The Mysteries of Udolpho
The Count smiled at the youthful simplicity, with which his daughter
yielded to first impressions; and, though he chose to warn her of their
danger, he silently applauded the benevolence, that could thus readily
expand in confidence to a stranger. He had observed Emily, with
attention, on the preceding evening, and was as much pleased with her,
as it was possible he could be with any person, on so short an
acquaintance. The mention, made of her by Mons. Du Pont, had also given
him a favourable impression of Emily; but, extremely cautious as to
those, whom he introduced to the intimacy of his daughter, he
determined, on hearing that the former was no stranger at the convent
of St. Claire, to visit the abbess, and, if her account corresponded
with his wish, to invite Emily to pass some time at the château. On
this subject, he was influenced by a consideration of the Lady
Blanche’s welfare, still more than by either a wish to oblige her, or
to befriend the orphan Emily, for whom, however, he felt considerably
interested.
On the following morning, Emily was too much fatigued to appear; but
Mons. Du Pont was at the breakfast-table, when the Count entered the
room, who pressed him, as his former acquaintance, and the son of a
very old friend, to prolong his stay at the château; an invitation,
which Du Pont willingly accepted, since it would allow him to be near
Emily; and, though he was not conscious of encouraging a hope, that she
would ever return his affection, he had not fortitude enough to
attempt, at present, to overcome it.
Emily, when she was somewhat recovered, wandered with her new friend
over the grounds belonging to the château, as much delighted with the
surrounding views, as Blanche, in the benevolence of her heart, had
wished; from thence she perceived, beyond the woods, the towers of the
monastery, and remarked, that it was to this convent she designed to
go.
“Ah!” said Blanche with surprise, “I am but just released from a
convent, and would you go into one? If you could know what pleasure I
feel in wandering here, at liberty,—and in seeing the sky and the
fields, and the woods all round me, I think you would not.” Emily,
smiling at the warmth, with which the Lady Blanche spoke, observed,
that she 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 to
what the nuns may persuade you to consent: I know how kind they will
appear, and how happy, for I have seen too much of their art.”
When they returned to the château, Lady Blanche conducted Emily to her
favourite turret, and from thence they rambled through the ancient
chambers, which Blanche had visited before. Emily was amused by
observing the structure of these apartments, and the fashion of their
old but still magnificent furniture, and by comparing them with those
of the castle of Udolpho, which were yet more antique and grotesque.
She was also interested by Dorothée the housekeeper, who attended them,
whose appearance was almost as antique as the objects around her, and
who seemed no less interested by Emily, on whom she frequently gazed
with so much deep attention, as scarcely to hear what was said to her.
While Emily looked from one of the casements, she perceived, with
surprise, some objects, that were familiar to her memory;—the fields
and woods, with the gleaming brook, which she had passed with La
Voisin, one evening, soon after the death of Monsieur St. Aubert, in
her way from the monastery to her cottage; and she now knew this to be
the château, which he had then avoided, and concerning which he had
dropped some remarkable hints.
Shocked by this discovery, yet scarcely knowing why, she mused for some
time in silence, and remembered the emotion, which her father had
betrayed on finding himself so near this mansion, and some other
circumstances of his conduct, that now greatly interested her. The
music, too, which she had formerly heard, and, respecting which La
Voisin had given such an odd account, occurred to her, and, desirous of
knowing more concerning it, she asked Dorothée whether it returned at
midnight, as usual, and whether the musician had yet been discovered.
“Yes, ma’amselle,” replied Dorothée, “that music is still heard, but
the musician has never been found out, nor ever will, I believe; though
there 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 a
spirit?”
Emily smiled, and, remembering how lately she had suffered herself to
be led away by superstition, determined now to resist its contagion;
yet, in spite of her efforts, she felt awe mingle with her curiosity,
on this subject; and Blanche, who had hitherto listened in silence, now
enquired what this music was, and how long it had been heard.
“Ever since the death of my lady, madam,” replied Dorothée.
“Why, the place is not haunted, surely?” said Blanche, between jesting
and seriousness.
“I have heard that music almost ever since my dear lady died,”
continued Dorothée, “and never before then. But that is nothing to some
things I could tell of.”
“Do, pray, tell them, then,” said Lady Blanche, now more in earnest
than in jest. “I am much interested, for I have heard sister Henriette,
and sister Sophie, in the convent, tell of such strange appearances,
which they themselves had witnessed!”
“You never heard, my lady, I suppose, what made us leave the château,
and go and live in a cottage,” said Dorothée. “Never!” replied Blanche
with impatience.
