The Mysteries of Udolpho
“Yes, ma’amselle,” said the old man, “we all live merrily together
still, thank God! and I believe there is not a happier family to be
found 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, she
left the cottage.
During these the first days of her stay at Château-le-Blanc, she was
often affected, by observing the deep, but silent melancholy, which, at
times, stole over Du Pont; and Emily, pitying the self-delusion, which
disarmed him of the will to depart, determined to withdraw herself as
soon as the respect she owed the Count and Countess De Villefort would
permit. The dejection of his friend soon alarmed the anxiety of the
Count, to whom Du Pont, at length, confided the secret of his hopeless
affection, which, however, the former could only commiserate, though he
secretly determined to befriend his suit, if an opportunity of doing so
should ever occur. Considering the dangerous situation of Du Pont, he
but feebly opposed his intention of leaving Château-le-Blanc, on the
following day, but drew from him a promise of a longer visit, when he
could return with safety to his peace. Emily herself, though she could
not encourage his affection, esteemed him both for the many virtues he
possessed, and for the services she had received from him; and it was
not without tender emotions of gratitude and pity, that she now saw him
depart for his family seat in Gascony; while he took leave of her with
a countenance so expressive of love and grief, as to interest the Count
more warmly in his cause than before.
In a few days, Emily also left the château, but not before the Count
and Countess had received her promise to repeat her visit very soon;
and she was welcomed by the abbess, with the same maternal kindness she
had formerly experienced, and by the nuns, with much expression of
regard. The well-known scenes of the convent occasioned her many
melancholy recollections, but with these were mingled others, that
inspired gratitude 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 tender affection, her grief was softened from its former
acuteness.
Some time after her return to the monastery, she received a letter from
her uncle, Mons. Quesnel, in answer to information that she had arrived
in France, and to her enquiries, concerning such of her affairs as he
had undertaken to conduct during her absence, especially as to the
period for which La Vallée had been let, whither it was her wish to
return, if it should appear, that her income would permit her to do so.
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 opportunity to
pass, of reproving her for her rejection of Count Morano, whom he
affected still to believe a man of honour and fortune; nor of
vehemently declaiming against Montoni, to whom he had always, till now,
felt himself to be inferior. On Emily’s pecuniary concerns, he was not
very explicit; he informed her, however, that the term, for which La
Vallée had been engaged, was nearly expired; but, without inviting her
to his own house, added, that her circumstances would by no means allow
her to reside there, and earnestly advised her to remain, for the
present, in the 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
Quesnel mentioned M. Motteville, in whose hands the late St. Aubert had
placed the chief of his personal property, as being likely to arrange
his affairs nearly to the satisfaction of his creditors, and that Emily
would recover much more of her fortune, than she had formerly reason to
expect. The letter also inclosed to Emily an order upon a merchant at
Narbonne, for a small sum of money.
The tranquillity of the monastery, and the liberty she was suffered to
enjoy, in wandering among the woods and shores of this delightful
province, gradually restored her spirits to their natural tone, except
that anxiety would sometimes intrude, concerning Valancourt, as the
time approached, when it was possible that she might receive an answer
to her letter.
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 impatient
for the company of her new friend, whom she wished to observe sharing
in the delight she received from the beautiful scenery around. She had
now no person, to whom she could express her admiration and communicate
her pleasures, no eye, that sparkled to her smile, or countenance, that
reflected her happiness; and she became spiritless and pensive. The
Count, 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 might have arrived from Estuvière, oppressed Emily with severe
anxiety, and, rendering her averse to society, she would willingly have
deferred her acceptance of this invitation, till her spirits should be
relieved. The Count and his family, however, pressed to see her; and,
as the circumstances, that prompted her wish for solitude, could not be
explained, there was an appearance of caprice in her refusal, which she
could not persevere in, without offending the friends, whose esteem she
valued. At length, therefore, she returned upon a second visit to
Château-le-Blanc. Here the friendly manner of Count De Villefort
encouraged Emily to mention to him her situation, respecting the
estates of her late aunt, and to consult him on the means of recovering
them. He had little doubt, that the law would decide in her favour,
and, advising her to apply to it, offered first to write to an advocate
at Avignon, on whose opinion he thought he could rely. His kindness was
gratefully accepted by Emily, who, soothed by the courtesy she daily
experienced, would have been once more happy, could she have been
assured of Valancourt’s welfare and unaltered affection. She had now
been above a week at the château, without receiving intelligence of
him, and, though she knew, that, if he was absent from his brother’s
residence, it was scarcely probable her letter had yet reached him, she
could not forbear to admit doubts and fears, that destroyed her peace.
