The Mysteries of Udolpho
would be necessary for her to be at Thoulouse, in about three weeks
from the present time.
An increase of fortune seemed to have awakened this sudden kindness in
M. Quesnel towards his niece, and it appeared, that he entertained more
respect for the rich heiress, than he had ever felt compassion for the
poor and unfriended orphan.
The pleasure, with which she received this intelligence, was clouded
when she considered, that he, for whose sake she had once regretted the
want of fortune, was no longer worthy of sharing it with her; but,
remembering the friendly admonition of the Count, she checked this
melancholy reflection, and endeavoured to feel only gratitude for the
unexpected good, that now attended her; while it formed no
inconsiderable part of her satisfaction to know, that La Vallée, her
native home, which was endeared to her by it’s having been the
residence of her parents, would soon be restored to her possession.
There she meant to fix her future residence, for, though it could not
be compared with the château at Thoulouse, either for extent, or
magnificence, its pleasant scenes and the tender remembrances, that
haunted them, had claims upon her heart, which she was not inclined to
sacrifice to ostentation. She wrote immediately to thank M. Quesnel for
the active interest he took in her concerns, and to say, that she would
meet him at Thoulouse at the appointed time.
When Count de Villefort, with Blanche, came to the convent to give
Emily the advice of the advocate, he was informed of the contents of M.
Quesnel’s letter, and gave her his sincere congratulations, on the
occasion; but she observed, that, when the first expression of
satisfaction had faded from his countenance, an unusual gravity
succeeded, and she scarcely hesitated to enquire its cause.
“It has no new occasion,” replied the Count; “I am harassed and
perplexed by the confusion, into which my family is thrown by their
foolish superstition. Idle reports are floating round me, which I can
neither admit to be true, nor prove to be false; and I am, also, very
anxious about the poor fellow, Ludovico, concerning whom I have not
been able to obtain information. Every part of the château and every
part of the neighbourhood, too, has, I believe, been searched, and I
know not what further can be done, since I have already offered large
rewards for the discovery of him. The keys of the north apartment I
have not suffered to be out of my possession, since he disappeared, and
I mean to watch in those chambers, myself, this very night.”
Emily, seriously alarmed for the Count, united her entreaties with
those of the Lady Blanche, to dissuade him from his purpose.
“What should I fear?” said he. “I have no faith in supernatural
combats, and for human opposition I shall be prepared; nay, I will even
promise not to watch alone.”
“But who, dear sir, will have courage enough to watch with you?” said
Emily.
“My son,” replied the Count. “If I am not carried off in the night,”
added he, smiling, “you shall hear the result of my adventure,
tomorrow.”
The Count and Lady Blanche, shortly afterwards, took leave of Emily,
and returned to the château, where he informed Henri of his intention,
who, not without some secret reluctance, consented to be the partner of
his watch; and, when the design was mentioned after supper, the
Countess was terrified, and the Baron, and M. Du Pont joined with her
in entreating, that he would not tempt his fate, as Ludovico had done.
“We know not,” added the Baron, “the nature, or the power of an evil
spirit; and that such a spirit haunts those chambers can now, I think,
scarcely be doubted. Beware, my lord, how you provoke its vengeance,
since it has already given us one terrible example of its malice. I
allow it may be probable, that the spirits of the dead are permitted to
return to the earth only on occasions of high import; but the present
import may be your destruction.”
The Count could not forbear smiling; “Do you think then, Baron,” said
he, “that my destruction is of sufficient importance to draw back to
earth the soul of the departed? Alas! my good friend, there is no
occasion for such means to accomplish the destruction of any
individual. Wherever the mystery rests, I trust I shall, this night, be
able to detect it. You know I am not superstitious.”
“I know that you are incredulous,” interrupted the Baron.
“Well, call it what you will, I mean to say, that, though you know I am
free from superstition—if anything supernatural has appeared, I doubt
not it will appear to me, and if any strange event hangs over my house,
or if any extraordinary transaction has formerly been connected with
it, I shall probably be made acquainted with it. At all events I will
invite discovery; and, that I may be equal to a mortal attack, which in
good truth, my friend, is what I most expect, I shall take care to be
well armed.”
The Count took leave of his family, for the night, with an assumed
gaiety, which but ill concealed the anxiety, that depressed his
spirits, and retired to the north apartments, accompanied by his son
and followed by the Baron, M. Du Pont and some of the domestics, who
all bade him good night at the outer door. In these chambers everything
appeared as when he had last been here; even in the bedroom no
alteration was visible, where he lighted his own fire, for none of the
domestics could be prevailed upon to venture thither. After carefully
examining the chamber and the oriel, the Count and Henri drew their
chairs upon the hearth, set a bottle of wine and a lamp before them,
laid their swords upon the table, and, stirring the wood into a blaze,
began to converse on indifferent topics. But Henri was often silent and
abstracted, and sometimes threw a glance of mingled awe and curiosity
round the gloomy apartment; while the Count gradually ceased to
converse, and sat either lost in thought, or reading a volume of
Tacitus, which he had brought to beguile the tediousness of the night.
