The Mysteries of Udolpho
she, “and am prepared to answer you. I feel, that my heart can never
know a second affection; and that I must never hope even to recover its
tranquillity—if I suffer myself to enter into a second engagement.”
“I know, that you feel all this,” replied the Count; “and I know, also,
that time will overcome these feelings, unless you cherish them in
solitude, and, pardon me, with romantic tenderness. Then, indeed, time
will only confirm habit. I am particularly empowered to speak on this
subject, and to sympathise in your sufferings,” added the Count, with
an air of solemnity, “for I have known what it is to love, and to
lament the object of my love. Yes,” continued he, while his eyes filled
with tears, “I have suffered!—but those times have passed away—long
passed! and I can now look back upon them without emotion.”
“My dear sir,” said Emily, timidly, “what mean those tears?—they speak,
I fear, another language—they plead for me.”
“They are weak tears, for they are useless ones,” replied the Count,
drying them, “I would have you superior to such weakness. These,
however, are only faint traces of a grief, which, if it had not been
opposed by long continued effort, might have led me to the verge of
madness! Judge, then, whether I have not cause to warn you of an
indulgence, which may produce so terrible an effect, and which must
certainly, if not opposed, overcloud the years, that otherwise might be
happy. M. Du Pont is a sensible and amiable man, who has long been
tenderly attached to you; his family and fortune are
unexceptionable;—after what I have said, it is unnecessary to add, that
I should rejoice in your felicity, and that I think M. Du Pont would
promote it. Do not weep, Emily,” continued the Count, taking her hand,
“there _is_ happiness reserved for you.”
He was silent a moment; and then added, in a firmer voice, “I do not
wish, that you should make a violent effort to overcome your feelings;
all I, at present, ask, is, that you will check the thoughts, that
would lead you to a remembrance of the past; that you will suffer your
mind to be engaged by present objects; that you will allow yourself to
believe it possible you may yet be happy; and that you will sometimes
think with complacency of poor Du Pont, and not condemn him to the
state of despondency, from which, my dear Emily, I am endeavouring to
withdraw you.”
“Ah! my dear sir,” said Emily, while her tears still fell, “do not
suffer the benevolence of your wishes to mislead Mons. Du Pont with an
expectation that I can ever accept his hand. If I understand my own
heart, this never can be; your instruction I can obey in almost every
other particular, than that of adopting a contrary belief.”
“Leave me to understand your heart,” replied the Count, with a faint
smile. “If you pay me the compliment to be guided by my advice in other
instances, I will pardon your incredulity, respecting your future
conduct towards Mons. Du Pont. I will not even press you to remain
longer at the château than your own satisfaction will permit; but
though I forbear to oppose your present retirement, I shall urge the
claims of friendship for your future visits.”
Tears of gratitude mingled with those of tender regret, while Emily
thanked the Count for the many instances of friendship she had received
from him; promised to be directed by his advice upon every subject but
one, and assured him of the pleasure, with which she should, at some
future period, accept the invitation of the Countess and himself—If
Mons. Du Pont was not at the château.
The Count smiled at this condition. “Be it so,” said he, “meanwhile the
convent is so near the château, that my daughter and I shall often
visit you; and if, sometimes, we should dare to bring you another
visitor—will you forgive us?”
Emily looked distressed, and remained silent.
“Well,” rejoined the Count, “I will pursue this subject no further, and
must now entreat your forgiveness for having pressed it thus far. You
will, however, do me the justice to believe, that I have been urged
only by a sincere regard for your happiness, and that of my amiable
friend Mons. Du Pont.”
Emily, when she left the Count, went to mention her intended departure
to the Countess, who opposed it with polite expressions of regret;
after which, she sent a note to acquaint the lady abbess, that she
should return to the convent; and thither she withdrew on the evening
of the following day. M. Du Pont, in extreme regret, saw her depart,
while the Count endeavoured to cheer him with a hope, that Emily would
sometimes regard him with a more favourable eye.
She was pleased to find herself once more in the tranquil retirement of
the convent, where she experienced a renewal of all the maternal
kindness of the abbess, and of the sisterly attentions of the nuns. A
report of the late extraordinary occurrence at the château had already
reached them, and, after supper, on the evening of her arrival, it was
the subject of conversation in the convent parlour, where she was
requested to mention some particulars of that unaccountable event.
Emily was guarded in her conversation on this subject, and briefly
related a few circumstances concerning Ludovico, whose disappearance,
her auditors almost unanimously agreed, had been effected by
supernatural means.
“A belief had so long prevailed,” said a nun, who was called sister
Frances, “that the château was haunted, that I was surprised, when I
heard the Count had the temerity to inhabit it. Its former possessor, I
fear, had some deed of conscience to atone for; let us hope, that the
virtues of its present owner will preserve him from the punishment due
to the errors of the last, if, indeed, he was a criminal.”
“Of what crime, then, was he suspected?” said a Mademoiselle Feydeau, a
boarder at the convent.
“Let us pray for his soul!” said a nun, who had till now sat in silent
attention. “If he was criminal, his punishment in this world was
sufficient.”