Again she would consider of all, that might have happened in the long
period, since her first seclusion at Udolpho, and her mind was
sometimes so overwhelmed with an apprehension, that Valancourt was no
more, or that he lived no longer for her, that the company even of
Blanche became intolerably oppressive, and she would sit alone in her
apartment for hours together, when the engagements of the family
allowed her to do so, without incivility.
In one of these solitary hours, she unlocked a little box, which
contained some letters of Valancourt, with some drawings she had
sketched, during her stay in Tuscany, the latter of which were no
longer interesting to her; but, in the letters, she now, with
melancholy indulgence, meant to retrace the tenderness, that had so
often soothed her, and rendered her, for a moment, insensible of the
distance, which separated her from the writer. But their effect was now
changed; the affection they expressed appealed so forcibly to her
heart, when she considered that it had, perhaps, yielded to the powers
of time and absence, and even the view of the hand-writing recalled so
many painful recollections, that she found herself unable to go through
the first she had opened, and sat musing, with her cheek resting on her
arm, and tears stealing from her eyes, when old Dorothée entered the
room to inform her, that dinner would be ready, an hour before the
usual time. Emily started on perceiving her, and hastily put up the
papers, but not before Dorothée had observed both her agitation and her
tears.
“Ah, ma’amselle!” said she, “you, who are so young,—have you reason for
sorrow?”
Emily tried to smile, but was unable to speak.
“Alas! dear young lady, when you come to my age, you will not weep at
trifles; and surely you have nothing serious, to grieve you.”
“No, Dorothée, nothing of any consequence,” replied Emily. Dorothée,
now stooping 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 looking
round the room.
“It is herself,” said Dorothée, “her very self! just as she looked a
little before she died!”
Emily, still more alarmed, began now to fear, that Dorothée was seized
with sudden frenzy, but entreated her to explain herself.
“That picture!” said she, “where did you find it, lady? it is my
blessed mistress herself!”
She laid on the table the miniature, which Emily had long ago found
among the papers her father had enjoined her to destroy, and over which
she had once seen him shed such tender and affecting tears; and,
recollecting all the various circumstances of his conduct, that had
long perplexed her, her emotions increased to an excess, which deprived
her of all power to ask the questions she trembled to have answered,
and she could only enquire, whether Dorothée was certain the picture
resembled the late marchioness.
“O, ma’amselle!” said she, “how came it to strike me so, the instant I
saw it, if it was not my lady’s likeness? Ah!” added she, taking up the
miniature, “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 had
sat thinking for a long while, and then, the tears would often steal
down 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 love
her so!”
“Dorothée!” said Emily solemnly, “I am interested in the cause of that
grief, more so, perhaps, than you may imagine; and I entreat, that you
will no longer refuse to indulge my curiosity;—it is not a common one.”
As Emily said this, she remembered the papers, with which the picture
had been found, and had scarcely a doubt, that they had concerned the
Marchioness de Villeroi; but with this supposition came a scruple,
whether she ought to enquire further on a subject, which might prove to
be the same, that her father had so carefully endeavoured to conceal.
Her curiosity, concerning the Marchioness, powerful as it was, it is
probable she would now have resisted, as she had formerly done, on
unwarily observing the few terrible words in the papers, which had
never since been erased from her memory, had she been certain that the
history of that lady was the subject of those papers, or, that such
simple particulars only as it was probable Dorothée could relate were
included in her father’s command. What was known to her could be no
secret to many other persons; and, since it appeared very unlikely,
that St. Aubert should attempt to conceal what Emily might learn by
ordinary means, she at length concluded, that, if the papers had
related to the story of the Marchioness, it was not those circumstances
of it, which Dorothée could disclose, that he had thought sufficiently