he listened, with muchappearance of anxiety, to the deep thunder, which murmured at intervals, and often paused, as the breeze, that was now rising, rushed among thepines. But, when he made a sudden halt before a tuft of cork trees, that projected over the road, and drew forth a pistol, before he wouldventure to brave the banditti which might lurk behind it, the Countcould no longer refrain from laughter. 

Having now, however, arrived at a level spot, somewhat sheltered fromthe air, by overhanging cliffs and by a wood of larch, that rose overthe precipice on the left, and the guides being yet ignorant how farthey were from the inn, the travellers determined to rest, till the moonshould rise, or the storm disperse. Blanche, recalled to a sense of thepresent moment, looked on the surrounding gloom, with terror; but givingher hand to St. Foix, she alighted, and the whole party entered a kindof cave, if such it could be called, which was only a shallow cavity, formed by the curve of impending rocks. A light being struck, a fire waskindled, whose blaze afforded some degree of cheerfulness, and nosmall comfort, for, though the day had been hot, the night air of thismountainous region was chilling; a fire was partly necessary also tokeep off the wolves, with which those wilds were infested. 

Provisions being spread upon a projection of the rock, the Count and hisfamily partook of a supper, which, in a scene less rude, would certainlyhave been thought less excellent. When the repast was finished, St. Foix, impatient for the moon, sauntered along the precipice, to a point, that fronted the east; but all was yet wrapt in gloom, and the silenceof night was broken only by the murmuring of woods, that waved farbelow, or by distant thunder, and, now and then, by the faint voices ofthe party he had quitted. He viewed, with emotions of awful sublimity, the long volumes of sulphureous clouds, that floated along the upper andmiddle regions of the air, and the lightnings that flashed from them, sometimes silently, and, at others, followed by sullen peals of thunder, which the mountains feebly prolonged, while the whole horizon, and theabyss, on which he stood, were discovered in the momentary light. Uponthe succeeding darkness, the fire, which had been kindled in the cave, threw a partial gleam, illumining some points of the opposite rocks, andthe summits of pine-woods, that hung beetling on the cliffs below, whiletheir recesses seemed to frown in deeper shade. 

St. Foix stopped to observe the picture, which the party in the cavepresented, where the elegant form of Blanche was finely contrasted bythe majestic figure of the Count, who was seated by her on a rude stone, and each was rendered more impressive by the grotesque habits and strongfeatures of the guides and other attendants, who were in the back groundof the piece. The effect of the light, too, was interesting; on thesurrounding figures it threw a strong, though pale gleam, and glitteredon their bright arms; while upon the foliage of a gigantic larch, thatimpended its shade over the cliff above, appeared a red, dusky tint, deepening almost imperceptibly into the blackness of night. 

While St. Foix contemplated the scene, the moon, broad and yellow, roseover the eastern summits, from among embattled clouds, and shewed dimlythe grandeur of the heavens, the mass of vapours, that rolled half waydown the precipice beneath, and the doubtful mountains. 

 What dreadful pleasure! there to stand sublime, Like shipwreck'd mariner on desert coast, And view th'enormous waste of vapour, tost In billows length'ning to th'horizon round! THE MINSTREL

From this romantic reverie he was awakened by the voices of the guides, repeating his name, which was reverbed from cliff to cliff, till anhundred tongues seemed to call him; when he soon quieted the fears ofthe Count and the Lady Blanche, by returning to the cave. As the storm, however, seemed approaching, they did not quit their place of shelter;and the Count, seated between his daughter and St. Foix, endeavoured todivert the fears of the former, and conversed on subjects, relating tothe natural history of the scene, among which they wandered. He spokeof the mineral and fossile substances, found in the depths of thesemountains, --the veins of marble and granite, with which they abounded, the strata of shells, discovered near their summits, many thousandfathom above the level of the sea, and at a vast distance from itspresent shore;--of the tremendous chasms and caverns of the rocks, thegrotesque form of the mountains, and the various phaenomena, that seemto stamp upon the world the history of the deluge. From the naturalhistory he descended to the mention of events and circumstances, connected with the civil story of the Pyrenees; named some of the mostremarkable fortresses, which France and Spain had erected in the passesof these mountains; and gave a brief account of some celebrated siegesand encounters in early times, when Ambition first frightened Solitudefrom these her deep recesses, made her mountains, which before hadechoed only to the torrent's roar, tremble with the clang of arms, and, when man's first footsteps in her sacred haunts had left the print ofblood!

As Blanche sat, attentive to the narrative, that rendered thescenes doubly interesting, and resigned to solemn emotion, while sheconsidered, that she was on the very ground, once polluted by theseevents, her reverie was suddenly interrupted by a sound, that camein the wind. --It was the distant bark of a watch-dog. The travellerslistened with eager hope, and, as the wind blew stronger, fancied, thatthe sound came from no great distance; and, the guides having littledoubt, that it proceeded from the inn they were in search of, the Countdetermined to pursue his way. The moon now afforded a stronger, thoughstill an uncertain light, as she moved among broken clouds; and thetravellers, led by the sound, recommenced their journey along the browof the precipice, preceded by a single torch, that now contended withthe moon-light; for the guides, believing they should reach the inn soonafter sun-set, had neglected to provide more. In silent caution theyfollowed the sound, which was heard but at intervals, and which, aftersome time entirely ceased. The guides endeavoured, however, to pointtheir course to the quarter, whence it had issued, but the deep roaringof a torrent soon seized their attention, and presently they came toa tremendous chasm of the mountain, which seemed to forbid all furtherprogress. Blanche alighted from her mule, as did the Count and St. Foix, while the guides traversed the edge in search of a bridge, which, however rude, might convey them to the opposite side, and they, atlength, confessed, what the Count had begun to suspect, that they hadbeen, for some time, doubtful of their way, and were now certain only, that they had lost it. 

At a little distance, was discovered a rude and dangerous passage, formed by an enormous pine, which, thrown across the chasm, united theopposite precipices, and which had been felled probably by the hunter, to facilitate his chace of the izard, or the wolf. The whole party, the guides excepted, shuddered at the prospect of crossing this alpinebridge, whose sides afforded no kind of defence, and from which to fallwas to die. The guides, however, prepared to lead over the mules, whileBlanche stood trembling on the brink, and listening to the roar of thewaters, which were seen descending from rocks above, overhung with loftypines, and thence precipitating themselves into the deep abyss, wheretheir white surges gleamed faintly in the moon-light. The poor animalsproceeded over this perilous bridge with instinctive caution, neitherfrightened by the noise of the cataract, or deceived by the gloom, whichthe impending foliage threw athwart their way. It was now, that thesolitary torch, which had been hitherto of little service, was foundto be an inestimable treasure; and Blanche, terrified, shrinking, but endeavouring to re-collect all her firmness and presence of mind, preceded by her lover and supported by her father, followed the redgleam of the torch, in safety, to the opposite cliff. 

As they went on, the heights contracted, and formed a narrow pass, atthe bottom of which, the torrent they had just crossed, was heard tothunder. But they were again cheered by the bark of a dog, keepingwatch, perhaps, over the flocks of the mountains, to protect themfrom the nightly descent of the wolves. The sound was much nearer thanbefore, and, while they rejoiced in the hope of soon reaching a placeof repose, a light was seen to glimmer at a distance. It appeared at aheight considerably above the level of their path, and was lost and seenagain, as if the waving branches of trees sometimes excluded and thenadmitted its rays. The guides hallooed with all their strength, but thesound of no human voice was heard in return, and, at length, as a moreeffectual means of making themselves known, they fired a pistol. But, while they listened in anxious expectation, the noise of the explosionwas alone heard, echoing among the rocks, and it gradually sunk intosilence, which no friendly hint of man disturbed. The light, however, that had been seen before, now became plainer, and, soon after, voiceswere heard indistinctly on the wind; but, upon the guides repeating thecall, the voices suddenly ceased, and the light disappeared. 

The Lady Blanche was now almost sinking beneath the pressure of anxiety, fatigue and apprehension, and the united efforts of the Count and St. Foix could scarcely support her spirits. As they continued to advance, an object was perceived on a point of rock above, which, the strong raysof the moon then falling on it, appeared to be a watch-tower. The Count, from its situation and some other circumstances, had little doubt, thatit was such, and believing, that the light had proceeded from thence, heendeavoured to re-animate his daughter's spirits by the near prospectof shelter and repose, which, however rude the accommodation, a ruinedwatch-tower might afford. 

'Numerous watch-towers have been erected among the Pyrenees, ' said theCount, anxious only to call Blanche's attention from the subject of herfears; 'and the method, by which they give intelligence of the approachof the enemy, is, you know, by fires, kindled on the summits of theseedifices. Signals have thus, sometimes, been communicated from post topost, along a frontier line of several hundred miles in length. Then, as occasion may require, the lurking armies emerge from their fortressesand the forests, and march forth, to defend, perhaps, the entrance ofsome grand pass, where, planting themselves on the heights, they assailtheir astonished enemies, who wind along the glen below, with fragmentsof the shattered cliff, and pour death and defeat upon them. The ancientforts, and watch-towers, overlooking the grand passes of the Pyrenees, are carefully preserved; but some of those in inferior stations havebeen suffered to fall into decay, and are now frequently converted intothe more peaceful habitation of the hunter, or the shepherd, who, aftera day of toil, retires hither, and, with his faithful dogs, forgets, near a cheerful blaze, the labour of the chace, or the anxiety ofcollecting his wandering flocks, while he is sheltered from the nightlystorm. '

'But are they always thus peacefully inhabited?' said the Lady Blanche. 

'No, ' replied the Count, 'they are sometimes the asylum of French andSpanish smugglers, who cross the mountains with contraband goods fromtheir respective countries, and the latter are particularly numerous, against whom strong parties of the king's troops are sometimes sent. Butthe desperate resolution of these adventurers, who, knowing, that, ifthey are taken, they must expiate the breach of the law by the mostcruel death, travel in large parties, well armed, often daunts thecourage of the soldiers. The smugglers, who seek only safety, neverengage, when they can possibly avoid it; the military, also, whoknow, that in these encounters, danger is certain, and glory almostunattainable, are equally reluctant to fight; an engagement, therefore, very seldom happens, but, when it does, it never concludes till afterthe most desperate and bloody conflict. You are inattentive, Blanche, 'added the Count: 'I have wearied you with a dull subject; but see, yonder, in the moon-light, is the edifice we have been in search of, andwe are fortunate to be so near it, before the storm bursts. '

Blanche, looking up, perceived, that they were at the foot of the cliff, on whose summit the building stood, but no light now issued from it; thebarking of the dog too had, for some time, ceased, and the guides beganto doubt, whether this was really the object of their search. From thedistance, at which they surveyed it, shewn imperfectly by a cloudy moon, it appeared to be of more extent than a single watch-tower; but thedifficulty was how to ascend the height, whose abrupt declivities seemedto afford no kind of pathway. 

While the guides carried forward the torch to examine the cliff, theCount, remaining with Blanche and St. Foix at its foot, under the shadowof the woods, endeavoured again to beguile the time by conversation, but again anxiety abstracted the mind of Blanche; and he then consulted, apart with St. Foix, whether it would be advisable, should a path befound, to venture to an edifice, which might possibly harbour banditti. They considered, that their own party was not small, and that several ofthem were well armed; and, after enumerating the dangers, to be incurredby passing the night in the open wild, exposed, perhaps, to the effectsof a thunder-storm, there remained not a doubt, that they ought toendeavour to obtain admittance to the edifice above, at any hazardrespecting the inhabitants it might harbour; but the darkness, and thedead silence, that surrounded it, appeared to contradict the probabilityof its being inhabited at all. 

A shout from the guides aroused their attention, after which, in a fewminutes, one of the Count's servants returned with intelligence, that apath was found, and they immediately hastened to join the guides, whenthey all ascended a little winding way cut in the rock among thicketsof dwarf wood, and, after much toil and some danger, reached the summit, where several ruined towers, surrounded by a massy wall, rose to theirview, partially illumined by the moon-light. The space around thebuilding was silent, and apparently forsaken, but the Count wascautious; 'Step softly, ' said he, in a low voice, 'while we reconnoitrethe edifice. '

Having proceeded silently along for some paces, they stopped at agate, whose portals were terrible even in ruins, and, after a moment'shesitation, passed on to the court of entrance, but paused again at thehead of a terrace, which, branching from it, ran along the brow of aprecipice. Over this, rose the main body of the edifice, which was nowseen to be, not a watch-tower, but one of those ancient fortresses, that, from age and neglect, had fallen to decay. Many parts of it, however, appeared to be still entire; it was built of grey stone, inthe heavy Saxon-gothic style, with enormous round towers, buttresses ofproportionable strength, and the arch of the large gate, which seemedto open into the hall of the fabric, was round, as was that of a windowabove. The air of solemnity, which must so strongly have characterizedthe pile even in the days of its early strength, was now considerablyheightened by its shattered battlements and half-demolished walls, andby the huge masses of ruin, scattered in its wide area, now silent andgrass grown. In this court of entrance stood the gigantic remains of anoak, that seemed to have flourished and decayed with the building, whichit still appeared frowningly to protect by the few remaining branches, leafless and moss-grown, that crowned its trunk, and whose wide extenttold how enormous the tree had been in a former age. This fortress wasevidently once of great strength, and, from its situation on a point ofrock, impending over a deep glen, had been of great power to annoy, aswell as to resist; the Count, therefore, as he stood surveying it, wassomewhat surprised, that it had been suffered, ancient as it was, tosink into ruins, and its present lonely and deserted air excited inhis breast emotions of melancholy awe. While he indulged, for a moment, these emotions, he thought he heard a sound of remote voices steal uponthe stillness, from within the building, the front of which he againsurveyed with scrutinizing eyes, but yet no light was visible. He nowdetermined to walk round the fort, to that remote part of it, whence hethought the voices had arisen, that he might examine whether any lightcould be discerned there, before he ventured to knock at the gate; forthis purpose, he entered upon the terrace, where the remains of cannonwere yet apparent in the thick walls, but he had not proceeded manypaces, when his steps were suddenly arrested by the loud barking of adog within, and which he fancied to be the same, whose voice had beenthe means of bringing the travellers thither. It now appeared certain, that the place was inhabited, and the Count returned to consult againwith St. Foix, whether he should try to obtain admittance, for its wildaspect had somewhat shaken his former resolution; but, after asecond consultation, he submitted to the considerations, which beforedetermined him, and which were strengthened by the discovery of the dog, that guarded the fort, as well as by the stillness that pervaded it. He, therefore, ordered one of his servants to knock at the gate, who wasadvancing to obey him, when a light appeared through the loop-holeof one of the towers, and the Count called loudly, but, receiving noanswer, he went up to the gate himself, and struck upon it with aniron-pointed pole, which had assisted him to climb the steep. Whenthe echoes had ceased, that this blow had awakened, the renewedbarking, --and there were now more than one dog, --was the only sound, that was heard. The Count stepped back, a few paces, to observe whetherthe light was in the tower, and, perceiving, that it was gone, hereturned to the portal, and had lifted the pole to strike again, whenagain he fancied he heard the murmur of voices within, and paused tolisten. He was confirmed in the supposition, but they were too remote, to be heard otherwise than in a murmur, and the Count now let the polefall heavily upon the gate; when almost immediately a profound silencefollowed. It was apparent, that the people within had heard the sound, and their caution in admitting strangers gave him a favourable opinionof them. 'They are either hunters or shepherds, ' said he, 'who, likeourselves, have probably sought shelter from the night within thesewalls, and are fearful of admitting strangers, lest they should proverobbers. I will endeavour to remove their fears. ' So saying, he calledaloud, 'We are friends, who ask shelter from the night. ' In a fewmoments, steps were heard within, which approached, and a voice thenenquired--'Who calls?' 'Friends, ' repeated the Count; 'open the gates, and you shall know more. '--Strong bolts were now heard to be undrawn, and a man, armed with a hunting spear, appeared. 'What is it you wantat this hour?' said he. The Count beckoned his attendants, and thenanswered, that he wished to enquire the way to the nearest cabin. 'Areyou so little acquainted with these mountains, ' said the man, 'as not toknow, that there is none, within several leagues? I cannot shew you theway; you must seek it--there's a moon. ' Saying this, he was closing thegate, and the Count was turning away, half disappointed and half afraid, when another voice was heard from above, and, on looking up, he saw alight, and a man's face, at the grate of the portal. 'Stay, friend, youhave lost your way?' said the voice. 'You are hunters, I suppose, likeourselves: I will be with you presently. ' The voice ceased, and thelight disappeared. Blanche had been alarmed by the appearance of theman, who had opened the gate, and she now entreated her father to quitthe place; but the Count had observed the hunter's spear, which hecarried; and the words from the tower encouraged him to await the event. The gate was soon opened, and several men in hunters' habits, who hadheard above what had passed below, appeared, and, having listened sometime to the Count, told him he was welcome to rest there for the night. They then pressed him, with much courtesy, to enter, and to partake ofsuch fare as they were about to sit down to. The Count, who hadobserved them attentively while they spoke, was cautious, and somewhatsuspicious; but he was also weary, fearful of the approaching storm, andof encountering alpine heights in the obscurity of night; being likewisesomewhat confident in the strength and number of his attendants, he, after some further consideration, determined to accept the invitation. With this resolution he called his servants, who, advancing roundthe tower, behind which some of them had silently listened to thisconference, followed their Lord, the Lady Blanche, and St. Foix into thefortress. The strangers led them on to a large and rude hall, partiallyseen by a fire that blazed at its extremity, round which four men, inthe hunter's dress, were seated, and on the hearth were several dogsstretched in sleep. In the middle of the hall stood a large table, and over the fire some part of an animal was boiling. As the Countapproached, the men arose, and the dogs, half raising themselves, lookedfiercely at the strangers, but, on hearing their masters' voices, kepttheir postures on the hearth. 

Blanche looked round this gloomy and spacious hall; then at the men, andto her father, who, smiling cheerfully at her, addressed himself to thehunters. 'This is an hospitable hearth, ' said he, 'the blaze of a fireis reviving after having wandered so long in these dreary wilds. Yourdogs are tired; what success have you had?' 'Such as we usually have, 'replied one of the men, who had been seated in the hall, 'we kill ourgame with tolerable certainty. ' 'These are fellow hunters, ' said one ofthe men who had brought the Count hither, 'that have lost their way, and I have told them there is room enough in the fort for us all. ' 'Verytrue, very true, ' replied his companion, 'What luck have you had in thechace, brothers? We have killed two izards, and that, you will say, is pretty well. ' 'You mistake, friend, ' said the Count, 'we are nothunters, but travellers; but, if you will admit us to hunters' fare, weshall be well contented, and will repay your kindness. ' 'Sit down then, brother, ' said one of the men: 'Jacques, lay more fuel on the fire, thekid will soon be ready; bring a seat for the lady too. Ma'amselle, willyou taste our brandy? it is true Barcelona, and as bright as ever flowedfrom a keg. ' Blanche timidly smiled, and was going to refuse, when herfather prevented her, by taking, with a good humoured air, the glassoffered to his daughter; and Mons. St. Foix, who was seated next her, pressed her hand, and gave her an encouraging look, but her attentionwas engaged by a man, who sat silently by the fire, observing St. Foix, with a steady and earnest eye. 

