The Mysteries of Udolpho
without his knowledge, and that it was not for the honour of the
republic to have a large part of its regular force employed, for such a
time as the siege of Udolpho would require, upon the attack of a
handful of banditti. The object of the expedition, he thought, might be
accomplished much more safely and speedily by mingling contrivance with
force. It was possible to meet Montoni and his party, without their
walls, and to attack them then; or, by approaching the fortress, with
the secrecy, consistent with the march of smaller bodies of troops, to
take advantage either of the treachery, or negligence of some of his
party, and to rush unexpectedly upon 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. His first
efforts were accordingly those of contrivance alone. In the
neighbourhood of Udolpho, he waited, till he had secured the assistance
of several of the _condottieri_, of whom he found none, that he
addressed, unwilling to punish their imperious master and to secure
their own pardon from the senate. He learned also the number of
Montoni’s troops, and that it had been much increased, since his late
successes. The conclusion of his plan was soon effected. Having
returned with his party, who received the watch-word and other
assistance from their friends within, Montoni and his officers were
surprised by one division, who had been directed to their apartment,
while the other maintained the slight combat, which preceded the
surrender of the whole garrison. Among the persons, seized with
Montoni, was Orsino, the assassin, who had joined him on his first
arrival at Udolpho, and whose concealment had been made known to the
senate by Count Morano, after the unsuccessful attempt of the latter to
carry off Emily. It was, indeed, partly for the purpose of capturing
this man, by whom one of the senate had been murdered, that the
expedition was undertaken, and its success was so acceptable to them,
that Morano was instantly released, notwithstanding the political
suspicions, which Montoni, by his secret accusation, had excited
against him. The celerity and ease, with which this whole transaction
was completed, prevented it from attracting curiosity, or even from
obtaining a place in any of the published records of that time; so that
Emily, who remained in Languedoc, was ignorant of the defeat and signal
humiliation of her late persecutor.
Her mind was now occupied with sufferings, which no effort of reason
had yet been able to control. Count De Villefort, who sincerely
attempted whatever benevolence could suggest for softening them,
sometimes allowed her the solitude she wished for, sometimes led her
into friendly parties, and constantly protected her, as much as
possible, from the shrewd enquiries and critical conversation of the
Countess. He often invited her to make excursions, with him and his
daughter, during which he conversed entirely on questions, suitable to
her taste, without appearing to consult it, and thus endeavoured
gradually to withdraw her from the subject of her grief, and to awake
other interests in her mind. Emily, to whom he appeared as the
enlightened friend and protector of her youth, soon felt for him the
tender affection of a daughter, and her heart expanded to her young
friend Blanche, as to a sister, whose kindness and simplicity
compensated for the want of more brilliant qualities. It was long
before she could sufficiently abstract her mind from Valancourt to
listen to the story, promised by old Dorothée, concerning which her
curiosity had once been so deeply interested; but Dorothée, at length,
reminded her of it, and Emily desired, that she would come, that night,
to her chamber.
Still her thoughts were employed by considerations, which weakened her
curiosity, and Dorothée’s tap at the door, soon after twelve, surprised
her almost as much as if it had not been appointed. “I am come, at
last, lady,” said she; “I wonder what it is makes my old limbs shake
so, tonight. I thought, once or twice, I should have dropped, as I was
a-coming.” Emily seated her in a chair, and desired, that she would
compose her spirits, before she entered upon the subject, that had
brought her thither. “Alas,” said Dorothée, “it is thinking of that, I
believe, which has disturbed me so. In my way hither too, I passed the
chamber, where my dear lady died, and everything was so still and
gloomy about me, that I almost fancied I saw her, as she appeared upon
her death-bed.”
Emily now drew her chair near to Dorothée, who went on. “It is about
twenty years since my lady Marchioness came a bride to the château. O!
