The Mysteries of Udolpho
began to fear, that some accident had befallen Ludovico, whom terror of
an imaginary being might have deprived of his senses. He, therefore,
left the door with an intention of summoning his servants to force it
open, some of whom he now heard moving in the lower part of the
château.
To the Count’s enquiries, whether they had seen or heard Ludovico, they
replied in affright, that not one of them had ventured on the north
side of the château, since the preceding night.
“He sleeps soundly then,” said the Count, “and is at such a distance
from the outer door, which is fastened, that to gain admittance to the
chambers it will be necessary to force it. Bring an instrument, and
follow me.”
The servants stood mute and dejected, and it was not till nearly all
the household were assembled, that the Count’s orders were obeyed. In
the mean time, Dorothée was telling of a door, that opened from a
gallery, leading from the great staircase into the last ante-room of
the saloon, and, this being much nearer to the bed-chamber, it appeared
probable, that Ludovico might be easily awakened by an attempt to open
it. Thither, therefore, the Count went, but his voice was as
ineffectual at this door as it had proved at the remoter one; and now,
seriously interested for Ludovico, he was himself going to strike upon
the door with the instrument, when he observed its singular beauty, and
withheld the blow. It appeared, on the first glance, to be of ebony, so
dark and close was its grain and so high its polish; but it proved to
be only of larch wood, of the growth of Provence, then famous for its
forests of larch. The beauty of its polished hue and of its delicate
carvings determined the Count to spare this door, and he returned to
that leading from the back staircase, which being, at length, forced,
he entered the first ante-room, followed by Henri and a few of the most
courageous of his servants, the rest awaiting the event of the enquiry
on the stairs and landing-place.
All was silent in the chambers, through which the Count passed, and,
having reached the saloon, he called loudly upon Ludovico; after which,
still receiving no answer, he threw open the door of the bedroom, and
entered.
The profound stillness within confirmed his apprehensions for Ludovico,
for not even the breathings of a person in sleep were heard; and his
uncertainty was not soon terminated, since the shutters being all
closed, the chamber was too dark for any object to be distinguished in
it.
The Count bade a servant open them, who, as he crossed the room to do
so, stumbled over something, and fell to the floor, when his cry
occasioned such panic among the few of his fellows, who had ventured
thus far, that they instantly fled, and the Count and Henri were left
to finish the adventure.
Henri then sprung across the room, and, opening a window-shutter, they
perceived, that the man had fallen over a chair near the hearth, in
which Ludovico had been sitting;—for he sat there no longer, nor could
anywhere be seen by the imperfect light, that was admitted into the
apartment. The Count, seriously alarmed, now opened other shutters,
that he might be enabled to examine further, and, Ludovico not yet
appearing, he stood for a moment, suspended in astonishment and
scarcely trusting his senses, till, his eyes glancing on the bed, he
advanced to examine whether he was there asleep. No person, however,
was in it, and he proceeded to the oriel, where everything remained as
on the preceding night, but Ludovico was nowhere to be found.
The Count now checked his amazement, considering that Ludovico might
have left the chambers, during the night, overcome by the terrors,
which their lonely desolation and the recollected reports, concerning
them, had inspired. Yet, if this had been the fact, the man would
naturally have sought society, and his fellow servants had all declared
they had not seen him; the door of the outer room also had been found
fastened, with the key on the inside; it was impossible, therefore, for
him to have passed through that, and all the outer doors of this suite
were found, on examination, to be bolted and locked, with the keys also
within them. The Count, being then compelled to believe, that the lad
had escaped through the casements, next examined them, but such as
opened wide enough to admit the body of a man were found to be
carefully secured either by iron bars, or by shutters, and no vestige
appeared of any person having attempted to pass them; neither was it
probable, that Ludovico would have incurred the risk of breaking his
neck, by leaping from a window, when he might have walked safely
through a door.
The Count’s amazement did not admit of words; but he returned once more
to examine the bedroom, where was no appearance of disorder, except
that occasioned by the late overthrow of the chair, near which had
stood a small table, and on this Ludovico’s sword, his lamp, the book
he had been reading, and the remnant of his flask of wine still
remained. At the foot of the table, too, was the basket with some
fragments of provision and wood.
Henri and the servant now uttered their astonishment without reserve,
and, though the Count said little, there was a seriousness in his
manner, that expressed much. It appeared, that Ludovico must have
quitted these rooms by some concealed passage, for the Count could not
believe, that any supernatural means had occasioned this event, yet, if
there was any such passage, it seemed inexplicable why he should
retreat through it, and it was equally surprising, that not even the
smallest vestige should appear, by which his progress could be traced.
In the rooms everything remained as much in order as if he had just
walked out by the common way.