'You lead a jolly life here, ' said the Count. 'The life of a hunter isa pleasant and a healthy one; and the repose is sweet, which succeeds toyour labour. '

'Yes, ' replied one of his hosts, 'our life is pleasant enough. We livehere only during the summer, and autumnal months; in winter, the placeis dreary, and the swoln torrents, that descend from the heights, put astop to the chace. '

''Tis a life of liberty and enjoyment, ' said the Count: 'I should liketo pass a month in your way very well. '

'We find employment for our guns too, ' said a man who stood behind theCount: 'here are plenty of birds, of delicious flavour, that feed uponthe wild thyme and herbs, that grow in the vallies. Now I think of it, there is a brace of birds hung up in the stone gallery; go fetch them, Jacques, we will have them dressed. '

The Count now made enquiry, concerning the method of pursuing thechace among the rocks and precipices of these romantic regions, andwas listening to a curious detail, when a horn was sounded at the gate. Blanche looked timidly at her father, who continued to converse on thesubject of the chace, but whose countenance was somewhat expressive ofanxiety, and who often turned his eyes towards that part of the hallnearest the gate. The horn sounded again, and a loud halloo succeeded. 'These are some of our companions, returned from their day's labour, 'said a man, going lazily from his seat towards the gate; and in afew minutes, two men appeared, each with a gun over his shoulder, andpistols in his belt. 'What cheer, my lads? what cheer?' said they, as they approached. 'What luck?' returned their companions: 'have youbrought home your supper? You shall have none else. '

'Hah! who the devil have you brought home?' said they in bad Spanish, on perceiving the Count's party, 'are they from France, or Spain?--wheredid you meet with them?'

'They met with us, and a merry meeting too, ' replied his companion aloudin good French. 'This chevalier, and his party, had lost their way, and asked a night's lodging in the fort. ' The others made no reply, butthrew down a kind of knapsack, and drew forth several brace of birds. The bag sounded heavily as it fell to the ground, and the glitterof some bright metal within glanced on the eye of the Count, who nowsurveyed, with a more enquiring look, the man, that held the knapsack. He was a tall robust figure, of a hard countenance, and had short blackhair, curling in his neck. Instead of the hunter's dress, he wore afaded military uniform; sandals were laced on his broad legs, and a kindof short trowsers hung from his waist. On his head he wore a leatherncap, somewhat resembling in shape an ancient Roman helmet; but thebrows that scowled beneath it, would have characterized those of thebarbarians, who conquered Rome, rather than those of a Roman soldier. The Count, at length, turned away his eyes, and remained silent andthoughtful, till, again raising them, he perceived a figure standing inan obscure part of the hall, fixed in attentive gaze on St. Foix, whowas conversing with Blanche, and did not observe this; but the Count, soon after, saw the same man looking over the shoulder of the soldier asattentively at himself. He withdrew his eye, when that of the Count metit, who felt mistrust gathering fast upon his mind, but feared to betrayit in his countenance, and, forcing his features to assume a smile, addressed Blanche on some indifferent subject. When he again lookedround, he perceived, that the soldier and his companion were gone. 

The man, who was called Jacques, now returned from the stone gallery. 'Afire is lighted there, ' said he, 'and the birds are dressing; the tabletoo is spread there, for that place is warmer than this. '

His companions approved of the removal, and invited their guests tofollow to the gallery, of whom Blanche appeared distressed, and remainedseated, and St. Foix looked at the Count, who said, he preferred thecomfortable blaze of the fire he was then near. The hunters, however, commended the warmth of the other apartment, and pressed his removalwith such seeming courtesy, that the Count, half doubting, and halffearful of betraying his doubts, consented to go. The long and ruinouspassages, through which they went, somewhat daunted him, but thethunder, which now burst in loud peals above, made it dangerous toquit this place of shelter, and he forbore to provoke his conductors byshewing that he distrusted them. The hunters led the way, with alamp; the Count and St. Foix, who wished to please their hosts by someinstances of familiarity, carried each a seat, and Blanche followed, with faltering steps. As she passed on, part of her dress caught on anail in the wall, and, while she stopped, somewhat too scrupulously, to disengage it, the Count, who was talking to St. Foix, and neither ofwhom observed the circumstance, followed their conductor round an abruptangle of the passage, and Blanche was left behind in darkness. Thethunder prevented them from hearing her call but, having disengaged herdress, she quickly followed, as she thought, the way they had taken. A light, that glimmered at a distance, confirmed this belief, and sheproceeded towards an open door, whence it issued, conjecturing the roombeyond to be the stone gallery the men had spoken of. Hearing voicesas she advanced, she paused within a few paces of the chamber, that shemight be certain whether she was right, and from thence, by the lightof a lamp, that hung from the ceiling, observed four men, seated rounda table, over which they leaned in apparent consultation. In one of themshe distinguished the features of him, whom she had observed, gazingat St. Foix, with such deep attention; and who was now speaking in anearnest, though restrained voice, till, one of his companions seemingto oppose him, they spoke together in a loud and harsher tone. Blanche, alarmed by perceiving that neither her father, or St. Foix were there, and terrified at the fierce countenances and manners of these men, wasturning hastily from the chamber, to pursue her search of the gallery, when she heard one of the men say:

'Let all dispute end here. Who talks of danger? Follow my advice, and there will be none--secure THEM, and the rest are an easy prey. 'Blanche, struck with these words, paused a moment, to hear more. 'Thereis nothing to be got by the rest, ' said one of his companions, 'I amnever for blood when I can help it--dispatch the two others, and ourbusiness is done; the rest may go. '

'May they so?' exclaimed the first ruffian, with a tremendousoath--'What! to tell how we have disposed of their masters, and tosend the king's troops to drag us to the wheel! You was always a choiceadviser--I warrant we have not yet forgot St. Thomas's eve last year. '

Blanche's heart now sunk with horror. Her first impulse was to retreatfrom the door, but, when she would have gone, her trembling framerefused to support her, and, having tottered a few paces, to a moreobscure part of the passage, she was compelled to listen to the dreadfulcouncils of those, who, she was no longer suffered to doubt, werebanditti. In the next moment, she heard the following words, 'Why youwould not murder the whole GANG?'

'I warrant our lives are as good as theirs, ' replied his comrade. 'Ifwe don't kill them, they will hang us: better they should die than we behanged. '

'Better, better, ' cried his comrades. 

'To commit murder, is a hopeful way of escaping the gallows!' said thefirst ruffian--'many an honest fellow has run his head into the noosethat way, though. ' There was a pause of some moments, during which theyappeared to be considering. 

'Confound those fellows, ' exclaimed one of the robbers impatiently, 'they ought to have been here by this time; they will come backpresently with the old story, and no booty: if they were here, ourbusiness would be plain and easy. I see we shall not be able to do thebusiness to-night, for our numbers are not equal to the enemy, and inthe morning they will be for marching off, and how can we detain themwithout force?'

'I have been thinking of a scheme, that will do, ' said one of hiscomrades: 'if we can dispatch the two chevaliers silently, it will beeasy to master the rest. '

'That's a plausible scheme, in good faith, ' said another with a smileof scorn--'If I can eat my way through the prison wall, I shall be atliberty!--How can we dispatch them SILENTLY?'

'By poison, ' replied his companions. 

'Well said! that will do, ' said the second ruffian, 'that will give alingering death too, and satisfy my revenge. These barons shall takecare how they again tempt our vengeance. '

'I knew the son, the moment I saw him, ' said the man, whom Blanche hadobserved gazing on St. Foix, 'though he does not know me; the father Ihad almost forgotten. '

'Well, you may say what you will, ' said the third ruffian, 'but I don'tbelieve he is the Baron, and I am as likely to know as any of you, for Iwas one of them, that attacked him, with our brave lads, that suffered. '

'And was not I another?' said the first ruffian, 'I tell you he is theBaron; but what does it signify whether he is or not?--shall we let allthis booty go out of our hands? It is not often we have such luck atthis. While we run the chance of the wheel for smuggling a few pounds oftobacco, to cheat the king's manufactory, and of breaking our necksdown the precipices in the chace of our food; and, now and then, rob abrother smuggler, or a straggling pilgrim, of what scarcely repays usthe powder we fire at them, shall we let such a prize as this go? Whythey have enough about them to keep us for--'

'I am not for that, I am not for that, ' replied the third robber, 'letus make the most of them: only, if this is the Baron, I should like tohave a flash the more at him, for the sake of our brave comrades, thathe brought to the gallows. '

'Aye, aye, flash as much as you will, ' rejoined the first man, 'but Itell you the Baron is a taller man. '

'Confound your quibbling, ' said the second ruffian, 'shall we let themgo or not? If we stay here much longer, they will take the hint, andmarch off without our leave. Let them be who they will, they are rich, or why all those servants? Did you see the ring, he, you call the Baron, had on his finger?--it was a diamond; but he has not got it on now: hesaw me looking at it, I warrant, and took it off. '

'Aye, and then there is the picture; did you see that? She has not takenthat off, ' observed the first ruffian, 'it hangs at her neck; if it hadnot sparkled so, I should not have found it out, for it was almost hidby her dress; those are diamonds too, and a rare many of them there mustbe, to go round such a large picture. '

'But how are we to manage this business?' said the second ruffian: 'letus talk of that, there is no fear of there being booty enough, but howare we to secure it?'

'Aye, aye, ' said his comrades, 'let us talk of that, and remember notime is to be lost. '

'I am still for poison, ' observed the third, 'but consider their number;why there are nine or ten of them, and armed too; when I saw so many atthe gate, I was not for letting them in, you know, nor you either. '

'I thought they might be some of our enemies, ' replied the second, 'Idid not so much mind numbers. '

'But you must mind them now, ' rejoined his comrade, 'or it will be worsefor you. We are not more than six, and how can we master ten by openforce? I tell you we must give some of them a dose, and the rest maythen be managed. '

'I'll tell you a better way, ' rejoined the other impatiently, 'drawcloser. '

Blanche, who had listened to this conversation, in an agony, which itwould be impossible to describe, could no longer distinguish what wassaid, for the ruffians now spoke in lowered voices; but the hope, thatshe might save her friends from the plot, if she could find her wayquickly to them, suddenly re-animated her spirits, and lent her strengthenough to turn her steps in search of the gallery. Terror, however, and darkness conspired against her, and, having moved a few yards, thefeeble light, that issued from the chamber, no longer even contendedwith the gloom, and, her foot stumbling over a step that crossed thepassage, she fell to the ground. 

The noise startled the banditti, who became suddenly silent, and thenall rushed to the passage, to examine whether any person was there, whomight have overheard their councils. Blanche saw them approaching, andperceived their fierce and eager looks: but, before she could raiseherself, they discovered and seized her, and, as they dragged hertowards the chamber they had quitted, her screams drew from themhorrible threatenings. 

Having reached the room, they began to consult what they should do withher. 'Let us first know what she had heard, ' said the chief robber. 'Howlong have you been in the passage, lady, and what brought you there?'

'Let us first secure that picture, ' said one of his comrades, approaching the trembling Blanche. 'Fair lady, by your leave thatpicture is mine; come, surrender it, or I shall seize it. '

Blanche, entreating their mercy, immediately gave up the miniature, while another of the ruffians fiercely interrogated her, concerning whatshe had overheard of their conversation, when, her confusion and terrortoo plainly telling what her tongue feared to confess, the ruffianslooked expressively upon one another, and two of them withdrew to aremote part of the room, as if to consult further. 

'These are diamonds, by St. Peter!' exclaimed the fellow, who had beenexamining the miniature, 'and here is a very pretty picture too, 'faith;as handsome a young chevalier, as you would wish to see by a summer'ssun. Lady, this is your spouse, I warrant, for it is the spark, that wasin your company just now. '

Blanche, sinking with terror, conjured him to have pity on her, and, delivering him her purse, promised to say nothing of what had passed, ifhe would suffer her to return to her friends. 

He smiled ironically, and was going to reply, when his attention wascalled off by a distant noise; and, while he listened, he grasped thearm of Blanche more firmly, as if he feared she would escape from him, and she again shrieked for help. 

The approaching sounds called the ruffians from the other part of thechamber. 'We are betrayed, ' said they; 'but let us listen a moment, perhaps it is only our comrades come in from the mountains, and if so, our work is sure; listen!'

A distant discharge of shot confirmed this supposition for a moment, but, in the next, the former sounds drawing nearer, the clashing ofswords, mingled with the voices of loud contention and with heavygroans, were distinguished in the avenue leading to the chamber. Whilethe ruffians prepared their arms, they heard themselves called by someof their comrades afar off, and then a shrill horn was sounded withoutthe fortress, a signal, it appeared, they too well understood; for threeof them, leaving the Lady Blanche to the care of the fourth, instantlyrushed from the chamber. 

While Blanche, trembling, and nearly fainting, was supplicating forrelease, she heard amid the tumult, that approached, the voice of St. Foix, and she had scarcely renewed her shriek, when the door of theroom was thrown open, and he appeared, much disfigured with blood, andpursued by several ruffians. Blanche neither saw, or heard any more; herhead swam, her sight failed, and she became senseless in the arms of therobber, who had detained her. 

When she recovered, she perceived, by the gloomy light, that trembledround her, that she was in the same chamber, but neither the Count, St. Foix, or any other person appeared, and she continued, for some time, entirely still, and nearly in a state of stupefaction. But, the dreadfulimages of the past returning, she endeavoured to raise herself, thatshe might seek her friends, when a sullen groan, at a little distance, reminded her of St. Foix, and of the condition, in which she had seenhim enter this room; then, starting from the floor, by a sudden effortof horror, she advanced to the place whence the sound had proceeded, where a body was lying stretched upon the pavement, and where, by theglimmering light of a lamp, she discovered the pale and disfiguredcountenance of St. Foix. Her horrors, at that moment, may be easilyimagined. He was speechless; his eyes were half closed, and, on thehand, which she grasped in the agony of despair, cold damps had settled. While she vainly repeated his name, and called for assistance, stepsapproached, and a person entered the chamber, who, she soon perceived, was not the Count, her father; but, what was her astonishment, when, supplicating him to give his assistance to St. Foix, she discoveredLudovico! He scarcely paused to recognise her, but immediately boundup the wounds of the Chevalier, and, perceiving, that he had faintedprobably from loss of blood, ran for water; but he had been absent onlya few moments, when Blanche heard other steps approaching, and, whileshe was almost frantic with apprehension of the ruffians, the light of atorch flashed upon the walls, and then Count De Villefort appeared, withan affrighted countenance, and breathless with impatience, calling uponhis daughter. At the sound of his voice, she rose, and ran to his arms, while he, letting fall the bloody sword he held, pressed her to hisbosom in a transport of gratitude and joy, and then hastily enquired forSt. Foix, who now gave some signs of life. Ludovico soon after returningwith water and brandy, the former was applied to his lips, and thelatter to his temples and hands, and Blanche, at length, saw him unclosehis eyes, and then heard him enquire for her; but the joy she felt, on this occasion, was interrupted by new alarms, when Ludovico said itwould be necessary to remove Mons. St. Foix immediately, and added, 'Thebanditti, that are out, my Lord, were expected home, an hour ago, andthey will certainly find us, if we delay. That shrill horn, they know, is never sounded by their comrades but on most desperate occasions, andit echoes among the mountains for many leagues round. I have known thembrought home by its sound even from the Pied de Melicant. Is any bodystanding watch at the great gate, my Lord?'

'Nobody, ' replied the Count; 'the rest of my people are now scatteredabout, I scarcely know where. Go, Ludovico, collect them together, andlook out yourself, and listen if you hear the feet of mules. '

Ludovico then hurried away, and the Count consulted as to the means ofremoving St. Foix, who could not have borne the motion of a mule, evenif his strength would have supported him in the saddle. 

While the Count was telling, that the banditti, whom they had foundin the fort, were secured in the dungeon, Blanche observed that he washimself wounded, and that his left arm was entirely useless; but hesmiled at her anxiety, assuring her the wound was trifling. 

The Count's servants, except two who kept watch at the gate, nowappeared, and, soon after, Ludovico. 'I think I hear mules coming alongthe glen, my Lord, ' said he, 'but the roaring of the torrent belowwill not let me be certain; however, I have brought what will serve theChevalier, ' he added, shewing a bear's skin, fastened to a couple oflong poles, which had been adapted for the purpose of bringing home suchof the banditti as happened to be wounded in their encounters. Ludovicospread it on the ground, and, placing the skins of several goats uponit, made a kind of bed, into which the Chevalier, who was however nowmuch revived, was gently lifted; and, the poles being raised upon theshoulders of the guides, whose footing among these steeps could bestbe depended upon, he was borne along with an easy motion. Some of theCount's servants were also wounded--but not materially, and, theirwounds being bound up, they now followed to the great gate. As theypassed along the hall, a loud tumult was heard at some distance, andBlanche was terrified. 'It is only those villains in the dungeon, myLady, ' said Ludovico. 'They seem to be bursting it open, ' said theCount. 'No, my Lord, ' replied Ludovico, 'it has an iron door; we havenothing to fear from them; but let me go first, and look out from therampart. '

They quickly followed him, and found their mules browsing before thegates, where the party listened anxiously, but heard no sound, exceptthat of the torrent below and of the early breeze, sighing among thebranches of the old oak, that grew in the court; and they were now gladto perceive the first tints of dawn over the mountain-tops. When theyhad mounted their mules, Ludovico, undertaking to be their guide, ledthem by an easier path, than that by which they had formerly ascended, into the glen. 'We must avoid that valley to the east, my Lord, 'said he, 'or we may meet the banditti; they went out that way in themorning. '

The travellers, soon after, quitted this glen, and found themselves ina narrow valley that stretched towards the north-west. The morning lightupon the mountains now strengthened fast, and gradually discovered thegreen hillocks, that skirted the winding feet of the cliffs, tufted withcork tree, and ever-green oak. The thunder-clouds being dispersed, hadleft the sky perfectly serene, and Blanche was revived by the freshbreeze, and by the view of verdure, which the late rain had brightened. Soon after, the sun arose, when the dripping rocks, with the shrubs thatfringed their summits, and many a turfy slope below, sparkled in hisrays. A wreath of mist was seen, floating along the extremity of thevalley, but the gale bore it before the travellers, and the sun-beamsgradually drew it up towards the summit of the mountains. They hadproceeded about a league, when, St. Foix having complained of extremefaintness, they stopped to give him refreshment, and, that the men, whobore him, might rest. Ludovico had brought from the fort some flasks ofrich Spanish wine, which now proved a reviving cordial not only toSt. Foix but to the whole party, though to him it gave only temporaryrelief, for it fed the fever, that burned in his veins, and he couldneither disguise in his countenance the anguish he suffered, or suppressthe wish, that he was arrived at the inn, where they had designed topass the preceding night. 