There was a mixture of wildness and solemnity in her manner of
delivering this, which struck Emily exceedingly; but Mademoiselle
repeated her question, without noticing the solemn eagerness of the
nun.
“I dare not presume to say what was his crime,” replied sister Frances;
“but I have heard many reports of an extraordinary nature, respecting
the late Marquis de Villeroi, and among others, that, soon after the
death of his lady, he quitted Château-le-Blanc, and never afterwards
returned to it. I was not here at the time, so I can only mention it
from report, and so many years have passed since the Marchioness died,
that few of our sisterhood, I believe, can do more.”
“But I can,” said the nun, who had before spoke, and whom they called
sister Agnes.
“You then,” said Mademoiselle Feydeau, “are possibly acquainted with
circumstances, that enable you to judge, whether he was criminal or
not, and what was the crime imputed to him.”
“I am,” replied the nun; “but who shall dare to scrutinize my
thoughts—who shall dare to pluck out my opinion? God only is his judge,
and to that judge he is gone!”
Emily looked with surprise at sister Frances, who returned her a
significant glance.
“I only requested your opinion,” said Mademoiselle Feydeau, mildly; “if
the subject is displeasing to you, I will drop it.”
“Displeasing!”—said the nun, with emphasis.—“We are idle talkers; we do
not weigh the meaning of the words we use; _displeasing_ is a poor
word. I will go pray.” As she said this she rose from her seat, and
with a profound sigh quitted the room.
“What can be the meaning of this?” said Emily, when she was gone.
“It is nothing extraordinary,” replied sister Frances, “she is often
thus; but she had no meaning in what she says. Her intellects are at
times deranged. Did you never see her thus before?”
“Never,” said Emily. “I have, indeed, sometimes, thought, that there
was the melancholy of madness in her look, but never before perceived
it in her speech. Poor soul, I will pray for her!”
“Your prayers then, my daughter, will unite with ours,” observed the
lady abbess, “she has need of them.”
“Dear lady,” said Mademoiselle Feydeau, addressing the abbess, “what is
your opinion of the late Marquis? The strange circumstances, that have
occurred at the château, have so much awakened my curiosity, that I
shall be pardoned the question. What was his imputed crime, and what
the punishment, to which sister Agnes alluded?”
“We must be cautious of advancing our opinion,” said the abbess, with
an air of reserve, mingled with solemnity, “we must be cautious of
advancing our opinion on so delicate a subject. I will not take upon me
to pronounce, that the late Marquis was criminal, or to say what was
the crime of which he was suspected; but, concerning the punishment our
daughter Agnes hinted, I know of none he suffered. She probably alluded
to the severe one, which an exasperated conscience can inflict. Beware,
my children, of incurring so terrible a punishment—it is the purgatory
of this life! The late Marchioness I knew well; she was a pattern to
such as live in the world; nay, our sacred order need not have blushed
to copy her virtues! Our holy convent received her mortal part; her
heavenly spirit, I doubt not, ascended to its sanctuary!”
As the abbess spoke this, the last bell of vespers struck up, and she
rose. “Let us go, my children,” said she, “and intercede for the
wretched; let us go and confess our sins, and endeavour to purify our
souls for the heaven, to which _she_ is gone!”
Emily was affected by the solemnity of this exhortation, and,
remembering her father, “The heaven, to which _he_, too, is gone!” said
she, faintly, as she suppressed her sighs, and followed the abbess and
the nuns to the chapel.
CHAPTER VIII
Be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn’d,
Bring with thee airs from heaven, or blasts from hell,
Be thy intents wicked, or charitable,
I will speak to thee.
HAMLET
Count de Villefort, at length, received a letter from the advocate at
Avignon, encouraging Emily to assert her claim to the estates of the
late Madame Montoni; and, about the same time, a messenger arrived from
Monsieur Quesnel with intelligence, that made an appeal to the law on
this subject unnecessary, since it appeared, that the only person, who
could have opposed her claim, was now no more. A friend of Monsieur
Quesnel, who resided at Venice, had sent him an account of the death of
Montoni who had been brought to trial with Orsino, as his supposed
accomplice in the murder of the Venetian nobleman. Orsino was found
guilty, condemned and executed upon the wheel, but, nothing being
discovered to criminate Montoni, and his colleagues, on this charge,
they were all released, except Montoni, who, being considered by the
senate as a very dangerous person, was, for other reasons, ordered
again into confinement, where, it was said, he had died in a doubtful
and mysterious manner, and not without suspicion of having been
poisoned. The authority, from which M. Quesnel had received this
information, would not allow him to doubt its truth, and he told Emily,
that she had now only to lay claim to the estates of her late aunt, to
secure them, and added, that he would himself assist in the necessary
forms of this business. The term, for which La Vallée had been let
being now also nearly expired, he acquainted her with the circumstance,
and advised her to take the road thither, through Thoulouse, where he
promised to meet her, and where it would be proper for her to take
possession of the estates of the late Madame Montoni; adding, that he
would spare her any difficulties, that might occur on that occasion
from the want of knowledge on the subject, and that he believed it