CHAPTER IX
Give thy thoughts no tongue.
SHAKESPEARE
The Baron St. Foix, whom anxiety for his friend had kept awake, rose
early to enquire the event of the night, when, as he passed the Count’s
closet, hearing steps within, he knocked at the door, and it was opened
by his friend himself. Rejoicing to see him in safety, and curious to
learn the occurrences of the night, he had not immediately leisure to
observe the unusual gravity, that overspread the features of the Count,
whose reserved answers first occasioned him to notice it. The Count,
then smiling, endeavoured to treat the subject of his curiosity with
levity, but the Baron was serious, and pursued his enquiries so
closely, that the Count, at length, resuming his gravity, said, “Well,
my friend, press the subject no further, I entreat you; and let me
request also, that you will hereafter be silent upon anything you may
think extraordinary in my future conduct. I do not scruple to tell you,
that I am unhappy, and that the watch of the last night has not
assisted me to discover Ludovico; upon every occurrence of the night
you must excuse my reserve.”
“But where is Henri?” said the Baron, with surprise and disappointment
at this denial.
“He is well in his own apartment,” replied the Count. “You will not
question him on this topic, my friend, since you know my wish.”
“Certainly not,” said the Baron, somewhat chagrined, “since it would be
displeasing to you; but methinks, my friend, you might rely on my
discretion, and drop this unusual reserve. However, you must allow me
to suspect, that you have seen reason to become a convert to my system,
and are no longer the incredulous knight you lately appeared to be.”
“Let us talk no more upon this subject,” said the Count; “you may be
assured, that no ordinary circumstance has imposed this silence upon me
towards a friend, whom I have called so for near thirty years; and my
present reserve cannot make you question either my esteem, or the
sincerity of my friendship.”
“I will not doubt either,” said the Baron, “though you must allow me to
express my surprise, at this silence.”
“To me I will allow it,” replied the Count, “but I earnestly entreat
that you will forbear to notice it to my family, as well as everything
remarkable you may observe in my conduct towards them.”
The Baron readily promised this, and, after conversing for some time on
general topics, they descended to the breakfast-room, where the Count
met his family with a cheerful countenance, and evaded their enquiries
by employing light ridicule, and assuming an air of uncommon gaiety,
while he assured them, that they need not apprehend any evil from the
north chambers, since Henri and himself had been permitted to return
from them in safety.
Henri, however, was less successful in disguising his feelings. From
his countenance an expression of terror was not entirely faded; he was
often silent and thoughtful, and when he attempted to laugh at the
eager enquiries of Mademoiselle Bearn, it was evidently only an
attempt.
In the evening, the Count called, as he had promised, at the convent,
and Emily was surprised to perceive a mixture of playful ridicule and
of reserve in his mention of the north apartment. Of what had occurred
there, however, he said nothing, and, when she ventured to remind him
of his promise to tell her the result of his enquiries, and to ask if
he had received any proof, that those chambers were haunted, his look
became solemn, for a moment, then, seeming to recollect himself, he
smiled, and said, “My dear Emily, do not suffer my lady abbess to
infect your good understanding with these fancies; she will teach you
to expect a ghost in every dark room. But believe me,” added he, with a
profound sigh, “the apparition of the dead comes not on light, or
sportive errands, to terrify, or to surprise the timid.” He paused, and
fell into a momentary thoughtfulness, and then added, “We will say no
more on this subject.”
Soon after, he took leave, and, when Emily joined some of the nuns, she
was surprised to find them acquainted with a circumstance, which she
had carefully avoided to mention, and expressing their admiration of
his intrepidity in having dared to pass a night in the apartment,
whence Ludovico had disappeared; for she had not considered with what
rapidity a tale of wonder circulates. The nuns had acquired their
information from peasants, who brought fruit to the monastery, and
whose whole attention had been fixed, since the disappearance of
Ludovico, on what was passing in the castle.
Emily listened in silence to the various opinions of the nuns,
concerning the conduct of the Count, most of whom condemned it as rash
and presumptuous, affirming, that it was provoking the vengeance of an
evil spirit, thus to intrude upon its haunts.
Sister Frances contended, that the Count had acted with the bravery of
a virtuous mind. He knew himself guiltless of aught, that should
provoke a good spirit, and did not fear the spells of an evil one,
since he could claim the protection of a higher Power, of Him, who can
command the wicked, and will protect the innocent.
“The guilty cannot claim that protection!” said sister Agnes, “let the
Count look to his conduct, that he do not forfeit his claim! Yet who is
he, that shall dare to call himself innocent!—all earthly innocence is
but comparative. Yet still how wide asunder are the extremes of guilt,
and to what a horrible depth may we fall! Oh!—”
The nun, as she concluded, uttered a shuddering sigh, that startled
Emily, who, looking up, perceived the eyes of Agnes fixed on hers,
after which the sister rose, took her hand, gazed earnestly upon her
countenance, for some moments, in silence, and then said,