While they thus reposed themselves under the shade of the dark greenpines, the Count desired Ludovico to explain shortly, by what means hehad disappeared from the north apartment, how he came into the hands ofthe banditti, and how he had contributed so essentially to serve him andhis family, for to him he justly attributed their present deliverance. Ludovico was going to obey him, when suddenly they heard the echo ofa pistol-shot, from the way they had passed, and they rose in alarm, hastily to pursue their route. 

CHAPTER XIII

 Ah why did Fate his steps decoy In stormy paths to roam, Remote from all congenial joy! BEATTIE

Emily, mean while, was still suffering anxiety as to the fate ofValancourt; but Theresa, having, at length, found a person, whom shecould entrust on her errand to the steward, informed her, that themessenger would return on the following day; and Emily promised to be atthe cottage, Theresa being too lame to attend her. 

In the evening, therefore, Emily set out alone for the cottage, with amelancholy foreboding, concerning Valancourt, while, perhaps, the gloomof the hour might contribute to depress her spirits. It was a greyautumnal evening towards the close of the season; heavy mists partiallyobscured the mountains, and a chilling breeze, that sighed among thebeech woods, strewed her path with some of their last yellow leaves. These, circling in the blast and foretelling the death of the year, gave an image of desolation to her mind, and, in her fancy, seemed toannounce the death of Valancourt. Of this she had, indeed, more thanonce so strong a presentiment, that she was on the point of returninghome, feeling herself unequal to an encounter with the certainty sheanticipated, but, contending with her emotions, she so far commandedthem, as to be able to proceed. 

While she walked mournfully on, gazing on the long volumes of vapour, that poured upon the sky, and watching the swallows, tossed along thewind, now disappearing among tempestuous clouds, and then emerging, for a moment, in circles upon the calmer air, the afflictions andvicissitudes of her late life seemed pourtrayed in these fleetingimages;--thus had she been tossed upon the stormy sea of misfortune forthe last year, with but short intervals of peace, if peace that could becalled, which was only the delay of evils. And now, when she had escapedfrom so many dangers, was become independent of the will of those, whohad oppressed her, and found herself mistress of a large fortune, now, when she might reasonably have expected happiness, she perceived thatshe was as distant from it as ever. She would have accused herselfof weakness and ingratitude in thus suffering a sense of the variousblessings she possessed to be overcome by that of a single misfortune, had this misfortune affected herself alone; but, when she had wept forValancourt even as living, tears of compassion had mingled with thoseof regret, and while she lamented a human being degraded to vice, andconsequently to misery, reason and humanity claimed these tears, andfortitude had not yet taught her to separate them from those of love; inthe present moments, however, it was not the certainty of his guilt, butthe apprehension of his death (of a death also, to which she herself, however innocently, appeared to have been in some degree instrumental)that oppressed her. This fear increased, as the means of certaintyconcerning it approached; and, when she came within view of Theresa'scottage, she was so much disordered, and her resolution failed her soentirely, that, unable to proceed, she rested on a bank, beside herpath; where, as she sat, the wind that groaned sullenly among the loftybranches above, seemed to her melancholy imagination to bear the soundsof distant lamentation, and, in the pauses of the gust, she stillfancied she heard the feeble and far-off notes of distress. Attentionconvinced her, that this was no more than fancy; but the increasinggloom, which seemed the sudden close of day, soon warned her to depart, and, with faltering steps, she again moved toward the cottage. Throughthe casement appeared the cheerful blaze of a wood fire, and Theresa, who had observed Emily approaching, was already at the door to receiveher. 

'It is a cold evening, madam, ' said she, 'storms are coming on, and Ithought you would like a fire. Do take this chair by the hearth. '

Emily, thanking her for this consideration, sat down, and then, lookingin her face, on which the wood fire threw a gleam, she was struck withits expression, and, unable to speak, sunk back in her chair with acountenance so full of woe, that Theresa instantly comprehended theoccasion of it, but she remained silent. 'Ah!' said Emily, at length, 'it is unnecessary for me to ask the result of your enquiry, yoursilence, and that look, sufficiently explain it;--he is dead!'

'Alas! my dear young lady, ' replied Theresa, while tears filled hereyes, 'this world is made up of trouble! the rich have their shareas well as the poor! But we must all endeavour to bear what Heavenpleases. '

'He is dead, then!'--interrupted Emily--'Valancourt is dead!'

'A-well-a-day! I fear he is, ' replied Theresa. 

'You fear!' said Emily, 'do you only fear?'

'Alas! yes, madam, I fear he is! neither the steward, or any of theEpourville family, have heard of him since he left Languedoc, andthe Count is in great affliction about him, for he says he was alwayspunctual in writing, but that now he has not received a line from him, since he left Languedoc; he appointed to be at home, three weeks ago, but he has neither come, or written, and they fear some accident hasbefallen him. Alas! that ever I should live to cry for his death! I amold, and might have died without being missed, but he'--Emily was faint, and asked for some water, and Theresa, alarmed by the voice, in whichshe spoke, hastened to her assistance, and, while she held the water toEmily's lips, continued, 'My dear young mistress, do not take it so toheart; the Chevalier may be alive and well, for all this; let us hopethe best!'

'O no! I cannot hope, ' said Emily, 'I am acquainted with circumstances, that will not suffer me to hope. I am somewhat better now, and can hearwhat you have to say. Tell me, I entreat, the particulars of what youknow. '

'Stay, till you are a little better, mademoiselle, you look sadly!'

'O no, Theresa, tell me all, while I have the power to hear it, ' saidEmily, 'tell me all, I conjure you!'

'Well, madam, I will then; but the steward did not say much, for Richardsays he seemed shy of talking about Mons. Valancourt, and what hegathered was from Gabriel, one of the servants, who said he had heard itfrom my lord's gentleman. '

'What did he hear?' said Emily. 

'Why, madam, Richard has but a bad memory, and could not remember halfof it, and, if I had not asked him a great many questions, I should haveheard little indeed. But he says that Gabriel said, that he and all theother servants were in great trouble about M. Valancourt, for that hewas such a kind young gentleman, they all loved him, as well as if hehad been their own brother--and now, to think what was become of him!For he used to be so courteous to them all, and, if any of them had beenin fault, M. Valancourt was the first to persuade my lord to forgivethem. And then, if any poor family was in distress, M. Valancourt wasthe first, too, to relieve them, though some folks, not a great way off, could have afforded that much better than he. And then, said Gabriel, hewas so gentle to every body, and, for all he had such a noble look withhim, he never would command, and call about him, as some of your qualitypeople do, and we never minded him the less for that. Nay, says Gabriel, for that matter, we minded him the more, and would all have run to obeyhim at a word, sooner than if some folks had told us what to do at fulllength; aye, and were more afraid of displeasing him, too, than of them, that used rough words to us. '

Emily, who no longer considered it to be dangerous to listen to praise, bestowed on Valancourt, did not attempt to interrupt Theresa, but sat, attentive to her words, though almost overwhelmed with grief. 'My Lord, 'continued Theresa, 'frets about M. Valancourt sadly, and the more, because, they say, he had been rather harsh against him lately. Gabrielsays he had it from my Lord's valet, that M. Valancourt had COMPORTEDhimself wildly at Paris, and had spent a great deal of money, morea great deal than my Lord liked, for he loves money better than M. Valancourt, who had been led astray sadly. Nay, for that matter, M. Valancourt had been put into prison at Paris, and my Lord, says Gabriel, refused to take him out, and said he deserved to suffer; and, when oldGregoire, the butler, heard of this, he actually bought a walking-stickto take with him to Paris, to visit his young master; but the next thingwe hear is, that M. Valancourt is coming home. O, it was a joyful daywhen he came; but he was sadly altered, and my Lord looked very coolupon him, and he was very sad, indeed. And, soon after, he went awayagain into Languedoc, and, since that time, we have never seen him. '

Theresa paused, and Emily, sighing deeply, remained with her eyes fixedupon the floor, without speaking. After a long pause, she enquired whatfurther Theresa had heard. 'Yet why should I ask?' she added; 'whatyou have already told is too much. O Valancourt! thou art gone--forevergone! and I--I have murdered thee!' These words, and the countenance ofdespair which accompanied them, alarmed Theresa, who began to fear, thatthe shock of the intelligence Emily had just received, had affected hersenses. 'My dear young lady, be composed, ' said she, 'and do not saysuch frightful words. You murder M. Valancourt, --dear heart!' Emilyreplied only by a heavy sigh. 

'Dear lady, it breaks my heart to see you look so, ' said Theresa, 'donot sit with your eyes upon the ground, and all so pale and melancholy;it frightens me to see you. ' Emily was still silent, and did notappear to hear any thing that was said to her. 'Besides, mademoiselle, 'continued Theresa, 'M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet, for whatwe know. '

At the mention of his name, Emily raised her eyes, and fixed them, in awild gaze, upon Theresa, as if she was endeavouring to understand whathad been said. 'Aye, my dear lady, ' said Theresa, mistaking the meaningof this considerate air, 'M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet. '

On the repetition of these words, Emily comprehended their import, but, instead of producing the effect intended, they seemed only to heightenher distress. She rose hastily from her chair, paced the little room, with quick steps, and, often sighing deeply, clasped her hands, andshuddered. 

Meanwhile, Theresa, with simple, but honest affection, endeavoured tocomfort her; put more wood on the fire, stirred it up into a brighterblaze, swept the hearth, set the chair, which Emily had left, in awarmer situation, and then drew forth from a cupboard a flask of wine. 'It is a stormy night, madam, ' said she, 'and blows cold--do come nearerthe fire, and take a glass of this wine; it will comfort you, as it hasdone me, often and often, for it is not such wine as one gets every day;it is rich Languedoc, and the last of six flasks that M. Valancourt sentme, the night before he left Gascony for Paris. They have served me, ever since, as cordials, and I never drink it, but I think of him, andwhat kind words he said to me when he gave them. Theresa, says he, youare not young now, and should have a glass of good wine, now and then. Iwill send you a few flasks, and, when you taste them, you will sometimesremember me your friend. Yes--those were his very words--me yourfriend!' Emily still paced the room, without seeming to hear whatTheresa said, who continued speaking. 'And I have remembered him, oftenenough, poor young gentleman!--for he gave me this roof for a shelter, and that, which has supported me. Ah! he is in heaven, with my blessedmaster, if ever saint was!'

Theresa's voice faltered; she wept, and set down the flask, unable topour out the wine. Her grief seemed to recall Emily from her own, whowent towards her, but then stopped, and, having gazed on her, for amoment, turned suddenly away, as if overwhelmed by the reflection, thatit was Valancourt, whom Theresa lamented. 

While she yet paced the room, the still, soft note of an oboe, or flute, was heard mingling with the blast, the sweetness of which affectedEmily's spirits; she paused a moment in attention; the tender tones, as they swelled along the wind, till they were lost again in the rudergust, came with a plaintiveness, that touched her heart, and she meltedinto tears. 

'Aye, ' said Theresa, drying her eyes, 'there is Richard, our neighbour'sson, playing on the oboe; it is sad enough, to hear such sweet musicnow. ' Emily continued to weep, without replying. 'He often plays of anevening, ' added Theresa, 'and, sometimes, the young folks dance to thesound of his oboe. But, dear young lady! do not cry so; and pray takea glass of this wine, ' continued she, pouring some into a glass, andhanding it to Emily, who reluctantly took it. 

'Taste it for M. Valancourt's sake, ' said Theresa, as Emily lifted theglass to her lips, 'for he gave it me, you know, madam. ' Emily's handtrembled, and she spilt the wine as she withdrew it from her lips. 'Forwhose sake!--who gave the wine?' said she in a faltering voice. 'M. Valancourt, dear lady. I knew you would be pleased with it. It is thelast flask I have left. '

Emily set the wine upon the table, and burst into tears, while Theresa, disappointed and alarmed, tried to comfort her; but she only waved herhand, entreated she might be left alone, and wept the more. 

A knock at the cottage door prevented Theresa from immediately obeyingher mistress, and she was going to open it, when Emily, checking her, requested she would not admit any person; but, afterwards, recollecting, that she had ordered her servant to attend her home, she said it wasonly Philippe, and endeavoured to restrain her tears, while Theresaopened the door. 

A voice, that spoke without, drew Emily's attention. She listened, turned her eyes to the door, when a person now appeared, and immediatelya bright gleam, that flashed from the fire, discovered--Valancourt!

Emily, on perceiving him, started from her chair, trembled, and, sinkinginto it again, became insensible to all around her. 

A scream from Theresa now told, that she knew Valancourt, whom herimperfect sight, and the duskiness of the place had prevented her fromimmediately recollecting; but his attention was immediately called fromher to the person, whom he saw, falling from a chair near the fire;and, hastening to her assistance, --he perceived, that he was supportingEmily! The various emotions, that seized him upon thus unexpectedlymeeting with her, from whom he had believed he had parted for ever, and on beholding her pale and lifeless in his arms--may, perhaps, beimagined, though they could neither be then expressed, or now described, any more than Emily's sensations, when, at length, she unclosed hereyes, and, looking up, again saw Valancourt. The intense anxiety, withwhich he regarded her, was instantly changed to an expression of mingledjoy and tenderness, as his eye met hers, and he perceived, that she wasreviving. But he could only exclaim, 'Emily!' as he silently watched herrecovery, while she averted her eye, and feebly attempted to withdrawher hand; but, in these the first moments, which succeeded to the pangshis supposed death had occasioned her, she forgot every fault, which hadformerly claimed indignation, and beholding Valancourt such as he hadappeared, when he won her early affection, she experienced emotions ofonly tenderness and joy. This, alas! was but the sunshine of a few shortmoments; recollections rose, like clouds, upon her mind, and, darkeningthe illusive image, that possessed it, she again beheld Valancourt, degraded--Valancourt unworthy of the esteem and tenderness she had oncebestowed upon him; her spirits faltered, and, withdrawing her hand, sheturned from him to conceal her grief, while he, yet more embarrassed andagitated, remained silent. 

A sense of what she owed to herself restrained her tears, and taughther soon to overcome, in some degree, the emotions of mingled joy andsorrow, that contended at her heart, as she rose, and, having thankedhim for the assistance he had given her, bade Theresa good evening. Asshe was leaving the cottage, Valancourt, who seemed suddenly awakenedas from a dream, entreated, in a voice, that pleaded powerfully forcompassion, a few moments attention. Emily's heart, perhaps, pleaded aspowerfully, but she had resolution enough to resist both, together withthe clamorous entreaties of Theresa, that she would not venture homealone in the dark, and had already opened the cottage door, when thepelting storm compelled her to obey their requests. 

Silent and embarrassed, she returned to the fire, while Valancourt, withincreasing agitation, paced the room, as if he wished, yet feared, tospeak, and Theresa expressed without restraint her joy and wonder uponseeing him. 

'Dear heart! sir, ' said she, 'I never was so surprised and overjoyed inmy life. We were in great tribulation before you came, for we thoughtyou was dead, and were talking, and lamenting about you, just when youknocked at the door. My young mistress there was crying, fit to breakher heart--'

Emily looked with much displeasure at Theresa, but, before she couldspeak, Valancourt, unable to repress the emotion, which Theresa'simprudent discovery occasioned, exclaimed, 'O my Emily! am I thenstill dear to you! Did you, indeed, honour me with a thought--a tear? Oheavens! you weep--you weep now!'

'Theresa, sir, ' said Emily, with a reserved air, and trying to conquerher tears, 'has reason to remember you with gratitude, and she wasconcerned, because she had not lately heard of you. Allow me to thankyou for the kindness you have shewn her, and to say, that, since I amnow upon the spot, she must not be further indebted to you. ''

'Emily, ' said Valancourt, no longer master of his emotions, 'is it thusyou meet him, whom once you meant to honour with your hand--thus youmeet him, who has loved you--suffered for you?--Yet what do I say?Pardon me, pardon me, mademoiselle St. Aubert, I know not what I utter. I have no longer any claim upon your remembrance--I have forfeited everypretension to your esteem, your love. Yes! let me not forget, that Ionce possessed your affections, though to know that I have lost them, is my severest affliction. Affliction--do I call it!--that is a term ofmildness. '

'Dear heart!' said Theresa, preventing Emily from replying, 'talk ofonce having her affections! Why, my dear young lady loves you now, better than she does any body in the whole world, though she pretends todeny it. '

'This is insupportable!' said Emily; 'Theresa, you know not what yousay. Sir, if you respect my tranquillity, you will spare me from thecontinuance of this distress. '

'I do respect your tranquillity too much, voluntarily to interrupt it, 'replied Valancourt, in whose bosom pride now contended with tenderness;'and will not be a voluntary intruder. I would have entreated a fewmoments attention--yet I know not for what purpose. You have ceased toesteem me, and to recount to you my sufferings will degrade me more, without exciting even your pity. Yet I have been, O Emily! I am indeedvery wretched!' added Valancourt, in a voice, that softened fromsolemnity into grief. 

'What! is my dear young master going out in all this rain!' saidTheresa. 'No, he shall not stir a step. Dear! dear! to see howgentlefolks can afford to throw away their happiness! Now, if you werepoor people, there would be none of this. To talk of unworthiness, and not caring about one another, when I know there are not such akind-hearted lady and gentleman in the whole province, nor any that loveone another half so well, if the truth was spoken!'

Emily, in extreme vexation, now rose from her chair, 'I must be gone, 'said she, 'the storm is over. '

'Stay, Emily, stay, mademoiselle St. Aubert!' said Valancourt, summoningall his resolution, 'I will no longer distress you by my presence. Forgive me, that I did not sooner obey you, and, if you can, sometimes, pity one, who, in losing you--has lost all hope of peace! May you behappy, Emily, however wretched I remain, happy as my fondest wish wouldhave you!'

His voice faltered with the last words, and his countenance changed, while, with a look of ineffable tenderness and grief, he gazed upon herfor an instant, and then quitted the cottage. 

'Dear heart! dear heart!' cried Theresa, following him to the door, 'why, Monsieur Valancourt! how it rains! what a night is this to turnhim out in! Why it will give him his death; and it was but now you wascrying, mademoiselle, because he was dead. Well! young ladies do changetheir mind in a minute, as one may say!'

