The Mysteries of Udolpho
Ludovico, unaccustomed to the lock, could not turn it, and Dorothée,
who had lingered far behind, was called forward, under whose hand the
door opened slowly, and, her eye glancing within the dusky chamber, she
uttered a sudden shriek, and retreated. At this signal of alarm, the
greater part of the crowd hurried down the stairs, and the Count, Henri
and Ludovico were left alone to pursue the enquiry, who instantly
rushed into the apartment, Ludovico with a drawn sword, which he had
just time to draw from the scabbard, the Count with the lamp in his
hand, and Henri carrying a basket, containing provisions for the
courageous adventurer.
Having looked hastily round the first room, where nothing appeared to
justify alarm, they passed on to the second; and, here too all being
quiet, they proceeded to a third with a more tempered step. The Count
had now leisure to smile at the discomposure, into which he had been
surprised, and to ask Ludovico in which room he designed to pass the
night.
“There are several chambers beyond these, your _Excellenza_,” said
Ludovico, 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 lie
down.”
“Good;” said the Count; “let us go on. You see these rooms show
nothing, but damp walls and decaying furniture. I have been so much
engaged since I came to the château, that I have not looked into them
till now. Remember, Ludovico, to tell the housekeeper, tomorrow, to
throw open these windows. The damask hangings are dropping to pieces, I
will have them 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 a
history belonging to that chair, but I have not time to tell it.—Let us
pass on. This suite runs to a greater extent than I had imagined; it is
many years since I was in them. But where is the bedroom you speak of,
Ludovico?—these are only ante-chambers to the great drawing-room. I
remember them in their splendour!”
“The bed, my Lord,” replied Ludovico, “they told me, was in a room that
opens beyond the saloon, and terminates the suite.”
“O, here is the saloon,” said the Count, as they entered the spacious
apartment, in which Emily and Dorothée had rested. He here stood for a
moment, surveying the reliques of faded grandeur, which it
exhibited—the sumptuous tapestry—the long and low sophas of velvet,
with frames heavily carved and gilded—the floor inlaid with small
squares of fine marble, and covered in the centre with a piece of very
rich tapestry-work—the casements of painted glass, and the large
Venetian mirrors, of a size and quality, such as at that period France
could not make, which reflected, on every side, the spacious apartment.
These had formerly also reflected a gay and brilliant scene, for this
had been the state-room of the château, and here the Marchioness had
held the assemblies, that made part of the festivities of her nuptials.
If the wand of a magician could have recalled the vanished groups, many
of them vanished even from the earth, that once had passed over these
polished mirrors, what a varied and contrasted picture would they have
exhibited with the present! Now, instead of a blaze of lights, and a
splendid and busy crowd, they reflected only the rays of the one
glimmering lamp, which the Count held up, and which scarcely served to
show the three forlorn figures, that stood surveying the room, and the
spacious and dusky walls around them.
“Ah!” said the Count to Henri, awaking from his deep reverie, “how the
scene is changed since last I saw it! I was a young man, then, and the
Marchioness was alive and in her bloom; many other persons were here,
too, who are now no more! There stood the orchestra; here we tripped in
many a sprightly maze—the walls echoing to the dance! Now, they resound
only 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 you
must pass away like those, who have preceded you—like those, who, as
they sung and danced in this once gay apartment, forgot, that years are
made up of moments, and that every step they took carried them nearer
to their graves. But such reflections are useless, I had almost said
criminal, unless they teach us to prepare for eternity, since,
otherwise, they cloud our present happiness, without guiding us to a
future one. But enough of this; let us go on.”
Ludovico now opened the door of the bedroom, and the Count, as he
entered, was struck with the funereal appearance which the dark arras
gave to it. He approached the bed with an emotion of solemnity, and,
perceiving it to be covered with the pall of black velvet, paused;
“What can this mean?” said he, as he gazed upon it.
“I have heard, my Lord,” said Ludovico, as he stood at the feet,
looking within the canopied curtains, “that the Lady Marchioness de
Villeroi died in this chamber, and remained here till she was removed
to be buried; 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 him with a serious air whether he thought his courage would
support him through the night? “If you doubt this,” added the Count,
“do not be ashamed to own it; I will release you from your engagement,
without exposing you to the triumphs of your fellow-servants.”
