The Mysteries of Udolpho
to hear her, many a time, when she has sat in her oriel, of an evening,
playing upon her lute such sad songs, and singing so. O! it went to
one’s heart! I have listened in the ante-chamber, for the hour
together, and she would sometimes sit playing, with the window open,
when it was summer time, till it was quite dark, and when I have gone
in, to shut it, she has hardly seemed to know what hour it was. But, as
I said, madam,” continued Dorothée, “when first I heard the music, that
came just now, I thought it was my late lady’s, and I have often
thought so again, when I have heard it, as I have done at intervals,
ever since. Sometimes, many months have gone by, but still it has
returned.”
“It is extraordinary,” observed Emily, “that no person has yet
discovered the musician.”
“Aye, ma’amselle, if it had been anything earthly it would have been
discovered long ago, but who could have courage to follow a spirit, and
if they had, what good could it do?—for spirits, _you know_, ma’am, can
take any shape, or no shape, and they will be here, one minute, and,
the next perhaps, in a quite different place!”
“Pray resume your story of the Marchioness,” said Emily, “and acquaint
me with the manner of her death.”
“I will, ma’am,” said Dorothée, “but shall we leave the window?”
“This cool air refreshes me,” replied Emily, “and I love to hear it
creep along the woods, and to look upon this dusky landscape. You were
speaking of my lord, the Marquis, when the music interrupted us.”
“Yes, madam, my lord, the Marquis, became more and more gloomy; and my
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 shocked
to see her countenance—it was so changed! She looked piteously up at
me, 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,
he came, and he did, to be sure, seem very sorry to see her, but he
said very little. My lady told him she felt herself to be dying, and
wished to speak with him alone, and then I left the room, but I shall
never forget his look as I went.”
“When I returned, I ventured to remind my lord about sending for a
doctor, for I supposed he had forgot to do so, in his grief; but my
lady said it was then too late; but my lord, so far from thinking so,
seemed to think light of her disorder—till she was seized with such
terrible pains! O, I never shall forget her shriek! My lord then sent
off a man and horse for the doctor, and walked about the room and all
over the château in the greatest distress; and I staid by my dear lady,
and did what I could to ease her sufferings. She had intervals of ease,
and in one of these she sent for my lord again; when he came, I was
going, but she desired I would not leave her. O! I shall never forget
what a scene passed—I can hardly bear to think of it now! My lord was
almost distracted, for my lady behaved with so much goodness, and took
such pains to comfort him, that, if he ever had suffered a suspicion to
enter his head, he must now have been convinced he was wrong. And to be
sure he 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, and
threw himself on the floor, and there he staid, and would hear no
reason, that was talked to him. When my lady recovered, she enquired
for him, but, afterwards, said she could not bear to see his grief, and
desired 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 her
disorder was passed.”
Dorothée paused and wept, and Emily wept with her; for she was much
affected by the goodness of the late Marchioness, and by the meek
patience with which she had suffered.
“When the doctor came,” resumed Dorothée, “alas! he came too late; he
appeared greatly shocked to see her, for soon after her death a
frightful blackness spread all over her face. When he had sent the
attendants out of the room, he asked me several odd questions about the
Marchioness, particularly concerning the manner, in which she had been
seized, and he often shook his head at my answers, and seemed to mean
more, than he chose to say. But I understood him too well. However, I
kept my remarks to myself, and only told them to my husband, who bade
me hold my tongue. Some of the other servants, however, suspected what
I did, and strange reports were whispered about the neighbourhood, but
nobody dared to make any stir about them. When my lord heard that my
lady 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. When
she was buried in the church of the convent, at a little distance
yonder, 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 eye
among them, for she had done a deal of good among the poor. My lord,
the Marquis, I never saw anybody so melancholy as he was afterwards,
and sometimes he would be in such fits of violence, that we almost
thought he had lost his senses. He did not stay long at the château,
but joined his regiment, and, soon after, all the servants, except my
husband and I, received notice to go, for my lord went to the wars. I
never saw him after, for he would not return to the château, though it
is such a fine place, and never finished those fine rooms he was
building on the west side of it, and it has, in a manner, been shut up
ever since, till my lord the Count came here.”
“The death of the Marchioness appears extraordinary,” said Emily, who
was anxious to know more than she dared to ask.
“Yes, madam,” replied Dorothée, “it was extraordinary; I have told you
all 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 the
Count.”