Emily made no reply, for she heard not what was said, while, lost insorrow and thought, she remained in her chair by the fire, with her eyesfixed, and the image of Valancourt still before them. 

'M. Valancourt is sadly altered! madam, ' said Theresa; 'he looks so thinto what he used to do, and so melancholy, and then he wears his arm in asling. '

Emily raised her eyes at these words, for she had not observed this lastcircumstance, and she now did not doubt, that Valancourt had receivedthe shot of her gardener at Tholouse; with this conviction her pity forhim returning, she blamed herself for having occasioned him to leave thecottage, during the storm. 

Soon after her servants arrived with the carriage, and Emily, havingcensured Theresa for her thoughtless conversation to Valancourt, andstrictly charging her never to repeat any hints of the same kind to him, withdrew to her home, thoughtful and disconsolate. 

Meanwhile, Valancourt had returned to a little inn of the village, whither he had arrived only a few moments before his visit to Theresa'scottage, on the way from Tholouse to the chateau of the Count deDuvarney, where he had not been since he bade adieu to Emily atChateau-le-Blanc, in the neighbourhood of which he had lingered for aconsiderable time, unable to summon resolution enough to quit a place, that contained the object most dear to his heart. There were times, indeed, when grief and despair urged him to appear again before Emily, and, regardless of his ruined circumstances, to renew his suit. Pride, however, and the tenderness of his affection, which could not longendure the thought of involving her in his misfortunes, at length, sofar triumphed over passion, that he relinquished this desperate design, and quitted Chateau-le-Blanc. But still his fancy wandered among thescenes, which had witnessed his early love, and, on his way toGascony, he stopped at Tholouse, where he remained when Emily arrived, concealing, yet indulging his melancholy in the gardens, where he hadformerly passed with her so many happy hours; often recurring, with vainregret, to the evening before her departure for Italy, when she had sounexpectedly met him on the terrace, and endeavouring to recall to hismemory every word and look, which had then charmed him, the argumentshe had employed to dissuade her from the journey, and the tendernessof their last farewel. In such melancholy recollections he had beenindulging, when Emily unexpectedly arrived to him on this very terrace, the evening after her arrival at Tholouse. His emotions, on thusseeing her, can scarcely be imagined; but he so far overcame the firstpromptings of love, that he forbore to discover himself, and abruptlyquitted the gardens. Still, however, the vision he had seen haunted hismind; he became more wretched than before, and the only solace of hissorrow was to return in the silence of the night; to follow the pathswhich he believed her steps had pressed, during the day; and, to watchround the habitation where she reposed. It was in one of these mournfulwanderings, that he had received by the fire of the gardener, whomistook him for a robber, a wound in his arm, which had detained himat Tholouse till very lately, under the hands of a surgeon. There, regardless of himself and careless of his friends, whose late unkindnesshad urged him to believe, that they were indifferent as to his fate, he remained, without informing them of his situation; and now, beingsufficiently recovered to bear travelling, he had taken La Vallee inhis way to Estuviere, the Count's residence, partly for the purpose ofhearing of Emily, and of being again near her, and partly for that ofenquiring into the situation of poor old Theresa, who, he had reason tosuppose, had been deprived of her stipend, small as it was, and whichenquiry had brought him to her cottage, when Emily happened to be there. 

This unexpected interview, which had at once shewn him the tenderness ofher love and the strength of her resolution, renewed all the acutenessof the despair, that had attended their former separation, and whichno effort of reason could teach him, in these moments, to subdue. Herimage, her look, the tones of her voice, all dwelt on his fancy, aspowerfully as they had late appeared to his senses, and banished fromhis heart every emotion, except those of love and despair. 

Before the evening concluded, he returned to Theresa's cottage, thathe might hear her talk of Emily, and be in the place, where she had solately been. The joy, felt and expressed by that faithful servant, wasquickly changed to sorrow, when she observed, at one moment, his wildand phrensied look, and, at another, the dark melancholy, that overhunghim. 

After he had listened, and for a considerable time, to all she had torelate, concerning Emily, he gave Theresa nearly all the money hehad about him, though she repeatedly refused it, declaring, that hermistress had amply supplied her wants; and then, drawing a ring of valuefrom his finger, he delivered it her with a solemn charge to presentit to Emily, of whom he entreated, as a last favour, that she wouldpreserve it for his sake, and sometimes, when she looked upon it, remember the unhappy giver. 

Theresa wept, as she received the ring, but it was more from sympathy, than from any presentiment of evil; and before she could reply, Valancourt abruptly left the cottage. She followed him to the door, calling upon his name and entreating him to return; but she received noanswer, and saw him no more. 

CHAPTER XIV

 Call up him, that left half told The story of Cambuscan bold. MILTON

On the following morning, as Emily sat in the parlour adjoining thelibrary, reflecting on the scene of the preceding night, Annette rushedwildly into the room, and, without speaking, sunk breathless into achair. It was some time before she could answer the anxious enquiries ofEmily, as to the occasion of her emotion, but, at length, she exclaimed, 'I have seen his ghost, madam, I have seen his ghost!'

'Who do you mean?' said Emily, with extreme impatience. 

'It came in from the hall, madam, ' continued Annette, 'as I was crossingto the parlour. '

'Who are you speaking of?' repeated Emily, 'Who came in from the hall?

'It was dressed just as I have seen him, often and often, ' addedAnnette. 'Ah! who could have thought--'

Emily's patience was now exhausted, and she was reprimanding her forsuch idle fancies, when a servant entered the room, and informed her, that a stranger without begged leave to speak with her. 

It immediately occurred to Emily, that this stranger was Valancourt, andshe told the servant to inform him, that she was engaged, and could notsee any person. 

The servant, having delivered his message, returned with one from thestranger, urging the first request, and saying, that he had something ofconsequence to communicate; while Annette, who had hitherto satsilent and amazed, now started up, and crying, 'It is Ludovico!--it isLudovico!' ran out of the room. Emily bade the servant follow her, and, if it really was Ludovico, to shew him into the parlour. 

In a few minutes, Ludovico appeared, accompanied by Annette, who, asjoy rendered her forgetful of all rules of decorum towards her mistress, would not suffer any person to be heard, for some time, but herself. Emily expressed surprise and satisfaction, on seeing Ludovico in safety, and the first emotions increased, when he delivered letters fromCount De Villefort and the Lady Blanche, informing her of their lateadventure, and of their present situation at an inn among the Pyrenees, where they had been detained by the illness of Mons. St. Foix, and theindisposition of Blanche, who added, that the Baron St. Foix was justarrived to attend his son to his chateau, where he would remain till theperfect recovery of his wounds, and then return to Languedoc, but thather father and herself purposed to be at La Vallee, on the followingday. She added, that Emily's presence would be expected at theapproaching nuptials, and begged she would be prepared to proceed, ina few days to Chateau-le-Blanc. For an account of Ludovico's adventure, she referred her to himself; and Emily, though much interested, concerning the means, by which he had disappeared from the northapartments, had the forbearance to suspend the gratification of hercuriosity, till he had taken some refreshment, and had conversed withAnnette, whose joy, on seeing him in safety, could not have been moreextravagant, had he arisen from the grave. 

Meanwhile, Emily perused again the letters of her friends, whoseexpressions of esteem and kindness were very necessary consolationsto her heart, awakened as it was by the late interview to emotions ofkeener sorrow and regret. 

The invitation to Chateau-le-Blanc was pressed with so much kindness bythe Count and his daughter, who strengthened it by a message from theCountess, and the occasion of it was so important to her friend, thatEmily could not refuse to accept it, nor, though she wished to remainin the quiet shades of her native home, could she avoid perceiving theimpropriety of remaining there alone, since Valancourt was again in theneighbourhood. Sometimes, too, she thought, that change of scenery andthe society of her friends might contribute, more than retirement, torestore her to tranquillity. 

When Ludovico again appeared, she desired him to give a detail of hisadventure in the north apartments, and to tell by what means he became acompanion of the banditti, with whom the Count had found him. 

He immediately obeyed, while Annette, who had not yet had leisure toask him many questions, on the subject, prepared to listen, with acountenance of extreme curiosity, venturing to remind her lady of herincredulity, concerning spirits, in the castle of Udolpho, and ofher own sagacity in believing in them; while Emily, blushing at theconsciousness of her late credulity, observed, that, if Ludovico'sadventure could justify Annette's superstition, he had probably not beenhere to relate it. 

Ludovico smiled at Annette, and bowed to Emily, and then began asfollows:

'You may remember, madam, that, on the night, when I sat up in the northchamber, my lord, the Count, and Mons. Henri accompanied me thither, andthat, while they remained there, nothing happened to excite any alarm. When they were gone I made a fire in the bed-room, and, not beinginclined to sleep, I sat down on the hearth with a book I had broughtwith me to divert my mind. I confess I did sometimes look round thechamber, with something like apprehension--'

'O very like it, I dare say, ' interrupted Annette, 'and I dare say too, if the truth was known, you shook from head to foot. '

'Not quite so bad as that, ' replied Ludovico, smiling, 'but severaltimes, as the wind whistled round the castle, and shook the oldcasements, I did fancy I heard odd noises, and, once or twice, I got upand looked about me; but nothing was to be seen, except the grim figuresin the tapestry, which seemed to frown upon me, as I looked at them. I had sat thus for above an hour, ' continued Ludovico, 'when again Ithought I heard a noise, and glanced my eyes round the room, to discoverwhat it came from, but, not perceiving any thing, I began to readagain, and, when I had finished the story I was upon, I felt drowsy, anddropped asleep. But presently I was awakened by the noise I had heardbefore, and it seemed to come from that part of the chamber, where thebed stood; and then, whether it was the story I had been reading thataffected my spirits, or the strange reports, that had been spread ofthese apartments, I don't know, but, when I looked towards the bedagain, I fancied I saw a man's face within the dusky curtains. '

At the mention of this, Emily trembled, and looked anxiously, remembering the spectacle she had herself witnessed there with Dorothee. 

'I confess, madam, my heart did fail me, at that instant, ' continuedLudovico, 'but a return of the noise drew my attention from the bed, andI then distinctly heard a sound, like that of a key, turning in a lock, but what surprised me more was, that I saw no door where the soundseemed to come from. In the next moment, however, the arras near thebed was slowly lifted, and a person appeared behind it, entering froma small door in the wall. He stood for a moment as if half retreating, with his head bending under the arras which concealed the upper part ofhis face except his eyes scowling beneath the tapestry as he held it;and then, while he raised it higher, I saw the face of another manbehind, looking over his shoulder. I know not how it was, but, thoughmy sword was upon the table before me, I had not the power just then toseize it, but sat quite still, watching them, with my eyes half shut asif I was asleep. I suppose they thought me so, and were debating whatthey should do, for I heard them whisper, and they stood in the sameposture for the value of a minute, and then, I thought I perceived otherfaces in the duskiness beyond the door, and heard louder whispers. '

'This door surprises me, ' said Emily, 'because I understood, thatthe Count had caused the arras to be lifted, and the walls examined, suspecting, that they might have concealed a passage through which youhad departed. '

'It does not appear so extraordinary to me, madam, ' replied Ludovico, 'that this door should escape notice, because it was formed in a narrowcompartment, which appeared to be part of the outward wall, and, if theCount had not passed over it, he might have thought it was useless tosearch for a door where it seemed as if no passage could communicatewith one; but the truth was, that the passage was formed within thewall itself. --But, to return to the men, whom I saw obscurely beyond thedoor, and who did not suffer me to remain long in suspense, concerningtheir design. They all rushed into the room, and surrounded me, thoughnot before I had snatched up my sword to defend myself. But what couldone man do against four? They soon disarmed me, and, having fastened myarms, and gagged my mouth, forced me through the private door, leavingmy sword upon the table, to assist, as they said, those who should comein the morning to look for me, in fighting against the ghosts. They thenled me through many narrow passages, cut, as I fancied, in the walls, for I had never seen them before, and down several flights of steps, till we came to the vaults underneath the castle; and then openinga stone door, which I should have taken for the wall itself, we wentthrough a long passage, and down other steps cut in the solid rock, whenanother door delivered us into a cave. After turning and twining about, for some time, we reached the mouth of it, and I found myself on thesea-beach at the foot of the cliffs, with the chateau above. A boat wasin waiting, into which the ruffians got, forcing me along with them, and we soon reached a small vessel, that was at anchor, where other menappeared, when setting me aboard, two of the fellows who had seized me, followed, and the other two rowed back to the shore, while we set sail. I soon found out what all this meant, and what was the business of thesemen at the chateau. We landed in Rousillon, and, after lingeringseveral days about the shore, some of their comrades came down from themountains, and carried me with them to the fort, where I remained tillmy Lord so unexpectedly arrived, for they had taken good care to preventmy running away, having blindfolded me, during the journey, and, if theyhad not done this, I think I never could have found my road to any town, through the wild country we traversed. After I reached the fort I waswatched like a prisoner, and never suffered to go out, without two orthree companions, and I became so weary of life, that I often wished toget rid of it. '

'Well, but they let you talk, ' said Annette, 'they did not gagg youafter they got you away from the chateau, so I don't see what reasonthere was to be so very weary of living; to say nothing about the chanceyou had of seeing me again. '

Ludovico smiled, and Emily also, who enquired what was the motive ofthese men for carrying him off. 

'I soon found out, madam, ' resumed Ludovico, 'that they were pirates, who had, during many years, secreted their spoil in the vaults of thecastle, which, being so near the sea, suited their purpose well. Toprevent detection they had tried to have it believed, that the chateauwas haunted, and, having discovered the private way to the northapartments, which had been shut up ever since the death of the ladymarchioness, they easily succeeded. The housekeeper and her husband, whowere the only persons, that had inhabited the castle, for some years, were so terrified by the strange noises they heard in the nights, thatthey would live there no longer; a report soon went abroad, that itwas haunted, and the whole country believed this the more readily, Isuppose, because it had been said, that the lady marchioness had diedin a strange way, and because my lord never would return to the placeafterwards. '

'But why, ' said Emily, 'were not these pirates contented with thecave--why did they think it necessary to deposit their spoil in thecastle?'

'The cave, madam, ' replied Ludovico, 'was open to any body, and theirtreasures would not long have remained undiscovered there, but in thevaults they were secure so long as the report prevailed of their beinghaunted. Thus then, it appears, that they brought at midnight, thespoil they took on the seas, and kept it till they had opportunities ofdisposing of it to advantage. The pirates were connected with Spanishsmugglers and banditti, who live among the wilds of the Pyrenees, andcarry on various kinds of traffic, such as nobody would think of; andwith this desperate horde of banditti I remained, till my lord arrived. I shall never forget what I felt, when I first discovered him--I almostgave him up for lost! but I knew, that, if I shewed myself, the bandittiwould discover who he was, and probably murder us all, to prevent theirsecret in the chateau being detected. I, therefore, kept out of mylord's sight, but had a strict watch upon the ruffians, and determined, if they offered him or his family violence, to discover myself, andfight for our lives. Soon after, I overheard some of them laying a mostdiabolical plan for the murder and plunder of the whole party, when Icontrived to speak to some of my lord's attendants, telling them whatwas going forward, and we consulted what was best to be done; meanwhilemy lord, alarmed at the absence of the Lady Blanche, demanded her, andthe ruffians having given some unsatisfactory answer, my lord and Mons. St. Foix became furious, so then we thought it a good time to discoverthe plot, and rushing into the chamber, I called out, "Treachery! mylord count, defend yourself!" His lordship and the chevalier drew theirswords directly, and a hard battle we had, but we conquered at last, as, madam, you are already informed of by my Lord Count. '

'This is an extraordinary adventure, ' said Emily, 'and much praiseis due, Ludovico, to your prudence and intrepidity. There are somecircumstances, however, concerning the north apartments, which stillperplex me; but, perhaps, you may be able to explain them. Did you everhear the banditti relate any thing extraordinary of these rooms?'

'No, madam, ' replied Ludovico, 'I never heard them speak about therooms, except to laugh at the credulity of the old housekeeper, whoonce was very near catching one of the pirates; it was since the Countarrived at the chateau, he said, and he laughed heartily as he relatedthe trick he had played off. '

A blush overspread Emily's cheek, and she impatiently desired Ludovicoto explain himself. 

'Why, my lady, ' said he, 'as this fellow was, one night in the bed-room, he heard somebody approaching through the next apartment, and not havingtime to lift up the arras, and unfasten the door, he hid himself inthe bed just by. There he lay for some time in as great a fright, Isuppose--'

'As you was in, ' interrupted Annette, 'when you sat up so boldly towatch by yourself. '

'Aye, ' said Ludovico, 'in as great a fright as he ever made any bodyelse suffer; and presently the housekeeper and some other person came upto the bed, when he, thinking they were going to examine it, bethoughthim, that his only chance of escaping detection, was by terrifying them;so he lifted up the counterpane, but that did not do, till he raised hisface above it, and then they both set off, he said, as if they had seenthe devil, and he got out of the rooms undiscovered. '

Emily could not forbear smiling at this explanation of the deception, which had given her so much superstitious terror, and was surprised, that she could have suffered herself to be thus alarmed, till sheconsidered, that, when the mind has once begun to yield to the weaknessof superstition, trifles impress it with the force of conviction. Still, however, she remembered with awe the mysterious music, which had beenheard, at midnight, near Chateau-le-Blanc, and she asked Ludovico if hecould give any explanation of it; but he could not. 

'I only know, madam, ' he added, 'that it did not belong to the pirates, for I have heard them laugh about it, and say, they believed the devilwas in league with them there. '

'Yes, I will answer for it he was, ' said Annette, her countenancebrightening, 'I was sure all along, that he or his spirits had somethingto do with the north apartments, and now you see, madam, I am right atlast. '

'It cannot be denied, that his spirits were very busy in that part ofthe chateau, ' replied Emily, smiling. 'But I am surprised, Ludovico, that these pirates should persevere in their schemes, after the arrivalof the Count; what could they expect but certain detection?'