Ludovico paused; pride, and something very like fear, seemed struggling
in his breast; pride, however, was victorious;—he blushed, and his
hesitation ceased.
“No, my Lord,” said he, “I will go through with what I have begun; and
I 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
of the night, if you do not sleep?”
“When I am weary, my Lord,” replied Ludovico, “I shall not fear to
sleep; in the meanwhile, I have a book that will entertain me.”
“Well,” said the Count, “I hope nothing will disturb you; but if you
should be seriously alarmed in the night, come to my apartment. I have
too much confidence in your good sense and courage to believe you will
be alarmed on slight grounds; or suffer the gloom of this chamber, or
its remote situation, to overcome you with ideal terrors. Tomorrow, I
shall have to thank you for an important service; these rooms shall
then be thrown open, and my people will be convinced of their error.
Good night, Ludovico; let me see you early in the morning, and remember
what I lately said to you.”
“I will, my Lord; good night to your _Excellenza_; let me attend you
with the 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 servants
had 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
the rooms through which he passed, with more minuteness than he had
done before, for he apprehended that some person might have concealed
himself 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, whose
spaciousness and silent gloom somewhat awed him. For a moment he stood,
looking back through the long suite of rooms he had quitted, and as he
turned, perceiving a light and his own figure reflected in one of the
large mirrors, he started. Other objects too were seen obscurely on its
dark surface, but he paused not to examine them, and returned hastily
into the bedroom, as he surveyed which, he observed the door of the
oriel, and opened it. All within was still. On looking round, his eye
was arrested by the portrait of the deceased Marchioness, upon which he
gazed for a considerable time with great attention and some surprise;
and then, having examined the closet, he returned into the bedroom,
where he kindled a wood fire, the bright blaze of which revived his
spirits, 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 a small table and a chair near the fire, took a bottle of wine and
some cold provision out of his basket, and regaled himself. When he had
finished his repast, he laid his sword upon the table, and, not feeling
disposed to sleep, drew from his pocket the book he had spoken of.—It
was a volume of old Provençal tales. Having stirred the fire into a
brighter blaze, he began to read, and his attention was soon wholly
occupied by the scenes which the page disclosed.
The Count, meanwhile, had returned to the supper-room, whither those of
the party who had attended him to the north apartment had retreated,
upon hearing Dorothée’s scream, and who were now earnest in their
enquiries concerning those chambers. The Count rallied his guests on
their precipitate retreat, and on the superstitious inclination which
had 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 to
the sense. The Baron was of opinion, that the first was probable, and
the last was possible, and he endeavoured to justify this opinion by
respectable authorities, both ancient and modern, which he quoted. The
Count, however, was decidedly against him, and a long conversation
ensued, in which the usual arguments on these subjects were on both
sides brought forward with skill, and discussed with candour, but
without converting either party to the opinion of his opponent. The
effect of their conversation on their auditors was various. Though the
Count had much the superiority of the Baron in point of argument, he
had considerably fewer adherents; for that love, so natural to the
human mind, of whatever is able to distend its faculties with wonder
and astonishment, attached the majority of the company to the side of
the Baron; and, though many of the Count’s propositions were
unanswerable, his opponents were inclined to believe this the
consequence of their own want of knowledge on so abstracted a subject,
rather than that arguments did not exist which were forcible enough to
conquer his.
Blanche was pale with attention, till the ridicule in her father’s
glance called a blush upon her countenance, and she then endeavoured to
forget the superstitious tales she had been told in her convent.
Meanwhile, Emily had been listening with deep attention to the
discussion of what was to her a very interesting question, and,
remembering the appearance she had witnessed in the apartment of the
late Marchioness, she was frequently chilled with awe. Several times
she was on the point of mentioning what she had seen, but the fear of
giving pain to the Count, and the dread of his ridicule, restrained
her; and, awaiting in anxious expectation the event of Ludovico’s
intrepidity, she determined that her future silence should depend upon
it.
When the party had separated for the night, and the Count retired to
his dressing-room, the remembrance of the desolate scenes he had lately
witnessed in his own mansion deeply affected him, but at length he was
aroused from his reverie and his silence. “What music is that I hear?”
said he suddenly to his valet, “Who plays at this late hour?”
The man made no reply, and the Count continued to listen, and then