The Count himself assisted in lifting the arras, with which the
bed-chamber, saloon and one of the ante-rooms were hung, that he might
discover if any door had been concealed behind it; but, after a
laborious search, none was found, and he, at length, quitted the
apartments, having secured the door of the last ante-chamber, the key
of which he took into his own possession. He then gave orders, that
strict search should be made for Ludovico not only in the château, but
in the neighbourhood, and, retiring with Henri to his closet, they
remained there in conversation for a considerable time, and whatever
was the subject of it, Henri from this hour lost much of his vivacity,
and his manners were particularly grave and reserved, whenever the
topic, which now agitated the Count’s family with wonder and alarm, was
introduced.
On the disappearing of Ludovico, Baron St. Foix seemed strengthened in
all his former opinions concerning the probability of apparitions,
though it was difficult to discover what connection there could
possibly be between the two subjects, or to account for this effect
otherwise than by supposing, that the mystery attending Ludovico, by
exciting awe and curiosity, reduced the mind to a state of sensibility,
which rendered it more liable to the influence of superstition in
general. It is, however, certain, that from this period the Baron and
his adherents became more bigoted to their own systems than before,
while the terrors of the Count’s servants increased to an excess, that
occasioned many of them to quit the mansion immediately, and the rest
remained only till others could be procured to supply their places.
The most strenuous search after Ludovico proved unsuccessful, and,
after several days of indefatigable enquiry, poor Annette gave herself
up to despair, and the other inhabitants of the château to amazement.
Emily, whose mind had been deeply affected by the disastrous fate of
the late Marchioness and with the mysterious connection, which she
fancied had existed between her and St. Aubert, was particularly
impressed by the late extraordinary event, and much concerned for the
loss of Ludovico, whose integrity and faithful services claimed both
her esteem and gratitude. She was now very desirous to return to the
quiet retirement of her convent, but every hint of this was received
with real sorrow by the Lady Blanche, and affectionately set aside by
the Count, for whom she felt much of the respectful love and admiration
of a daughter, and to whom, by Dorothée’s consent, she, at length,
mentioned the appearance, which they had witnessed in the chamber of
the deceased Marchioness. At any other period, he would have smiled at
such a relation, and have believed, that its object had existed only in
the distempered fancy of the relater; but he now attended to Emily with
seriousness, and, when she concluded, requested of her a promise, that
this occurrence should rest in silence. “Whatever may be the cause and
the import of these extraordinary occurrences,” added the Count, “time
only can explain them. I shall keep a wary eye upon all that passes in
the château, and shall pursue every possible means of discovering the
fate of Ludovico. Meanwhile, we must be prudent and be silent. I will
myself watch in the north chambers, but of this we will say nothing,
till the night arrives, when I purpose doing so.”
The Count then sent for Dorothée, and required of her also a promise of
silence, concerning what she had already, or might in future witness of
an extraordinary nature; and this ancient servant now related to him
the particulars of the Marchioness de Villeroi’s death, with some of
which he appeared to be already acquainted, while by others he was
evidently surprised and agitated. After listening to this narrative,
the Count retired to his closet, where he remained alone for several
hours; and, when he again appeared, the solemnity of his manner
surprised and alarmed Emily, but she gave no utterance to her thoughts.
On the week following the disappearance of Ludovico, all the Count’s
guests took leave of him, except the Baron, his son Mons. St. Foix, and
Emily; the latter of whom was soon after embarrassed and distressed by
the arrival of another visitor, Mons. Du Pont, which made her determine
upon withdrawing to her convent immediately. The delight, that appeared
in his countenance, when he met her, told that he brought back the same
ardour of passion, which had formerly banished him from
Château-le-Blanc. He was received with reserve by Emily, and with
pleasure by the Count, who presented him to her with a smile, that
seemed intended to plead his cause, and who did not hope the less for
his friend, from the embarrassment she betrayed.
But M. Du Pont, with truer sympathy, seemed to understand her manner,
and his countenance quickly lost its vivacity, and sunk into the
languor of despondency.
On the following day, however, he sought an opportunity of declaring
the purport of his visit, and renewed his suit; a declaration, which
was received with real concern by Emily, who endeavoured to lessen the
pain she might inflict by a second rejection, with assurances of esteem
and friendship; yet she left him in a state of mind, that claimed and
excited her tenderest compassion; and, being more sensible than ever of
the impropriety of remaining longer at the château, she immediately
sought the Count, and communicated to him her intention of returning to
the convent.
“My dear Emily,” said he, “I observe with extreme concern, the illusion
you are encouraging—an illusion common to young and sensible minds.
Your heart has received a severe shock; you believe you can never
entirely recover it, and you will encourage this belief, till the habit
of indulging sorrow will subdue the strength of your mind, and
discolour your future views with melancholy and regret. Let me
dissipate this illusion, and awaken you to a sense of your danger.”
Emily smiled mournfully, “I know what you would say, my dear sir,” said