'I have reason to believe, madam, ' replied Ludovico, 'that it was theirintention to persevere no longer than was necessary for the removal ofthe stores, which were deposited in the vaults; and it appeared, thatthey had been employed in doing so from within a short period after theCount's arrival; but, as they had only a few hours in the night forthis business, and were carrying on other schemes at the same time, thevaults were not above half emptied, when they took me away. They gloriedexceedingly in this opportunity of confirming the superstitious reports, that had been spread of the north chambers, were careful to leave everything there as they had found it, the better to promote the deception, and frequently, in their jocose moods, would laugh at the consternation, which they believed the inhabitants of the castle had suffered uponmy disappearing, and it was to prevent the possibility of my betrayingtheir secret, that they had removed me to such a distance. From thatperiod they considered the chateau as nearly their own; but I found fromthe discourse of their comrades, that, though they were cautious, atfirst, in shewing their power there, they had once very nearly betrayedthemselves. Going, one night, as was their custom, to the north chambersto repeat the noises, that had occasioned such alarm among the servants, they heard, as they were about to unfasten the secret door, voices inthe bed-room. My lord has since told me, that himself and M. Henriwere then in the apartment, and they heard very extraordinary sounds oflamentation, which it seems were made by these fellows, with their usualdesign of spreading terror; and my lord has owned, he then felt somewhatmore, than surprise; but, as it was necessary to the peace of hisfamily, that no notice should be taken, he was silent on the subject, and enjoined silence to his son. '

Emily, recollecting the change, that had appeared in the spirits ofthe Count, after the night, when he had watched in the north room, nowperceived the cause of it; and, having made some further enquiries uponthis strange affair, she dismissed Ludovico, and went to give orders forthe accommodation of her friends, on the following day. 

In the evening, Theresa, lame as she was, came to deliver the ring, withwhich Valancourt had entrusted her, and, when she presented it, Emilywas much affected, for she remembered to have seen him wear it oftenin happier days. She was, however, much displeased, that Theresa hadreceived it, and positively refused to accept it herself, though tohave done so would have afforded her a melancholy pleasure. Theresaentreated, expostulated, and then described the distress of Valancourt, when he had given the ring, and repeated the message, with which he hadcommissioned her to deliver it; and Emily could not conceal the extremesorrow this recital occasioned her, but wept, and remained lost inthought. 

'Alas! my dear young lady!' said Theresa, 'why should all this be? Ihave known you from your infancy, and it may well be supposed I loveyou, as if you was my own, and wish as much to see you happy. M. Valancourt, to be sure, I have not known so long, but then I have reasonto love him, as though he was my own son. I know how well you love oneanother, or why all this weeping and wailing?' Emily waved her hand forTheresa to be silent, who, disregarding the signal, continued, 'Andhow much you are alike in your tempers and ways, and, that, if you weremarried, you would be the happiest couple in the whole province--thenwhat is there to prevent your marrying? Dear dear! to see how somepeople fling away their happiness, and then cry and lament about it, just as if it was not their own doing, and as if there was more pleasurein wailing and weeping, than in being at peace. Learning, to be sure, is a fine thing, but, if it teaches folks no better than that, why I hadrather be without it; if it would teach them to be happier, I would saysomething to it, then it would be learning and wisdom too. '

Age and long services had given Theresa a privilege to talk, butEmily now endeavoured to check her loquacity, and, though she feltthe justness of some of her remarks, did not choose to explain thecircumstances, that had determined her conduct towards Valancourt. She, therefore, only told Theresa, that it would much displease her to hearthe subject renewed; that she had reasons for her conduct, which she didnot think it proper to mention, and that the ring must be returned, withan assurance, that she could not accept it with propriety; and, atthe same time, she forbade Theresa to repeat any future messagefrom Valancourt, as she valued her esteem and kindness. Theresa wasafflicted, and made another attempt, though feeble, to interest herfor Valancourt, but the unusual displeasure, expressed in Emily'scountenance, soon obliged her to desist, and she departed in wonder andlamentation. 

To relieve her mind, in some degree, from the painful recollections, that intruded upon it, Emily busied herself in preparations for thejourney into Languedoc, and, while Annette, who assisted her, spoke withjoy and affection of the safe return of Ludovico, she was consideringhow she might best promote their happiness, and determined, if itappeared, that his affection was as unchanged as that of the simple andhonest Annette, to give her a marriage portion, and settle them on somepart of her estate. These considerations led her to the remembrance ofher father's paternal domain, which his affairs had formerly compelledhim to dispose of to M. Quesnel, and which she frequently wished toregain, because St. Aubert had lamented, that the chief lands of hisancestors had passed into another family, and because they had been hisbirth-place and the haunt of his early years. To the estate at Tholouseshe had no peculiar attachment, and it was her wish to dispose of this, that she might purchase her paternal domains, if M. Quesnel could beprevailed on to part with them, which, as he talked much of living inItaly, did not appear very improbable. 

CHAPTER XV

 Sweet is the breath of vernal shower, The bees' collected treasures sweet, Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet The still, small voice of gratitude. GRAY

On the following day, the arrival of her friend revived the droopingEmily, and La Vallee became once more the scene of social kindness andof elegant hospitality. Illness and the terror she had suffered hadstolen from Blanche much of her sprightliness, but all her affectionatesimplicity remained, and, though she appeared less blooming, she was notless engaging than before. The unfortunate adventure on the Pyrenees hadmade the Count very anxious to reach home, and, after little more than aweek's stay at La Vallee, Emily prepared to set out with her friendsfor Languedoc, assigning the care of her house, during her absence, to Theresa. On the evening, preceding her departure, this old servantbrought again the ring of Valancourt, and, with tears, entreated hermistress to receive it, for that she had neither seen, or heard of M. Valancourt, since the night when he delivered it to her. As she saidthis, her countenance expressed more alarm, than she dared to utter;but Emily, checking her own propensity to fear, considered, that he hadprobably returned to the residence of his brother, and, again refusingto accept the ring, bade Theresa preserve it, till she saw him, which, with extreme reluctance, she promised to do. 

On the following day, Count De Villefort, with Emily and the LadyBlanche, left La Vallee, and, on the ensuing evening, arrived at theChateau-le-Blanc, where the Countess, Henri, and M. Du Pont, whomEmily was surprised to find there, received them with much joy andcongratulation. She was concerned to observe, that the Count stillencouraged the hopes of his friend, whose countenance declared, thathis affection had suffered no abatement from absence; and was muchdistressed, when, on the second evening after her arrival, the Count, having withdrawn her from the Lady Blanche, with whom she was walking, renewed the subject of M. Du Pont's hopes. The mildness, with whichshe listened to his intercessions at first, deceiving him, as to hersentiments, he began to believe, that, her affection for Valancourtbeing overcome, she was, at length, disposed to think favourably ofM. Du Pont; and, when she afterwards convinced him of his mistake, heventured, in the earnestness of his wish to promote what he consideredto be the happiness of two persons, whom he so much esteemed, gentlyto remonstrate with her, on thus suffering an ill-placed affection topoison the happiness of her most valuable years. 

Observing her silence and the deep dejection of her countenance, heconcluded with saying, 'I will not say more now, but I will stillbelieve, my dear Mademoiselle St. Aubert, that you will not alwaysreject a person, so truly estimable as my friend Du Pont. '

He spared her the pain of replying, by leaving her; and she strolled on, somewhat displeased with the Count for having persevered to plead for asuit, which she had repeatedly rejected, and lost amidst the melancholyrecollections, which this topic had revived, till she had insensiblyreached the borders of the woods, that screened the monastery of St. Clair, when, perceiving how far she had wandered, she determined toextend her walk a little farther, and to enquire about the abbess andsome of her friends among the nuns. 

Though the evening was now drawing to a close, she accepted theinvitation of the friar, who opened the gate, and, anxious to meet someof her old acquaintances, proceeded towards the convent parlour. As shecrossed the lawn, that sloped from the front of the monastery towardsthe sea, she was struck with the picture of repose, exhibited by somemonks, sitting in the cloisters, which extended under the brow of thewoods, that crowned this eminence; where, as they meditated, at thistwilight hour, holy subjects, they sometimes suffered their attention tobe relieved by the scene before them, nor thought it profane to look atnature, now that it had exchanged the brilliant colours of day for thesober hue of evening. Before the cloisters, however, spread anancient chesnut, whose ample branches were designed to screen the fullmagnificence of a scene, that might tempt the wish to worldly pleasures;but still, beneath the dark and spreading foliage, gleamed a wide extentof ocean, and many a passing sail; while, to the right and left, thickwoods were seen stretching along the winding shores. So much as this hadbeen admitted, perhaps, to give to the secluded votary an image of thedangers and vicissitudes of life, and to console him, now that he hadrenounced its pleasures, by the certainty of having escaped its evils. As Emily walked pensively along, considering how much suffering shemight have escaped, had she become a votaress of the order, and remainedin this retirement from the time of her father's death, the vesper-bellstruck up, and the monks retired slowly toward the chapel, while she, pursuing her way, entered the great hall, where an unusual silenceseemed to reign. The parlour too, which opened from it, she foundvacant, but, as the evening bell was sounding, she believed the nuns hadwithdrawn into the chapel, and sat down to rest, for a moment, beforeshe returned to the chateau, where, however, the increasing gloom madeher now anxious to be. 

Not many minutes had elapsed, before a nun, entering in haste, enquiredfor the abbess, and was retiring, without recollecting Emily, whenshe made herself known, and then learned, that a mass was going to beperformed for the soul of sister Agnes, who had been declining, for sometime, and who was now believed to be dying. 

Of her sufferings the sister gave a melancholy account, and of thehorrors, into which she had frequently started, but which had nowyielded to a dejection so gloomy, that neither the prayers, in which shewas joined by the sisterhood, or the assurances of her confessor, hadpower to recall her from it, or to cheer her mind even with a momentarygleam of comfort. 

To this relation Emily listened with extreme concern, and, recollectingthe frenzied manners and the expressions of horror, which she hadherself witnessed of Agnes, together with the history, that sisterFrances had communicated, her compassion was heightened to a verypainful degree. As the evening was already far advanced, Emily did notnow desire to see her, or to join in the mass, and, after leaving manykind remembrances with the nun, for her old friends, she quitted themonastery, and returned over the cliffs towards the chateau, meditatingupon what she had just heard, till, at length she forced her mind uponless interesting subjects. 

The wind was high, and as she drew near the chateau, she often pausedto listen to its awful sound, as it swept over the billows, that beatbelow, or groaned along the surrounding woods; and, while she rested ona cliff at a short distance from the chateau, and looked upon the widewaters, seen dimly beneath the last shade of twilight, she thought ofthe following address:

 TO THE WINDS

 Viewless, through heaven's vast vault your course ye steer, Unknown from whence ye come, or whither go! Mysterious pow'rs! I hear ye murmur low, Till swells your loud gust on my startled ear, And, awful! seems to say--some God is near! I love to list your midnight voices float In the dread storm, that o'er the ocean rolls, And, while their charm the angry wave controuls, Mix with its sullen roar, and sink remote. Then, rising in the pause, a sweeter note, The dirge of spirits, who your deeds bewail, A sweeter note oft swells while sleeps the gale! But soon, ye sightless pow'rs! your rest is o'er, Solemn and slow, ye rise upon the air, Speak in the shrouds, and bid the sea-boy fear, And the faint-warbled dirge--is heard no more! Oh! then I deprecate your awful reign! The loud lament yet bear not on your breath! Bear not the crash of bark far on the main, Bear not the cry of men, who cry in vain, The crew's dread chorus sinking into death! Oh! give not these, ye pow'rs! I ask alone, As rapt I climb these dark romantic steeps, The elemental war, the billow's moan; I ask the still, sweet tear, that listening Fancy weeps!

CHAPTER XVI

 Unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs she the divine, than the physician. MACBETH

On the following evening, the view of the convent towers, rising amongthe shadowy woods, reminded Emily of the nun, whose condition had somuch affected her; and, anxious to know how she was, as well as to seesome of her former friends, she and the Lady Blanche extended their walkto the monastery. At the gate stood a carriage, which, from the heatof the horses, appeared to have just arrived; but a more than commonstillness pervaded the court and the cloisters, through which Emilyand Blanche passed in their way to the great hall, where a nun, who wascrossing to the stair-case, replied to the enquiries of the former, thatsister Agnes was still living, and sensible, but that it was thought shecould not survive the night. In the parlour, they found several ofthe boarders, who rejoiced to see Emily, and told her many littlecircumstances that had happened in the convent since her departure, andwhich were interesting to her only because they related to persons, whomshe had regarded with affection. While they thus conversed the abbessentered the room, and expressed much satisfaction at seeing Emily, buther manner was unusually solemn, and her countenance dejected. 'Ourhouse, ' said she, after the first salutations were over, 'is truly ahouse of mourning--a daughter is now paying the debt of nature. --Youhave heard, perhaps, that our daughter Agnes is dying?'

Emily expressed her sincere concern. 

'Her death presents to us a great and awful lesson, ' continued theabbess; 'let us read it, and profit by it; let it teach us to prepareourselves for the change, that awaits us all! You are young, and haveit yet in your power to secure "the peace that passeth allunderstanding"--the peace of conscience. Preserve it in your youth, thatit may comfort you in age; for vain, alas! and imperfect are the gooddeeds of our latter years, if those of our early life have been evil!'

Emily would have said, that good deeds, she hoped, were never vain;but she considered that it was the abbess who spoke, and she remainedsilent. 

'The latter days of Agnes, ' resumed the abbess, 'have been exemplary;would they might atone for the errors of her former ones! Her sufferingsnow, alas! are great; let us believe, that they will make her peacehereafter! I have left her with her confessor, and a gentleman, whom shehas long been anxious to see, and who is just arrived from Paris. They, I hope, will be able to administer the repose, which her mind hashitherto wanted. '

Emily fervently joined in the wish. 

'During her illness, she has sometimes named you, ' resumed the abbess;'perhaps, it would comfort her to see you; when her present visitorshave left her, we will go to her chamber, if the scene will not betoo melancholy for your spirits. But, indeed, to such scenes, howeverpainful, we ought to accustom ourselves, for they are salutary to thesoul, and prepare us for what we are ourselves to suffer. '

Emily became grave and thoughtful; for this conversation brought to herrecollection the dying moments of her beloved father, and she wishedonce more to weep over the spot, where his remains were buried. During the silence, which followed the abbess' speech, many minutecircumstances attending his last hours occurred to her--his emotion onperceiving himself to be in the neighbourhood of Chateau-le-Blanc--hisrequest to be interred in a particular spot in the church of thismonastery--and the solemn charge he had delivered to her to destroycertain papers, without examining them. --She recollected also themysterious and horrible words in those manuscripts, upon which her eyehad involuntarily glanced; and, though they now, and, indeed, whenevershe remembered them, revived an excess of painful curiosity, concerningtheir full import, and the motives for her father's command, it wasever her chief consolation, that she had strictly obeyed him in thisparticular. 

Little more was said by the abbess, who appeared too much affected bythe subject she had lately left, to be willing to converse, and hercompanions had been for some time silent from the same cause, when thisgeneral reverie was interrupted by the entrance of a stranger, MonsieurBonnac, who had just quitted the chamber of sister Agnes. He appearedmuch disturbed, but Emily fancied, that his countenance had more theexpression of horror, than of grief. Having drawn the abbess to adistant part of the room, he conversed with her for some time, duringwhich she seemed to listen with earnest attention, and he to speakwith caution, and a more than common degree of interest. When he hadconcluded, he bowed silently to the rest of the company, and quitted theroom. The abbess, soon after, proposed going to the chamber of sisterAgnes, to which Emily consented, though not without some reluctance, andLady Blanche remained with the boarders below. 

At the door of the chamber they met the confessor, whom, as he liftedup his head on their approach, Emily observed to be the same that hadattended her dying father; but he passed on, without noticing her, andthey entered the apartment, where, on a mattress, was laid sister Agnes, with one nun watching in the chair beside her. Her countenance was somuch changed, that Emily would scarcely have recollected her, had shenot been prepared to do so: it was ghastly, and overspread with gloomyhorror; her dim and hollow eyes were fixed on a crucifix, which sheheld upon her bosom; and she was so much engaged in thought, as not toperceive the abbess and Emily, till they stood at the bed-side. Then, turning her heavy eyes, she fixed them, in wild horror, upon Emily, and, screaming, exclaimed, 'Ah! that vision comes upon me in my dying hours!'

Emily started back in terror, and looked for explanation to the abbess, who made her a signal not to be alarmed, and calmly said to Agnes, 'Daughter, I have brought Mademoiselle St. Aubert to visit you: Ithought you would be glad to see her. '

Agnes made no reply; but, still gazing wildly upon Emily, exclaimed, 'Itis her very self! Oh! there is all that fascination in her look, whichproved my destruction! What would you have--what is it you came todemand--Retribution?--It will soon be yours--it is yours already. How many years have passed, since last I saw you! My crime is but asyesterday. --Yet I am grown old beneath it; while you are still young andblooming--blooming as when you forced me to commit that most abhorreddeed! O! could I once forget it!--yet what would that avail?--the deedis done!'

Emily, extremely shocked, would now have left the room; but the abbess, taking her hand, tried to support her spirits, and begged she would staya few moments, when Agnes would probably be calm, whom now she tried tosooth. But the latter seemed to disregard her, while she still fixedher eyes on Emily, and added, 'What are years of prayers and repentance?they cannot wash out the foulness of murder!--Yes, murder! Where ishe--where is he?--Look there--look there!--see where he stalks alongthe room! Why do you come to torment me now?' continued Agnes, while herstraining eyes were bent on air, 'why was not I punished before?--O!do not frown so sternly! Hah! there again! 'til she herself! Why do youlook so piteously upon me--and smile, too? smile on me! What groan wasthat?'

Agnes sunk down, apparently lifeless, and Emily, unable to supportherself, leaned against the bed, while the abbess and the attendant nunwere applying the usual remedies to Agnes. 'Peace, ' said the abbess, when Emily was going to speak, 'the delirium is going off, she will soonrevive. When was she thus before, daughter?'

'Not of many weeks, madam, ' replied the nun, 'but her spirits have beenmuch agitated by the arrival of the gentleman she wished so much tosee. '

'Yes, ' observed the abbess, 'that has undoubtedly occasioned thisparoxysm of frenzy. When she is better, we will leave her to repose. '

Emily very readily consented, but, though she could now give littleassistance, she was unwilling to quit the chamber, while any might benecessary. 

When Agnes recovered her senses, she again fixed her eyes on Emily, buttheir wild expression was gone, and a gloomy melancholy had succeeded. It was some moments before she recovered sufficient spirits to speak;she then said feebly--'The likeness is wonderful!--surely it mustbe something more than fancy. Tell me, I conjure you, ' she added, addressing Emily, 'though your name is St. Aubert, are you not thedaughter of the Marchioness?'

'What Marchioness?' said Emily, in extreme surprise; for she hadimagined, from the calmness of Agnes's manner, that her intellects wererestored. The abbess gave her a significant glance, but she repeated thequestion. 

'What Marchioness?' exclaimed Agnes, 'I know but of one--the Marchionessde Villeroi. '

Emily, remembering the emotion of her late father, upon the unexpectedmention of this lady, and his request to be laid near to the tomb ofthe Villerois, now felt greatly interested, and she entreated Agnes toexplain the reason of her question. The abbess would now have withdrawnEmily from the room, who being, however, detained by a strong interest, repeated her entreaties. 