“Nor the reason, that my lord, the Marquis”—Dorothée checked herself,
hesitated, and then endeavoured to change the topic; but the curiosity
of Blanche was too much awakened to suffer the subject thus easily to
escape her, and she pressed the old housekeeper to proceed with her
account, upon whom, however, no entreaties could prevail; and it was
evident, that she was alarmed for the imprudence, into which she had
already betrayed herself.
“I perceive,” said Emily, smiling, “that all old mansions are haunted;
I am lately come from a place of wonders; but unluckily, since I left
it, I have heard almost all of them explained.”
Blanche was silent; Dorothée looked grave, and sighed; and Emily felt
herself still inclined to believe more of the wonderful, than she chose
to acknowledge. Just then, she remembered the spectacle she had
witnessed 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; and she shuddered at the meaning they seemed to impart, almost
as much as at the horrible appearance, disclosed by the black veil.
The Lady Blanche, meanwhile, unable to prevail with Dorothée to explain
the subject of her late hints, had desired, on reaching the door, that
terminated the gallery, and which she found fastened on the preceding
day, to see the suite of rooms beyond. “Dear young lady,” said the
housekeeper, “I have told you my reason for not opening them; I have
never seen them, since my dear lady died; and it would go hard with me
to see them now. Pray, madam, do not ask me again.”
“Certainly I will not,” replied Blanche, “if that is really your
objection.”
“Alas! it is,” said the old woman: “we all loved her well, and I shall
always grieve for her. Time runs round! it is now many years, since she
died; but I remember everything, that happened then, as if it was but
yesterday. Many things, that have passed of late years, are gone quite
from 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 to
Emily, “this young lady sometimes brings the late Marchioness to my
mind; I can remember, when she looked just as blooming, and very like
her, when she smiles. Poor lady! how gay she was, when she first came
to the château!”
“And was she not gay, afterwards?” said Blanche.
Dorothée shook her head; and Emily observed her, with eyes strongly
expressive of the interest she now felt. “Let us sit down in this
window,” said the Lady Blanche, on reaching the opposite end of the
gallery: “and pray, Dorothée, if it is not painful to you, tell us
something more about the Marchioness. I should like to look into the
glass you spoke of just now, and see a few of the circumstances, which
you say often pass over it.”
“No, my lady,” replied Dorothée; “if you knew as much as I do, you
would not, for you would find there a dismal train of them; I often
wish I could shut them out, but they will rise to my mind. I see my
dear lady on her death-bed,—her very look,—and remember all she said—it
was a terrible scene!”
“Why was it so terrible?” said Emily with emotion.
“Ah, dear young lady! is not death always terrible?” replied Dorothée.
To some further enquiries of Blanche Dorothée was silent; and Emily,
observing the tears in her eyes, forbore to urge the subject, and
endeavoured to withdraw the attention of her young friend to some
object in 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 to
the Countess, in a manner so benign, that it recalled most powerfully
to her mind the idea of her late father, and she felt more gratitude to
him, than embarrassment towards the Countess, who, however, received
her with one of those fascinating smiles, which her caprice sometimes
allowed her to assume, and which was now the result of a conversation
the Count had held with her, concerning Emily. Whatever this might be,
or whatever had passed in his conversation with the lady abbess, whom
he had just visited, esteem and kindness were strongly apparent in his
manner, when he addressed Emily, who experienced that sweet emotion,
which arises from the consciousness of possessing the approbation of
the good; for to the Count’s worth she had been inclined to yield her
confidence almost from the first moment, in which she had seen him.
Before she could finish her acknowledgments for the hospitality she had
received, and mention of her design of going immediately to the
convent, she was interrupted by an invitation to lengthen her stay at
the château, which was pressed by the Count and the Countess, with an
appearance of such friendly sincerity, that, though she much wished to
see her old friends at the monastery, and to sigh, once more, over her
father’s grave, she consented to remain a few days at the château.
To the abbess, however, she immediately wrote, mentioning her arrival
in Languedoc and her wish to be received into the convent, as a
boarder; she also sent letters to Monsieur Quesnel and to Valancourt,
whom she merely informed of her arrival in France; and, as she knew not
where the latter might be stationed, she directed her letter to his
brother’s seat in Gascony.
In the evening, Lady Blanche and Mons. Du Pont walked with Emily to the
cottage of La Voisin, which she had now a melancholy pleasure in
approaching, for time had softened her grief for the loss of St.
Aubert, though it could not annihilate it, and she felt a soothing
sadness in indulging the recollections, which this scene recalled. La
Voisin was still living, and seemed to enjoy, as much as formerly, the
tranquil evening 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 their sports. He immediately recollected Emily, whom he was
much pleased to see, and she was as rejoiced to hear, that he had not
lost one of his family, since her departure.