I well remember how she looked, when she came into the great hall,
where we servants were all assembled to welcome her, and how happy my
lord the Marquis seemed. Ah! who would have thought then!—But, as I was
saying, ma’amselle, I thought the Marchioness, with all her sweet
looks, did not look happy at heart, and so I told my husband, and he
said it was all fancy; so I said no more, but I made my remarks, for
all that. My lady Marchioness was then about your age, and, as I have
often thought, very like you. Well! my lord the Marquis kept open
house, for a long time, and gave such entertainments and there were
such gay doings as have never been in the château since. I was younger,
ma’amselle, then, than I am now, and was as gay at the best of them. I
remember I danced with Philip, the butler, in a pink gown, with yellow
ribbons, and a coif, not such as they wear now, but plaited high, with
ribbons all about it. It was very becoming truly;—my lord, the Marquis,
noticed me. Ah! he was a good-natured gentleman then—who would have
thought that he—”
“But the Marchioness, Dorothée,” said Emily, “you were telling me of
her.”
“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 did
not dare then to ask what was the matter; but, the next time I saw her
crying, I did, and she seemed displeased;—so I said no more. I found
out, some time after, how it was. Her father, it seems, had commanded
her to marry my lord, the Marquis, for his money, and there was another
nobleman, or else a chevalier, that she liked better and that was very
fond of her, and she fretted for the loss of him, I fancy, but she
never told 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 calm and 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. This afflicted her very much, as I saw, for she never complained,
and she used to try so sweetly to oblige him and to bring him into a
good humour, that my heart has often ached to see it. But he used to be
stubborn, and give her harsh answers, and then, when she found it all
in vain, she would go to her own room, and cry so! I used to hear her
in the ante-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 was
greatly admired, but she was too good to deserve suspicion. Among the
many chevaliers, that visited at the château, there was one, that I
always thought seemed just suited for my lady; he was so courteous, yet
so spirited, and there was such a grace, as it were, in all he did, or
said. I always observed, that, whenever he had been there, the Marquis
was 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
could learn for certain.”
“What was the chevalier’s name, Dorothée?” said Emily.
“Why that I will not tell even to you, ma’amselle, for evil may come of
it. I once heard from a person, who is since dead, that the Marchioness
was not in law the wife of the Marquis, for that she had before been
privately married to the gentleman she was so much attached to, and was
afterwards afraid to own it to her father, who was a very stern man;
but this seems very unlikely, and I never gave much faith to it. As I
was saying, the Marquis was most out of humour, as I thought, when the
chevalier I spoke of had been at the château, and, at last, his ill
treatment of my lady made her quite miserable. He would see hardly any
visitors at the castle, and made her live almost by herself. I was her
constant attendant, and saw all she suffered, but still she never
complained.
“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
it was worse than that.”
“Worse! Dorothée,” said Emily, “can that be possible?”
“I fear it was so, madam, there were strange appearances. But I will
only tell what happened. My lord, the Marquis—”
“Hush, Dorothée, what sounds were those?” said Emily.
Dorothée 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 Dorothée,
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 had
formerly heard at the time of her father’s death, and, whether it was
the remembrance they now revived of that melancholy event, or that she
was struck with superstitious awe, it is certain she was so much
affected, that she had nearly fainted.
“I think I once told you, madam,” said Dorothée, “that I first heard
this music, soon after my lady’s death! I well remember the night!”—
“Hark! it comes again!” said Emily, “let us open the window, and
listen.”
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 other feature 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 awe upon
the obscurity beneath, and then upon the cloudless arch above,
enlightened only by the stars, Dorothée, in a low voice, resumed her
narrative.
“I was saying, ma’amselle, that I well remember when first I heard that
music. It was one night, soon after my lady’s death, that I had sat up
later than usual, and I don’t know how it was, but I had been thinking
a great deal about my poor mistress, and of the sad scene I had lately
witnessed. The château was quite still, and I was in the chamber at a
good distance from the rest of the servants, and this, with the
mournful things I had been thinking of, I suppose, made me low
spirited, for I felt very lonely and forlorn, as it were, and listened
often, wishing to hear a sound in the château, for you know,
ma’amselle, when one can hear people moving, one does not so much mind,
about one’s fears. But all the servants were gone to bed, and I sat,
thinking and thinking, till I was almost afraid to look round the room,
and my poor lady’s countenance often 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 I heard such sweet music! It seemed just
at my window, and I shall never forget 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 a very fine voice; it had made me cry