'Bring me that casket, sister, ' said Agnes; 'I will shew her to you; yetyou need only look in that mirror, and you will behold her; you surelyare her daughter: such striking resemblance is never found but amongnear relations. '

The nun brought the casket, and Agnes, having directed her how to unlockit, she took thence a miniature, in which Emily perceived the exactresemblance of the picture, which she had found among her late father'spapers. Agnes held out her hand to receive it; gazed upon it earnestlyfor some moments in silence; and then, with a countenance of deepdespair, threw up her eyes to Heaven, and prayed inwardly. When she hadfinished, she returned the miniature to Emily. 'Keep it, ' said she, 'I bequeath it to you, for I must believe it is your right. I havefrequently observed the resemblance between you; but never, till thisday, did it strike upon my conscience so powerfully! Stay, sister, donot remove the casket--there is another picture I would shew. '

Emily trembled with expectation, and the abbess again would havewithdrawn her. 'Agnes is still disordered, ' said she, 'you observe howshe wanders. In these moods she says any thing, and does not scruple, asyou have witnessed, to accuse herself of the most horrible crimes. '

Emily, however, thought she perceived something more than madness inthe inconsistencies of Agnes, whose mention of the Marchioness, and production of her picture, had interested her so much, that shedetermined to obtain further information, if possible, respecting thesubject of it. 

The nun returned with the casket, and, Agnes pointing out to her asecret drawer, she took from it another miniature. 'Here, ' said Agnes, as she offered it to Emily, 'learn a lesson for your vanity, at least;look well at this picture, and see if you can discover any resemblancebetween what I was, and what I am. '

Emily impatiently received the miniature, which her eyes had scarcelyglanced upon, before her trembling hands had nearly suffered it tofall--it was the resemblance of the portrait of Signora Laurentini, which she had formerly seen in the castle of Udolpho--the lady, whohad disappeared in so mysterious a manner, and whom Montoni had beensuspected of having caused to be murdered. 

In silent astonishment, Emily continued to gaze alternately upon thepicture and the dying nun, endeavouring to trace a resemblance betweenthem, which no longer existed. 

'Why do you look so sternly on me?' said Agnes, mistaking the nature ofEmily's emotion. 

'I have seen this face before, ' said Emily, at length; 'was it reallyyour resemblance?'

'You may well ask that question, ' replied the nun, --'but it was onceesteemed a striking likeness of me. Look at me well, and see what guilthas made me. I then was innocent; the evil passions of my nature slept. Sister!' added she solemnly, and stretching forth her cold, damp handto Emily, who shuddered at its touch--'Sister! beware of the firstindulgence of the passions; beware of the first! Their course, if notchecked then, is rapid--their force is uncontroulable--they lead us weknow not whither--they lead us perhaps to the commission of crimes, forwhich whole years of prayer and penitence cannot atone!--Such may be theforce of even a single passion, that it overcomes every other, and searsup every other approach to the heart. Possessing us like a fiend, itleads us on to the acts of a fiend, making us insensible to pity andto conscience. And, when its purpose is accomplished, like a fiend, it leaves us to the torture of those feelings, which its power hadsuspended--not annihilated, --to the tortures of compassion, remorse, andconscience. Then, we awaken as from a dream, and perceive a newworld around us--we gaze in astonishment, and horror--but the deedis committed; not all the powers of heaven and earth united canundo it--and the spectres of conscience will not fly! What areriches--grandeur--health itself, to the luxury of a pure conscience, thehealth of the soul;--and what the sufferings of poverty, disappointment, despair--to the anguish of an afflicted one! O! how long is it sinceI knew that luxury! I believed, that I had suffered the most agonizingpangs of human nature, in love, jealousy, and despair--but these pangswere ease, compared with the stings of conscience, which I have sinceendured. I tasted too what was called the sweet of revenge--but it wastransient, it expired even with the object, that provoked it. Remember, sister, that the passions are the seeds of vices as well as of virtues, from which either may spring, accordingly as they are nurtured. Unhappythey who have never been taught the art to govern them!'

'Alas! unhappy!' said the abbess, 'and ill-informed of our holyreligion!' Emily listened to Agnes, in silent awe, while she stillexamined the miniature, and became confirmed in her opinion of itsstrong resemblance to the portrait at Udolpho. 'This face is familiar tome, ' said she, wishing to lead the nun to an explanation, yet fearing todiscover too abruptly her knowledge of Udolpho. 

'You are mistaken, ' replied Agnes, 'you certainly never saw that picturebefore. '

'No, ' replied Emily, 'but I have seen one extremely like it. ''Impossible, ' said Agnes, who may now be called the Lady Laurentini. 

'It was in the castle of Udolpho, ' continued Emily, looking stedfastlyat her. 

'Of Udolpho!' exclaimed Laurentini, 'of Udolpho in Italy!' 'The same, 'replied Emily. 

'You know me then, ' said Laurentini, 'and you are the daughter of theMarchioness. ' Emily was somewhat surprised at this abrupt assertion. 'Iam the daughter of the late Mons. St. Aubert, ' said she; 'and the ladyyou name is an utter stranger to me. '

'At least you believe so, ' rejoined Laurentini. 

Emily asked what reasons there could be to believe otherwise. 

'The family likeness, that you bear her, ' said the nun. 'TheMarchioness, it is known, was attached to a gentleman of Gascony, at thetime when she accepted the hand of the Marquis, by the command of herfather. Ill-fated, unhappy woman!'

Emily, remembering the extreme emotion which St. Aubert had betrayed onthe mention of the Marchioness, would now have suffered something morethan surprise, had her confidence in his integrity been less; as itwas, she could not, for a moment, believe what the words of Laurentiniinsinuated; yet she still felt strongly interested, concerning them, andbegged, that she would explain them further. 

'Do not urge me on that subject, ' said the nun, 'it is to me a terribleone! Would that I could blot it from my memory!' She sighed deeply, and, after the pause of a moment, asked Emily, by what means she haddiscovered her name?

'By your portrait in the castle of Udolpho, to which this miniaturebears a striking resemblance, ' replied Emily. 

'You have been at Udolpho then!' said the nun, with great emotion. 'Alas! what scenes does the mention of it revive in my fancy--scenes ofhappiness--of suffering--and of horror!'

At this moment, the terrible spectacle, which Emily had witnessed in achamber of that castle, occurred to her, and she shuddered, while shelooked upon the nun--and recollected her late words--that 'years ofprayer and penitence could not wash out the foulness of murder. ' Shewas now compelled to attribute these to another cause, than that ofdelirium. With a degree of horror, that almost deprived her of sense, she now believed she looked upon a murderer; all the recollectedbehaviour of Laurentini seemed to confirm the supposition, yet Emily wasstill lost in a labyrinth of perplexities, and, not knowing how to askthe questions, which might lead to truth, she could only hint them inbroken sentences. 

'Your sudden departure from Udolpho'--said she. 

Laurentini groaned. 

'The reports that followed it, ' continued Emily--'The west chamber--themournful veil--the object it conceals!--when murders are committed--'

The nun shrieked. 'What! there again!' said she, endeavouring to raiseherself, while her starting eyes seemed to follow some object roundthe room--'Come from the grave! What! Blood--blood too!--There wasno blood--thou canst not say it!--Nay, do not smile, --do not smile sopiteously!'

Laurentini fell into convulsions, as she uttered the last words; andEmily, unable any longer to endure the horror of the scene, hurried fromthe room, and sent some nuns to the assistance of the abbess. 

The Lady Blanche, and the boarders, who were in the parlour, nowassembled round Emily, and, alarmed by her manner and affrightedcountenance, asked a hundred questions, which she avoided answeringfurther, than by saying, that she believed sister Agnes was dying. Theyreceived this as a sufficient explanation of her terror, and had thenleisure to offer restoratives, which, at length, somewhat revived Emily, whose mind was, however, so much shocked with the terrible surmises, andperplexed with doubts by some words from the nun, that she was unableto converse, and would have left the convent immediately, had she notwished to know whether Laurentini would survive the late attack. Afterwaiting some time, she was informed, that, the convulsions havingceased, Laurentini seemed to be reviving, and Emily and Blanche weredeparting, when the abbess appeared, who, drawing the former aside, saidshe had something of consequence to say to her, but, as it was late, she would not detain her then, and requested to see her on the followingday. 

Emily promised to visit her, and, having taken leave, returned with theLady Blanche towards the chateau, on the way to which the deep gloom ofthe woods made Blanche lament, that the evening was so far advanced; forthe surrounding stillness and obscurity rendered her sensible of fear, though there was a servant to protect her; while Emily was too muchengaged by the horrors of the scene she had just witnessed, to beaffected by the solemnity of the shades, otherwise than as they servedto promote her gloomy reverie, from which, however, she was at lengthrecalled by the Lady Blanche, who pointed out, at some distance, inthe dusky path they were winding, two persons slowly advancing. It wasimpossible to avoid them without striking into a still more secludedpart of the wood, whither the strangers might easily follow; but allapprehension vanished, when Emily distinguished the voice of Mons. DuPont, and perceived, that his companion was the gentleman, whom shehad seen at the monastery, and who was now conversing with so muchearnestness as not immediately to perceive their approach. When Du Pontjoined the ladies, the stranger took leave, and they proceeded to thechateau, where the Count, when he heard of Mons. Bonnac, claimed him foran acquaintance, and, on learning the melancholy occasion of his visitto Languedoc, and that he was lodged at a small inn in the village, begged the favour of Mons. Du Pont to invite him to the chateau. 

The latter was happy to do so, and the scruples of reserve, which madeM. Bonnac hesitate to accept the invitation, being at length overcome, they went to the chateau, where the kindness of the Count and thesprightliness of his son were exerted to dissipate the gloom, thatoverhung the spirits of the stranger. M. Bonnac was an officer in theFrench service, and appeared to be about fifty; his figure was talland commanding, his manners had received the last polish, and there wassomething in his countenance uncommonly interesting; for over features, which, in youth, must have been remarkably handsome, was spread amelancholy, that seemed the effect of long misfortune, rather than ofconstitution, or temper. 

The conversation he held, during supper, was evidently an effort ofpoliteness, and there were intervals in which, unable to struggleagainst the feelings, that depressed him, he relapsed into silence andabstraction, from which, however, the Count, sometimes, withdrew him ina manner so delicate and benevolent, that Emily, while she observed him, almost fancied she beheld her late father. 

The party separated, at an early hour, and then, in the solitude of herapartment, the scenes, which Emily had lately witnessed, returned toher fancy, with dreadful energy. That in the dying nun she should havediscovered Signora Laurentini, who, instead of having been murdered byMontoni, was, as it now seemed, herself guilty of some dreadful crime, excited both horror and surprise in a high degree; nor did the hints, which she had dropped, respecting the marriage of the Marchioness deVilleroi, and the enquiries she had made concerning Emily's birth, occasion her a less degree of interest, though it was of a differentnature. 

The history, which sister Frances had formerly related, and had said tobe that of Agnes, it now appeared, was erroneous; but for what purposeit had been fabricated, unless the more effectually to conceal the truestory, Emily could not even guess. Above all, her interest was excitedas to the relation, which the story of the late Marchioness de Villeroibore to that of her father; for, that some kind of relation existedbetween them, the grief of St. Aubert, upon hearing her named, hisrequest to be buried near her, and her picture, which had been foundamong his papers, certainly proved. Sometimes it occurred to Emily, thathe might have been the lover, to whom it was said the Marchioness wasattached, when she was compelled to marry the Marquis de Villeroi; butthat he had afterwards cherished a passion for her, she could not sufferherself to believe, for a moment. The papers, which he had so solemnlyenjoined her to destroy, she now fancied had related to this connection, and she wished more earnestly than before to know the reasons, thatmade him consider the injunction necessary, which, had her faith inhis principles been less, would have led to believe, that there wasa mystery in her birth dishonourable to her parents, which thosemanuscripts might have revealed. 

Reflections, similar to these, engaged her mind, during the greater partof the night, and when, at length, she fell into a slumber, it was onlyto behold a vision of the dying nun, and to awaken in horrors, likethose she had witnessed. 

On the following morning, she was too much indisposed to attend herappointment with the abbess, and, before the day concluded, she heard, that sister Agnes was no more. Mons. Bonnac received this intelligence, with concern; but Emily observed, that he did not appear so muchaffected now, as on the preceding evening, immediately after quittingthe apartment of the nun, whose death was probably less terrible to him, than the confession he had been then called upon to witness. Howeverthis might be, he was perhaps consoled, in some degree, by a knowledgeof the legacy bequeathed him, since his family was large, and theextravagance of some part of it had lately been the means of involvinghim in great distress, and even in the horrors of a prison; and it wasthe grief he had suffered from the wild career of a favourite son, withthe pecuniary anxieties and misfortunes consequent upon it, thathad given to his countenance the air of dejection, which had so muchinterested Emily. 

To his friend Mons. Du Pont he recited some particulars of his latesufferings, when it appeared, that he had been confined for severalmonths in one of the prisons of Paris, with little hope of release, and without the comfort of seeing his wife, who had been absent in thecountry, endeavouring, though in vain, to procure assistance from hisfriends. When, at length, she had obtained an order for admittance, shewas so much shocked at the change, which long confinement and sorrow hadmade in his appearance, that she was seized with fits, which, by theirlong continuance, threatened her life. 

'Our situation affected those, who happened to witness it, ' continuedMons. Bonnac, 'and one generous friend, who was in confinement at thesame time, afterwards employed the first moments of his liberty inefforts to obtain mine. He succeeded; the heavy debt, that oppressedme, was discharged; and, when I would have expressed my sense of theobligation I had received, my benefactor was fled from my search. I havereason to believe he was the victim of his own generosity, and that hereturned to the state of confinement, from which he had released me;but every enquiry after him was unsuccessful. Amiable and unfortunateValancourt!'

'Valancourt!' exclaimed Mons. Du Pont. 'Of what family?'

'The Valancourts, Counts Duvarney, ' replied Mons. Bonnac. 

The emotion of Mons. Du Pont, when he discovered the generous benefactorof his friend to be the rival of his love, can only be imagined; but, having overcome his first surprise, he dissipated the apprehensions ofMons. Bonnac by acquainting him, that Valancourt was at liberty, and hadlately been in Languedoc; after which his affection for Emily promptedhim to make some enquiries, respecting the conduct of his rival, duringhis stay at Paris, of which M. Bonnac appeared to be well informed. Theanswers he received were such as convinced him, that Valancourt had beenmuch misrepresented, and, painful as was the sacrifice, he formed thejust design of relinquishing his pursuit of Emily to a lover, who, itnow appeared, was not unworthy of the regard, with which she honouredhim. 

The conversation of Mons. Bonnac discovered, that Valancourt, sometime after his arrival at Paris, had been drawn into the snares, whichdetermined vice had spread for him, and that his hours had been chieflydivided between the parties of the captivating Marchioness and thosegaming assemblies, to which the envy, or the avarice, of his brotherofficers had spared no art to seduce him. In these parties he had lostlarge sums, in efforts to recover small ones, and to such losses theCount De Villefort and Mons. Henri had been frequent witnesses. Hisresources were, at length, exhausted; and the Count, his brother, exasperated by his conduct, refused to continue the supplies necessaryto his present mode of life, when Valancourt, in consequence ofaccumulated debts, was thrown into confinement, where his brothersuffered him to remain, in the hope, that punishment might effect areform of conduct, which had not yet been confirmed by long habit. 

In the solitude of his prison, Valancourt had leisure for reflection, and cause for repentance; here, too, the image of Emily, which, amidstthe dissipation of the city had been obscured, but never obliteratedfrom his heart, revived with all the charms of innocence and beauty, toreproach him for having sacrificed his happiness and debased his talentsby pursuits, which his nobler faculties would formerly have taught himto consider were as tasteless as they were degrading. But, though hispassions had been seduced, his heart was not depraved, nor had habitriveted the chains, that hung heavily on his conscience; and, as heretained that energy of will, which was necessary to burst them, he, atlength, emancipated himself from the bondage of vice, but not till aftermuch effort and severe suffering. 

Being released by his brother from the prison, where he had witnessedthe affecting meeting between Mons. Bonnac and his wife, with whom hehad been for some time acquainted, the first use of his liberty formed astriking instance of his humanity and his rashness; for with nearly allthe money, just received from his brother, he went to a gaming-house, and gave it as a last stake for the chance of restoring his friend tofreedom, and to his afflicted family. The event was fortunate, and, while he had awaited the issue of this momentous stake, he made a solemnvow never again to yield to the destructive and fascinating vice ofgaming. 

Having restored the venerable Mons. Bonnac to his rejoicing family, hehurried from Paris to Estuviere; and, in the delight of having made thewretched happy, forgot, for a while, his own misfortunes. Soon, however, he remembered, that he had thrown away the fortune, without which hecould never hope to marry Emily; and life, unless passed with her, now scarcely appeared supportable; for her goodness, refinement, andsimplicity of heart, rendered her beauty more enchanting, if possible, to his fancy, than it had ever yet appeared. Experience had taughthim to understand the full value of the qualities, which he had beforeadmired, but which the contrasted characters he had seen in the worldmade him now adore; and these reflections, increasing the pangs ofremorse and regret, occasioned the deep dejection, that had accompaniedhim even into the presence of Emily, of whom he considered himself nolonger worthy. To the ignominy of having received pecuniary obligationsfrom the Marchioness Chamfort, or any other lady of intrigue, as theCount De Villefort had been informed, or of having been engaged in thedepredating schemes of gamesters, Valancourt had never submitted; andthese were some of such scandals as often mingle with truth, against theunfortunate. Count De Villefort had received them from authority whichhe had no reason to doubt, and which the imprudent conduct he hadhimself witnessed in Valancourt, had certainly induced him the morereadily to believe. Being such as Emily could not name to the Chevalier, he had no opportunity of refuting them; and, when he confessedhimself to be unworthy of her esteem, he little suspected, that he wasconfirming to her the most dreadful calumnies. Thus the mistake had beenmutual, and had remained so, when Mons. Bonnac explained the conduct ofhis generous, but imprudent young friend to Du Pont, who, with severejustice, determined not only to undeceive the Count on this subject, butto resign all hope of Emily. Such a sacrifice as his love renderedthis, was deserving of a noble reward, and Mons. Bonnac, if it had beenpossible for him to forget the benevolent Valancourt, would have wishedthat Emily might accept the just Du Pont. 