“You are very right,” said Emily;—“where did the Marquis die?”—“In the
north of France, I believe, ma’amselle,” replied Dorothée. “I was very
glad, when I heard my lord the Count was coming, for this had been a
sad desolate place, these many years, and we heard such strange noises,
sometimes, after my lady’s death, that, as I told you before, my
husband and I left it for a neighbouring cottage. And now, lady, I have
told you all this sad history, and all my thoughts, and you have
promised, you know, never to give the least hint about it.”—“I have,”
said Emily, “and I will be faithful to my promise, Dorothée;—what you
have told has interested me more than you can imagine. I only wish I
could prevail upon you to tell the name of the chevalier, whom you
thought so deserving of the Marchioness.”
Dorothée, however, steadily refused to do this, and then returned to
the notice of Emily’s likeness to the late Marchioness. “There is
another picture of her,” added she, “hanging in a room of the suite,
which was shut up. It was drawn, as I have heard, before she was
married, and is much more like you than the miniature.” When Emily
expressed a strong desire to see this, Dorothée replied, that she did
not like to open those rooms; but Emily reminded her, that the Count
had talked the other day of ordering them to be opened; of which
Dorothée seemed to consider much, and then she owned, that she should
feel less, if she went into them with Emily first, than otherwise, and
at length promised to show the picture.
The night was too far advanced and Emily was too much affected by the
narrative of the scenes, which had passed in those apartments, to wish
to visit them at this hour, but she requested that Dorothée would
return on the following night, when they were not likely to be
observed, and conduct her thither. Besides her wish to examine the
portrait, she felt a thrilling curiosity to see the chamber, in which
the Marchioness had died, and which Dorothée 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, were in unison with the present tone of her mind,
depressed by severe disappointment. Cheerful objects rather added to,
than removed this depression; but, perhaps, she yielded too much to her
melancholy inclination, and imprudently lamented the misfortune, which
no virtue of her own could have taught her to avoid, though no effort
of reason could make her look unmoved upon the self-degradation of him,
whom she had once esteemed and loved.
Dorothée promised to return, on the following night, with the keys of
the chambers, and then wished Emily good repose, and departed. Emily,
however, continued at the window, musing upon the melancholy fate of
the Marchioness and listening, in awful expectation, for a return of
the music. But the stillness of the night remained long unbroken,
except by the murmuring sounds of the woods, as they waved in the
breeze, and then by the distant bell of the convent, striking one. She
now withdrew from the window, and, as she sat at her bedside, indulging
melancholy reveries, which the loneliness of the hour assisted, the
stillness was suddenly interrupted not by music, but by very uncommon
sounds, that seemed to come either from the room adjoining her own, or
from one below. The terrible catastrophe that had been related to her,
together with the mysterious circumstances said to have since occurred
in the château, had so much shocked her spirits, that she now sunk for
a moment under the weakness of superstition. The sounds, however, did
not return, and she retired, to forget in sleep the disastrous story
she had heard.
CHAPTER IV
Now it is the time of night,
That, the graves all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the church-way path to glide.
SHAKESPEARE
On the next night, about the same hour as before, Dorothée came to
Emily’s chamber, with the keys of that suite of rooms, which had been
particularly appropriated to the late Marchioness. These extended along
the north side of the château, forming part of the old building; and,
as Emily’s room was in the south, they had to pass over a great extent
of the castle, and by the chambers of several of the family, whose
observations Dorothée was anxious to avoid, since it might excite
enquiry, and raise reports, such as would displease the Count. She,
therefore, requested, that Emily would wait half an hour, before they
ventured forth, that they might be certain all the servants were gone
to bed. It was nearly one, before the château was perfectly still, or
Dorothée thought it prudent to leave the chamber. In this interval, her
spirits seemed to be greatly affected by the remembrance of past
events, and by the prospect of entering again upon places, where these
had occurred, and in which she had not been for so many years. Emily
too was affected, 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.
Dorothée, at first, carried the lamp, but her hand trembled so much
with infirmity and alarm, that Emily took it from her, and offered her
arm, to support her feeble steps.
They had to descend the great staircase, and, after passing over a wide
extent of the château, to ascend another, which led to the suite of
rooms they were in quest of. They stepped cautiously along the open
corridor, that ran round the great hall, and into which the chambers of
the Count, Countess, and the Lady Blanche, opened, and, from thence,