When the Count was informed of the error he had committed, he wasextremely shocked at the consequence of his credulity, and the accountwhich Mons. Bonnac gave of his friend's situation, while at Paris, convinced him, that Valancourt had been entrapped by the schemes of aset of dissipated young men, with whom his profession had partly obligedhim to associate, rather than by an inclination to vice; and, charmedby the humanity, and noble, though rash generosity, which his conducttowards Mons. Bonnac exhibited, he forgave him the transient errors, that had stained his youth, and restored him to the high degree ofesteem, with which he had regarded him, during their early acquaintance. But, as the least reparation he could now make Valancourt was toafford him an opportunity of explaining to Emily his former conduct, he immediately wrote, to request his forgiveness of the unintentionalinjury he had done him, and to invite him to Chateau-le-Blanc. Motivesof delicacy with-held the Count from informing Emily of this letter, and of kindness from acquainting her with the discovery respectingValancourt, till his arrival should save her from the possibility ofanxiety, as to its event; and this precaution spared her even severerinquietude, than the Count had foreseen, since he was ignorant of thesymptoms of despair, which Valancourt's late conduct had betrayed. 

CHAPTER XVII

 But in these cases, We still have judgment here; that we but teach Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return To plague the inventor: thus even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice To our own lips. MACBETH

Some circumstances of an extraordinary nature now withdrew Emily fromher own sorrows, and excited emotions, which partook of both surpriseand horror. 

A few days followed that, on which Signora Laurentini died, her willwas opened at the monastery, in the presence of the superiors and Mons. Bonnac, when it was found, that one third of her personal property wasbequeathed to the nearest surviving relative of the late Marchioness deVilleroi, and that Emily was the person. 

With the secret of Emily's family the abbess had long been acquainted, and it was in observance of the earnest request of St. Aubert, whowas known to the friar, that attended him on his death-bed, thathis daughter had remained in ignorance of her relationship to theMarchioness. But some hints, which had fallen from Signora Laurentini, during her last interview with Emily, and a confession of a veryextraordinary nature, given in her dying hours, had made the abbessthink it necessary to converse with her young friend, on the topic shehad not before ventured to introduce; and it was for this purpose, thatshe had requested to see her on the morning that followed her interviewwith the nun. Emily's indisposition had then prevented the intendedconversation; but now, after the will had been examined, she receiveda summons, which she immediately obeyed, and became informed ofcircumstances, that powerfully affected her. As the narrative of theabbess was, however, deficient in many particulars, of which the readermay wish to be informed, and the history of the nun is materiallyconnected with the fate of the Marchioness de Villeroi, we shall omitthe conversation, that passed in the parlour of the convent, and minglewith our relation a brief history of

 LAURENTINI DI UDOLPHO, Who was the only child of her parents, and heiress of the ancient houseof Udolpho, in the territory of Venice. It was the first misfortuneof her life, and that which led to all her succeeding misery, that thefriends, who ought to have restrained her strong passions, and mildlyinstructed her in the art of governing them, nurtured them by earlyindulgence. But they cherished their own failings in her; for theirconduct was not the result of rational kindness, and, when they eitherindulged, or opposed the passions of their child, they gratified theirown. Thus they indulged her with weakness, and reprehended her withviolence; her spirit was exasperated by their vehemence, instead ofbeing corrected by their wisdom; and their oppositions became contestfor victory, in which the due tenderness of the parents, and theaffectionate duties of the child, were equally forgotten; but, asreturning fondness disarmed the parents' resentment soonest, Laurentiniwas suffered to believe that she had conquered, and her passions becamestronger by every effort, that had been employed to subdue them. 

The death of her father and mother in the same year left her to her owndiscretion, under the dangerous circumstances attendant on youthand beauty. She was fond of company, delighted with admiration, yetdisdainful of the opinion of the world, when it happened to contradicther inclinations; had a gay and brilliant wit, and was mistress ofall the arts of fascination. Her conduct was such as might have beenexpected, from the weakness of her principles and the strength of herpassions. 

Among her numerous admirers was the late Marquis de Villeroi, who, onhis tour through Italy, saw Laurentini at Venice, where she usuallyresided, and became her passionate adorer. Equally captivated by thefigure and accomplishments of the Marquis, who was at that period one ofthe most distinguished noblemen of the French court, she had the art soeffectually to conceal from him the dangerous traits of her characterand the blemishes of her late conduct, that he solicited her hand inmarriage. 

Before the nuptials were concluded, she retired to the castle ofUdolpho, whither the Marquis followed, and, where her conduct, relaxingfrom the propriety, which she had lately assumed, discovered to himthe precipice, on which he stood. A minuter enquiry than he had beforethought it necessary to make, convinced him, that he had been deceivedin her character, and she, whom he had designed for his wife, afterwardsbecame his mistress. 

Having passed some weeks at Udolpho, he was called abruptly to France, whither he returned with extreme reluctance, for his heart was stillfascinated by the arts of Laurentini, with whom, however, he had onvarious pretences delayed his marriage; but, to reconcile her to thisseparation, he now gave repeated promises of returning to concludethe nuptials, as soon as the affair, which thus suddenly called him toFrance, should permit. 

Soothed, in some degree, by these assurances, she suffered him todepart; and, soon after, her relative, Montoni, arriving at Udolpho, renewed the addresses, which she had before refused, and which she nowagain rejected. Meanwhile, her thoughts were constantly with the Marquisde Villeroi, for whom she suffered all the delirium of Italian love, cherished by the solitude, to which she confined herself; for shehad now lost all taste for the pleasures of society and the gaiety ofamusement. Her only indulgences were to sigh and weep over a miniatureof the Marquis; to visit the scenes, that had witnessed their happiness, to pour forth her heart to him in writing, and to count the weeks, thedays, which must intervene before the period that he had mentioned asprobable for his return. But this period passed without bringinghim; and week after week followed in heavy and almost intolerableexpectation. During this interval, Laurentini's fancy, occupiedincessantly by one idea, became disordered; and, her whole heart beingdevoted to one object, life became hateful to her, when she believedthat object lost. 

Several months passed, during which she heard nothing from the Marquisde Villeroi, and her days were marked, at intervals, with the phrensyof passion and the sullenness of despair. She secluded herself from allvisitors, and, sometimes, remained in her apartment, for weekstogether, refusing to speak to every person, except her favourite femaleattendant, writing scraps of letters, reading, again and again, thoseshe had received from the Marquis, weeping over his picture, andspeaking to it, for many hours, upbraiding, reproaching and caressing italternately. 

At length, a report reached her, that the Marquis had married in France, and, after suffering all the extremes of love, jealousy and indignation, she formed the desperate resolution of going secretly to that country, and, if the report proved true, of attempting a deep revenge. To herfavourite woman only she confided the plan of her journey, and sheengaged her to partake of it. Having collected her jewels, which, descending to her from many branches of her family, were of immensevalue, and all her cash, to a very large amount, they were packed ina trunk, which was privately conveyed to a neighbouring town, whitherLaurentini, with this only servant, followed, and thence proceededsecretly to Leghorn, where they embarked for France. 

When, on her arrival in Languedoc, she found, that the Marquis deVilleroi had been married, for some months, her despair almost deprivedher of reason, and she alternately projected and abandoned the horribledesign of murdering the Marquis, his wife and herself. At length shecontrived to throw herself in his way, with an intention of reproachinghim, for his conduct, and of stabbing herself in his presence; but, when she again saw him, who so long had been the constant object ofher thoughts and affections, resentment yielded to love; her resolutionfailed; she trembled with the conflict of emotions, that assailed herheart, and fainted away. 

The Marquis was not proof against her beauty and sensibility; all theenergy, with which he had first loved, returned, for his passion hadbeen resisted by prudence, rather than overcome by indifference; and, since the honour of his family would not permit him to marry her, he hadendeavoured to subdue his love, and had so far succeeded, as to selectthe then Marchioness for his wife, whom he loved at first with atempered and rational affection. But the mild virtues of that amiablelady did not recompense him for her indifference, which appeared, notwithstanding her efforts to conceal it; and he had, for some time, suspected that her affections were engaged by another person, whenLaurentini arrived in Languedoc. This artful Italian soon perceived, that she had regained her influence over him, and, soothed by thediscovery, she determined to live, and to employ all her enchantments towin his consent to the diabolical deed, which she believed was necessaryto the security of her happiness. She conducted her scheme with deepdissimulation and patient perseverance, and, having completely estrangedthe affections of the Marquis from his wife, whose gentle goodness andunimpassioned manners had ceased to please, when contrasted with thecaptivations of the Italian, she proceeded to awaken in his mind thejealousy of pride, for it was no longer that of love, and even pointedout to him the person, to whom she affirmed the Marchioness hadsacrificed her honour; but Laurentini had first extorted from him asolemn promise to forbear avenging himself upon his rival. This wasan important part of her plan, for she knew, that, if his desire ofvengeance was restrained towards one party, it would burn more fiercelytowards the other, and he might then, perhaps, be prevailed on to assistin the horrible act, which would release him from the only barrier, thatwith-held him from making her his wife. 

The innocent Marchioness, meanwhile, observed, with extreme grief, thealteration in her husband's manners. He became reserved and thoughtfulin her presence; his conduct was austere, and sometimes even rude; andhe left her, for many hours together, to weep for his unkindness, and toform plans for the recovery of his affection. His conduct afflicted herthe more, because, in obedience to the command of her father, she hadaccepted his hand, though her affections were engaged to another, whoseamiable disposition, she had reason to believe, would have ensured herhappiness. This circumstance Laurentini had discovered, soon after herarrival in France, and had made ample use of it in assisting her designsupon the Marquis, to whom she adduced such seeming proof of his wife'sinfidelity, that, in the frantic rage of wounded honour, he consented todestroy his wife. A slow poison was administered, and she fell a victimto the jealousy and subtlety of Laurentini and to the guilty weakness ofher husband. 

But the moment of Laurentini's triumph, the moment, to which she hadlooked forward for the completion of all her wishes, proved only thecommencement of a suffering, that never left her to her dying hour. 

The passion of revenge, which had in part stimulated her to thecommission of this atrocious deed, died, even at the moment when it wasgratified, and left her to the horrors of unavailing pity and remorse, which would probably have empoisoned all the years she had promisedherself with the Marquis de Villeroi, had her expectations of analliance with him been realized. But he, too, had found the moment ofhis revenge to be that of remorse, as to himself, and detestation, asto the partner of his crime; the feeling, which he had mistaken forconviction, was no more; and he stood astonished, and aghast, that noproof remained of his wife's infidelity, now that she had suffered thepunishment of guilt. Even when he was informed, that she was dying, hehad felt suddenly and unaccountably reassured of her innocence, nor wasthe solemn assurance she made him in her last hour, capable of affordinghim a stronger conviction of her blameless conduct. 

In the first horrors of remorse and despair, he felt inclined to deliverup himself and the woman, who had plunged him into this abyss of guilt, into the hands of justice; but, when the paroxysm of his sufferingwas over, his intention changed. Laurentini, however, he saw only onceafterwards, and that was, to curse her as the instigator of his crime, and to say, that he spared her life only on condition, that shepassed the rest of her days in prayer and penance. Overwhelmed withdisappointment, on receiving contempt and abhorrence from the man, for whose sake she had not scrupled to stain her conscience withhuman blood, and, touched with horror of the unavailing crime she hadcommitted, she renounced the world, and retired to the monastery of St. Claire, a dreadful victim to unresisted passion. 

The Marquis, immediately after the death of his wife, quittedChateau-le-Blanc, to which he never returned, and endeavoured to losethe sense of his crime amidst the tumult of war, or the dissipationsof a capital; but his efforts were vain; a deep dejection hung over himever after, for which his most intimate friend could not account, andhe, at length, died, with a degree of horror nearly equal to that, whichLaurentini had suffered. The physician, who had observed the singularappearance of the unfortunate Marchioness, after death, had been bribedto silence; and, as the surmises of a few of the servants had proceededno further than a whisper, the affair had never been investigated. Whether this whisper ever reached the father of the Marchioness, and, if it did, whether the difficulty of obtaining proof deterred him fromprosecuting the Marquis de Villeroi, is uncertain; but her death wasdeeply lamented by some part of her family, and particularly by herbrother, M. St. Aubert; for that was the degree of relationship, whichhad existed between Emily's father and the Marchioness; and there is nodoubt, that he suspected the manner of her death. Many letters passedbetween the Marquis and him, soon after the decease of his belovedsister, the subject of which was not known, but there is reason tobelieve, that they related to the cause of her death; and these were thepapers, together with some letters of the Marchioness, who had confidedto her brother the occasion of her unhappiness, which St. Aubert had sosolemnly enjoined his daughter to destroy: and anxiety for her peace hadprobably made him forbid her to enquire into the melancholy story, to which they alluded. Such, indeed, had been his affliction, on thepremature death of this his favourite sister, whose unhappy marriage hadfrom the first excited his tenderest pity, that he never could hearher named, or mention her himself after her death, except to Madame St. Aubert. From Emily, whose sensibility he feared to awaken, he had socarefully concealed her history and name, that she was ignorant, tillnow, that she ever had such a relative as the Marchioness de Villeroi;and from this motive he had enjoined silence to his only survivingsister, Madame Cheron, who had scrupulously observed his request. 

It was over some of the last pathetic letters of the Marchioness, thatSt. Aubert was weeping, when he was observed by Emily, on the eve ofher departure from La Vallee, and it was her picture, which he had sotenderly caressed. Her disastrous death may account for the emotion hehad betrayed, on hearing her named by La Voisin, and for his request tobe interred near the monument of the Villerois, where her remains weredeposited, but not those of her husband, who was buried, where he died, in the north of France. 

The confessor, who attended St. Aubert in his last moments, recollectedhim to be the brother of the late Marchioness, when St. Aubert, fromtenderness to Emily, had conjured him to conceal the circumstance, andto request that the abbess, to whose care he particularly recommendedher, would do the same; a request, which had been exactly observed. 

Laurentini, on her arrival in France, had carefully concealed hername and family, and, the better to disguise her real history, had, on entering the convent, caused the story to be circulated, which hadimposed on sister Frances, and it is probable, that the abbess, who didnot preside in the convent, at the time of her noviciation, was alsoentirely ignorant of the truth. The deep remorse, that seized onthe mind of Laurentini, together with the sufferings of disappointedpassion, for she still loved the Marquis, again unsettled herintellects, and, after the first paroxysms of despair were passed, aheavy and silent melancholy had settled upon her spirits, which sufferedfew interruptions from fits of phrensy, till the time of her death. During many years, it had been her only amusement to walk in the woodsnear the monastery, in the solitary hours of night, and to play upona favourite instrument, to which she sometimes joined the delightfulmelody of her voice, in the most solemn and melancholy airs of hernative country, modulated by all the energetic feeling, that dwelt inher heart. The physician, who had attended her, recommended it to thesuperior to indulge her in this whim, as the only means of soothing herdistempered fancy; and she was suffered to walk in the lonely hours ofnight, attended by the servant, who had accompanied her from Italy; but, as the indulgence transgressed against the rules of the convent, it waskept as secret as possible; and thus the mysterious music of Laurentinihad combined with other circumstances, to produce a report, that notonly the chateau, but its neighbourhood, was haunted. 

Soon after her entrance into this holy community, and before she hadshewn any symptoms of insanity there, she made a will, in which, afterbequeathing a considerable legacy to the convent, she divided theremainder of her personal property, which her jewels made very valuable, between the wife of Mons. Bonnac, who was an Italian lady and herrelation, and the nearest surviving relative of the late Marchionessde Villeroi. As Emily St. Aubert was not only the nearest, but the solerelative, this legacy descended to her, and thus explained to her thewhole mystery of her father's conduct. 

The resemblance between Emily and her unfortunate aunt had frequentlybeen observed by Laurentini, and had occasioned the singular behaviour, which had formerly alarmed her; but it was in the nun's dying hour, whenher conscience gave her perpetually the idea of the Marchioness, thatshe became more sensible, than ever, of this likeness, and, in herphrensy, deemed it no resemblance of the person she had injured, but theoriginal herself. The bold assertion, that had followed, on the recoveryof her senses, that Emily was the daughter of the Marchioness deVilleroi, arose from a suspicion that she was so; for, knowing that herrival, when she married the Marquis, was attached to another lover, shehad scarcely scrupled to believe, that her honour had been sacrificed, like her own, to an unresisted passion. 

Of a crime, however, to which Emily had suspected, from her phrensiedconfession of murder, that she had been instrumental in the castle ofUdolpho, Laurentini was innocent; and she had herself been deceived, concerning the spectacle, that formerly occasioned her so much terror, and had since compelled her, for a while, to attribute the horrors ofthe nun to a consciousness of a murder, committed in that castle. 

It may be remembered, that, in a chamber of Udolpho, hung a blackveil, whose singular situation had excited Emily's curiosity, and whichafterwards disclosed an object, that had overwhelmed her with horror;for, on lifting it, there appeared, instead of the picture she hadexpected, within a recess of the wall, a human figure of ghastlypaleness, stretched at its length, and dressed in the habiliments ofthe grave. What added to the horror of the spectacle, was, that the faceappeared partly decayed and disfigured by worms, which were visible onthe features and hands. On such an object, it will be readily believed, that no person could endure to look twice. Emily, it may be recollected, had, after the first glance, let the veil drop, and her terror hadprevented her from ever after provoking a renewal of such suffering, asshe had then experienced. Had she dared to look again, her delusion andher fears would have vanished together, and she would have perceived, that the figure before her was not human, but formed of wax. The historyof it is somewhat extraordinary, though not without example in therecords of that fierce severity, which monkish superstition hassometimes inflicted on mankind. A member of the house of Udolpho, havingcommitted some offence against the prerogative of the church, had beencondemned to the penance of contemplating, during certain hours of theday, a waxen image, made to resemble a human body in the state, to whichit is reduced after death. This penance, serving as a memento of thecondition at which he must himself arrive, had been designed toreprove the pride of the Marquis of Udolpho, which had formerly somuch exasperated that of the Romish church; and he had not onlysuperstitiously observed this penance himself, which, he had believed, was to obtain a pardon for all his sins, but had made it a conditionin his will, that his descendants should preserve the image, on pain offorfeiting to the church a certain part of his domain, that theyalso might profit by the humiliating moral it conveyed. The figure, therefore, had been suffered to retain its station in the wall of thechamber, but his descendants excused themselves from observing thepenance, to which he had been enjoined. 

This image was so horribly natural, that it is not surprising Emilyshould have mistaken it for the object it resembled, nor, since she hadheard such an extraordinary account, concerning the disappearing of thelate lady of the castle, and had such experience of the character ofMontoni, that she should have believed this to be the murdered body ofthe lady Laurentini, and that he had been the contriver of her death. 

The situation, in which she had discovered it, occasioned her, at first, much surprise and perplexity; but the vigilance, with which the doorsof the chamber, where it was deposited, were afterwards secured, hadcompelled her to believe, that Montoni, not daring to confide the secretof her death to any person, had suffered her remains to decay in thisobscure chamber. The ceremony of the veil, however, and the circumstanceof the doors having been left open, even for a moment, had occasionedher much wonder and some doubts; but these were not sufficient toovercome her suspicion of Montoni; and it was the dread of his terriblevengeance, that had sealed her lips in silence, concerning what she hadseen in the west chamber. 

Emily, in discovering the Marchioness de Villeroi to have been thesister of Mons. St. Aubert, was variously affected; but, amidst thesorrow, which she suffered for her untimely death, she was released froman anxious and painful conjecture, occasioned by the rash assertion ofSignora Laurentini, concerning her birth and the honour of her parents. Her faith in St. Aubert's principles would scarcely allow her to suspectthat he had acted dishonourably; and she felt such reluctance tobelieve herself the daughter of any other, than her, whom she had alwaysconsidered and loved as a mother, that she would hardly admit such acircumstance to be possible; yet the likeness, which it had frequentlybeen affirmed she bore to the late Marchioness, the former behaviourof Dorothee the old housekeeper, the assertion of Laurentini, and themysterious attachment, which St. Aubert had discovered, awakened doubts, as to his connection with the Marchioness, which her reason couldneither vanquish, or confirm. From these, however, she was now relieved, and all the circumstances of her father's conduct were fully explained:but her heart was oppressed by the melancholy catastrophe of heramiable relative, and by the awful lesson, which the history of thenun exhibited, the indulgence of whose passions had been the means ofleading her gradually to the commission of a crime, from the prophecyof which in her early years she would have recoiled in horror, andexclaimed--that it could not be!--a crime, which whole years ofrepentance and of the severest penance had not been able to obliteratefrom her conscience. 

CHAPTER XVIII

 Then, fresh tears Stood on her cheek, as doth the honey-dew Upon a gather'd lily almost wither'd SHAKESPEARE

After the late discoveries, Emily was distinguished at the chateau bythe Count and his family, as a relative of the house of Villeroi, andreceived, if possible, more friendly attention, than had yet been shewnher. 

Count De Villefort's surprise at the delay of an answer to his letter, which had been directed to Valancourt, at Estuviere, was mingled withsatisfaction for the prudence, which had saved Emily from a share of theanxiety he now suffered, though, when he saw her still drooping underthe effect of his former error, all his resolution was necessary torestrain him from relating the truth, that would afford her a momentaryrelief. The approaching nuptials of the Lady Blanche now divided hisattention with this subject of his anxiety, for the inhabitants of thechateau were already busied in preparations for that event, and thearrival of Mons. St. Foix was daily expected. In the gaiety, whichsurrounded her, Emily vainly tried to participate, her spirits beingdepressed by the late discoveries, and by the anxiety concerning thefate of Valancourt, that had been occasioned by the description of hismanner, when he had delivered the ring. She seemed to perceive in itthe gloomy wildness of despair; and, when she considered to what thatdespair might have urged him, her heart sunk with terror and grief. The state of suspense, as to his safety, to which she believed herselfcondemned, till she should return to La Vallee, appeared insupportable, and, in such moments, she could not even struggle to assume thecomposure, that had left her mind, but would often abruptly quit thecompany she was with, and endeavour to sooth her spirits in the deepsolitudes of the woods, that overbrowed the shore. Here, the faint roarof foaming waves, that beat below, and the sullen murmur of the windamong the branches around, were circumstances in unison with the temperof her mind; and she would sit on a cliff, or on the broken steps ofher favourite watch-tower, observing the changing colours of the eveningclouds, and the gloom of twilight draw over the sea, till the white topsof billows, riding towards the shore, could scarcely be discerned amidstthe darkened waters. The lines, engraved by Valancourt on this tower, she frequently repeated with melancholy enthusiasm, and then wouldendeavour to check the recollections and the grief they occasioned, andto turn her thoughts to indifferent subjects. 

One evening, having wandered with her lute to this her favourite spot, she entered the ruined tower, and ascended a winding staircase, thatled to a small chamber, which was less decayed than the rest of thebuilding, and whence she had often gazed, with admiration, on the wideprospect of sea and land, that extended below. The sun was now settingon that tract of the Pyrenees, which divided Languedoc from Rousillon, and, placing herself opposite to a small grated window, which, like thewood-tops beneath, and the waves lower still, gleamed with the red glowof the west, she touched the chords of her lute in solemn symphony, andthen accompanied it with her voice, in one of the simple and affectingairs, to which, in happier days, Valancourt had often listened inrapture, and which she now adapted to the following lines. 

 TO MELANCHOLY

 Spirit of love and sorrow--hail! Thy solemn voice from far I hear, Mingling with ev'ning's dying gale: Hail, with this sadly-pleasing tear!

 O! at this still, this lonely hour, Thine own sweet hour of closing day, Awake thy lute, whose charmful pow'r Shall call up Fancy to obey:

 To paint the wild romantic dream, That meets the poet's musing eye, As, on the bank of shadowy stream, He breathes to her the fervid sigh. 

 O lonely spirit! let thy song Lead me through all thy sacred haunt; The minister's moon-light aisles along, Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt. 

 I hear their dirges faintly swell! Then, sink at once in silence drear, While, from the pillar'd cloister's cell, Dimly their gliding forms appear!

 Lead where the pine-woods wave on high, Whose pathless sod is darkly seen, As the cold moon, with trembling eye, Darts her long beams the leaves between. 

 Lead to the mountain's dusky head, Where, far below, in shade profound, Wide forests, plains and hamlets spread, And sad the chimes of vesper sound, Or guide me, where the dashing oar Just breaks the stillness of the vale, As slow it tracks the winding shore, To meet the ocean's distant sail:

 To pebbly banks, that Neptune laves, With measur'd surges, loud and deep, Where the dark cliff bends o'er the waves, And wild the winds of autumn sweep. 

 There pause at midnight's spectred hour, And list the long-resounding gale; And catch the fleeting moon-light's pow'r, O'er foaming seas and distant sail. 

The soft tranquillity of the scene below, where the evening breezescarcely curled the water, or swelled the passing sail, that caught thelast gleam of the sun, and where, now and then, a dipping oar was allthat disturbed the trembling radiance, conspired with the tender melodyof her lute to lull her mind into a state of gentle sadness, and shesung the mournful songs of past times, till the remembrances theyawakened were too powerful for her heart, her tears fell upon thelute, over which she drooped, and her voice trembled, and was unable toproceed. 

Though the sun had now sunk behind the mountains, and even his reflectedlight was fading from their highest points, Emily did not leave thewatch-tower, but continued to indulge her melancholy reverie, till afootstep, at a little distance, startled her, and, on looking throughthe grate, she observed a person walking below, whom, however, soonperceiving to be Mons. Bonnac, she returned to the quiet thoughtfulnesshis step had interrupted. After some time, she again struck her lute, and sung her favourite air; but again a step disturbed her, and, as shepaused to listen, she heard it ascending the stair-case of the tower. The gloom of the hour, perhaps, made her sensible to some degree offear, which she might not otherwise have felt; for, only a few minutesbefore, she had seen Mons. Bonnac pass. The steps were quick andbounding, and, in the next moment, the door of the chamber opened, and aperson entered, whose features were veiled in the obscurity oftwilight; but his voice could not be concealed, for it was the voiceof Valancourt! At the sound, never heard by Emily, without emotion, shestarted, in terror, astonishment and doubtful pleasure, and had scarcelybeheld him at her feet, when she sunk into a seat, overcome by thevarious emotions, that contended at her heart, and almost insensible tothat voice, whose earnest and trembling calls seemed as if endeavouringto save her. Valancourt, as he hung over Emily, deplored his own rashimpatience, in having thus surprised her: for when he had arrived atthe chateau, too anxious to await the return of the Count, who, heunderstood, was in the grounds, he went himself to seek him, when, ashe passed the tower, he was struck by the sound of Emily's voice, andimmediately ascended. 

It was a considerable time before she revived, but, when herrecollection returned, she repulsed his attentions, with an air ofreserve, and enquired, with as much displeasure as it was possible shecould feel in these first moments of his appearance, the occasion of hisvisit. 

'Ah Emily!' said Valancourt, 'that air, those words--alas! I have, then, little to hope--when you ceased to esteem me, you ceased also to loveme!'

'Most true, sir, ' replied Emily, endeavouring to command her tremblingvoice; 'and if you had valued my esteem, you would not have given methis new occasion for uneasiness. '

Valancourt's countenance changed suddenly from the anxieties of doubt toan expression of surprise and dismay: he was silent a moment, and thensaid, 'I had been taught to hope for a very different reception! Isit, then, true, Emily, that I have lost your regard forever? am I tobelieve, that, though your esteem for me may return--your affectionnever can? Can the Count have meditated the cruelty, which now torturesme with a second death?'

The voice, in which he spoke this, alarmed Emily as much as his wordssurprised her, and, with trembling impatience, she begged that he wouldexplain them. 

'Can any explanation be necessary?' said Valancourt, 'do you not knowhow cruelly my conduct has been misrepresented? that the actions ofwhich you once believed me guilty (and, O Emily! how could you sodegrade me in your opinion, even for a moment!) those actions--I hold inas much contempt and abhorrence as yourself? Are you, indeed, ignorant, that Count de Villefort has detected the slanders, that have robbed meof all I hold dear on earth, and has invited me hither to justify toyou my former conduct? It is surely impossible you can be uninformed ofthese circumstances, and I am again torturing myself with a false hope!'

The silence of Emily confirmed this supposition; for the deep twilightwould not allow Valancourt to distinguish the astonishment and doubtingjoy, that fixed her features. For a moment, she continued unable tospeak; then a profound sigh seemed to give some relief to her spirits, and she said, 'Valancourt! I was, till this moment, ignorant of all the circumstancesyou have mentioned; the emotion I now suffer may assure you of the truthof this, and, that, though I had ceased to esteem, I had not taughtmyself entirely to forget you. '

'This moment, ' said Valancourt, in a low voice, and leaning for supportagainst the window--'this moment brings with it a conviction thatoverpowers me!--I am dear to you then--still dear to you, my Emily!'

'Is it necessary that I should tell you so?' she replied, 'is itnecessary, that I should say--these are the first moments of joy I haveknown, since your departure, and that they repay me for all those ofpain I have suffered in the interval?'

Valancourt sighed deeply, and was unable to reply; but, as he pressedher hand to his lips, the tears, that fell over it, spoke a language, which could not be mistaken, and to which words were inadequate. 

Emily, somewhat tranquillized, proposed returning to the chateau, and then, for the first time, recollected that the Count had invitedValancourt thither to explain his conduct, and that no explanation hadyet been given. But, while she acknowledged this, her heart wouldnot allow her to dwell, for a moment, on the possibility of hisunworthiness; his look, his voice, his manner, all spoke the noblesincerity, which had formerly distinguished him; and she again permittedherself to indulge the emotions of a joy, more surprising and powerful, than she had ever before experienced. 

Neither Emily, or Valancourt, were conscious how they reached thechateau, whither they might have been transferred by the spell of afairy, for any thing they could remember; and it was not, till they hadreached the great hall, that either of them recollected there were otherpersons in the world besides themselves. The Count then came forthwith surprise, and with the joyfulness of pure benevolence, to welcomeValancourt, and to entreat his forgiveness of the injustice he had donehim; soon after which, Mons. Bonnac joined this happy group, in which heand Valancourt were mutually rejoiced to meet. 

When the first congratulations were over, and the general joy becamesomewhat more tranquil, the Count withdrew with Valancourt to thelibrary, where a long conversation passed between them, in whichthe latter so clearly justified himself of the criminal parts of theconduct, imputed to him, and so candidly confessed and so feelinglylamented the follies, which he had committed, that the Count wasconfirmed in his belief of all he had hoped; and, while he perceived somany noble virtues in Valancourt, and that experience had taught himto detest the follies, which before he had only not admired, he did notscruple to believe, that he would pass through life with the dignity ofa wise and good man, or to entrust to his care the future happiness ofEmily St. Aubert, for whom he felt the solicitude of a parent. Of thishe soon informed her, in a short conversation, when Valancourt had lefthim. While Emily listened to a relation of the services, that Valancourthad rendered Mons. Bonnac, her eyes overflowed with tears of pleasure, and the further conversation of Count De Villefort perfectly dissipatedevery doubt, as to the past and future conduct of him, to whom she nowrestored, without fear, the esteem and affection, with which she hadformerly received him. 

When they returned to the supper-room, the Countess and Lady Blanchemet Valancourt with sincere congratulations; and Blanche, indeed, wasso much rejoiced to see Emily returned to happiness, as to forget, for awhile, that Mons. St. Foix was not yet arrived at the chateau, thoughhe had been expected for some hours; but her generous sympathy was, soonafter, rewarded by his appearance. He was now perfectly recovered fromthe wounds, received, during his perilous adventure among the Pyrenees, the mention of which served to heighten to the parties, who hadbeen involved in it, the sense of their present happiness. Newcongratulations passed between them, and round the supper-table appeareda group of faces, smiling with felicity, but with a felicity, which hadin each a different character. The smile of Blanche was frank and gay, that of Emily tender and pensive; Valancourt's was rapturous, tender andgay alternately; Mons. St. Foix's was joyous, and that of the Count, ashe looked on the surrounding party, expressed the tempered complacencyof benevolence; while the features of the Countess, Henri, and Mons. Bonnac, discovered fainter traces of animation. Poor Mons. Du Pont didnot, by his presence, throw a shade of regret over the company; for, when he had discovered, that Valancourt was not unworthy of the esteemof Emily, he determined seriously to endeavour at the conquest ofhis own hopeless affection, and had immediately withdrawn fromChateau-le-Blanc--a conduct, which Emily now understood, and rewardedwith her admiration and pity. 

The Count and his guests continued together till a late hour, yieldingto the delights of social gaiety, and to the sweets of friendship. WhenAnnette heard of the arrival of Valancourt, Ludovico had some difficultyto prevent her going into the supper-room, to express her joy, for shedeclared, that she had never been so rejoiced at any ACCIDENT as this, since she had found Ludovico himself. 

CHAPTER XIX

 Now my task is smoothly done, I can fly, or I can run Quickly to the green earth's end, Where the bow'd welkin low doth bend, And, from thence, can soar as soon To the corners of the moon. MILTON

The marriages of the Lady Blanche and Emily St. Aubert were celebrated, on the same day, and with the ancient baronial magnificence, atChateau-le-Blanc. The feasts were held in the great hall of the castle, which, on this occasion, was hung with superb new tapestry, representingthe exploits of Charlemagne and his twelve peers; here, were seen theSaracens, with their horrible visors, advancing to battle; and there, were displayed the wild solemnities of incantation, and the necromanticfeats, exhibited by the magician JARL before the Emperor. The sumptuousbanners of the family of Villeroi, which had long slept in dust, wereonce more unfurled, to wave over the gothic points of painted casements;and music echoed, in many a lingering close, through every windinggallery and colonnade of that vast edifice. 

As Annette looked down from the corridor upon the hall, whose arches andwindows were illuminated with brilliant festoons of lamps, and gazedon the splendid dresses of the dancers, the costly liveries of theattendants, the canopies of purple velvet and gold, and listened tothe gay strains that floated along the vaulted roof, she almost fanciedherself in an enchanted palace, and declared, that she had not met withany place, which charmed her so much, since she read the fairy tales;nay, that the fairies themselves, at their nightly revels in this oldhall, could display nothing finer; while old Dorothee, as she surveyedthe scene, sighed, and said, the castle looked as it was wont to do inthe time of her youth. 

After gracing the festivities of Chateau-le-Blanc, for some days, Valancourt and Emily took leave of their kind friends, and returned toLa Vallee, where the faithful Theresa received them with unfeignedjoy, and the pleasant shades welcomed them with a thousand tender andaffecting remembrances; and, while they wandered together over thescenes, so long inhabited by the late Mons. And Madame St. Aubert, andEmily pointed out, with pensive affection, their favourite haunts, herpresent happiness was heightened, by considering, that it would havebeen worthy of their approbation, could they have witnessed it. 

Valancourt led her to the plane-tree on the terrace, where he had firstventured to declare his love, and where now the remembrance of theanxiety he had then suffered, and the retrospect of all the dangersand misfortunes they had each encountered, since last they sat togetherbeneath its broad branches, exalted the sense of their present felicity, which, on this spot, sacred to the memory of St. Aubert, they solemnlyvowed to deserve, as far as possible, by endeavouring to imitate hisbenevolence, --by remembering, that superior attainments of every sortbring with them duties of superior exertion, --and by affording to theirfellow-beings, together with that portion of ordinary comforts, whichprosperity always owes to misfortune, the example of lives passed inhappy thankfulness to GOD, and, therefore, in careful tenderness to hiscreatures. 

Soon after their return to La Vallee, the brother of Valancourt came tocongratulate him on his marriage, and to pay his respects to Emily, withwhom he was so much pleased, as well as with the prospect of rationalhappiness, which these nuptials offered to Valancourt, that heimmediately resigned to him a part of the rich domain, the whole ofwhich, as he had no family, would of course descend to his brother, onhis decease. 

The estates, at Tholouse, were disposed of, and Emily purchased ofMons. Quesnel the ancient domain of her late father, where, having givenAnnette a marriage portion, she settled her as the housekeeper, and Ludovico as the steward; but, since both Valancourt and herselfpreferred the pleasant and long-loved shades of La Vallee to themagnificence of Epourville, they continued to reside there, passing, however, a few months in the year at the birth-place of St. Aubert, intender respect to his memory. 

The legacy, which had been bequeathed to Emily by Signora Laurentini, she begged Valancourt would allow her to resign to Mons. Bonnac;and Valancourt, when she made the request, felt all the value of thecompliment it conveyed. The castle of Udolpho, also, descended to thewife of Mons. Bonnac, who was the nearest surviving relation of thehouse of that name, and thus affluence restored his long-oppressedspirits to peace, and his family to comfort. 

O! how joyful it is to tell of happiness, such as that of Valancourtand Emily; to relate, that, after suffering under the oppression of thevicious and the disdain of the weak, they were, at length, restored toeach other--to the beloved landscapes of their native country, --to thesecurest felicity of this life, that of aspiring to moral and labouringfor intellectual improvement--to the pleasures of enlightened society, and to the exercise of the benevolence, which had always animated theirhearts; while the bowers of La Vallee became, once more, the retreat ofgoodness, wisdom and domestic blessedness!

O! useful may it be to have shewn, that, though the vicious cansometimes pour affliction upon the good, their power is transientand their punishment certain; and that innocence, though oppressedby injustice, shall, supported by patience, finally triumph overmisfortune!

And, if the weak hand, that has recorded this tale, has, by its scenes, beguiled the mourner of one hour of sorrow, or, by its moral, taught himto sustain it--the effort, however humble, has not been vain, nor is thewriter unrewarded.